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CHAPTER XXXVII
DR. PYE MAKES A STATEMENT

There was an interval of almost breathless suspense as, upon the Coroner's instructions, an officer left the Court. Dick looked forward to the entrance of Dr. Pye with no less curiosity than the other spectators, but mingled with this curiosity was an element of alarm. Dark forebodings crossed his mind; he feared he knew not what, but still he smiled confidently at Florence when she turned imploringly to him, for she also was in that state of tension which made every fresh feature of the inquiry a terrifying presage. Presently the officer returned, followed by Dr. Pye.

The new witness was tall, with a slight stoop in his shoulders, his face was ashen gray, his brows knit and concentrated, his eyes habitually downcast, but, when raised, irradiated with a keen steady light, giving one the impression that the pupils might be of steel, which was indeed their colour, his mouth with its thin long lips compressed, his hands long and nervous, his voice calm, clear, and deliberate, his manner altogether that of a man of supreme moral strength and self-possession, who could hold his passions in control, and make them subservient to his will.

"In volunteering a communication which may have some relation to your inquiry," he said, addressing the Coroner, without bestowing a glance upon the spectators, "I am impelled simply by a sense of public duty. As to its value you will be the best judge. What I have to offer to the Court is merely the narration of an occurrence which came under my observation on the night of Friday, the 1st of March, when I was making some experiments in chemistry in a room at the back of my house in Shore Street, the window in which looks out upon Catchpole Square, and commands a front view of the house in which Mr. Samuel Boyd resided. It is my habit to work late, and it was not till three in the morning that my labours were at an end. At that hour I was standing at the window, gazing aimlessly into the solitude of Catchpole Square, when my attention was arrested by movements at Mr. Boyd's street door. It was gradually opened, and the form of a man emerged from the house. The night was dark, and what I saw was necessarily dim and uncertain in my sight, but it appeared to me that the man, halting on the threshold, lingered in the attitude of a person who wished to escape observation. This impression impelled me to a closer scrutiny of the man's movements. I have in my room a device of my own construction in the shape of a small box containing a coil of magnesium wire. By withdrawing the curtain from a glass globe set in this box, and by pressing a spring, I can, upon lighting the wire, throw a powerful light upon objects at a great distance, remaining myself in darkness. There appeared to me to be something so suspicious in the shadowy movements of the person at Mr. Boyd's door at such an hour that I brought my box to the window, and threw the light upon the Square. It was the work of a moment, but in that moment I had a clear view of the man's features. They were of deathlike paleness, and seemed to be convulsed by fear, but, I argued inly, this might have been caused by the fright occasioned by the sudden glare of light falling upon him-resembling in some respects a flash of lightning, and calculated to startle the strongest man. In his attitude of watchfulness-which I may call the first stage of my observation of him-he stood holding the street door partially open, thus providing for himself a swift retreat into the house in the event of a policeman entering the Square. The second stage was his fear-struck appearance, from whatever cause it proceeded. The third stage-occurring when the light was extinguished-was the shadowy movement of a man gliding out of the Square. Then his final disappearance."

The Coroner: "You say, Dr. Pye, that you had a clear view of the man's features. Did you recognise them?"

Dr. Pye: "No, sir, the man was a stranger to me."

"There appears to be some kind of connection between the death of Mr. Samuel Boyd and the disappearance of a clerk in his employ, Mr. Abel Death? Have you any knowledge of this clerk?"

"No, I never saw the man."

"Were you acquainted with Mr. Samuel Boyd?"

"Very slightly."

"If you saw the man again, could you identify him?"

"I think so."

"Have you ever seen any other man in Catchpole Square leaving Mr. Boyd's house in the middle of the night?"

"Never. It was the unusualness of the incident that attracted my attention."

As he uttered these words he raised his eyes and slowly looked around. When they reached the spot where Inspector Robson and his family were seated his gaze was arrested. The eyes of all the spectators, following his, were now fixed upon the group. A wave of magnetism passed through the Court, and, to a more or less degree, affected the nerves of every one present. Aunt Rob clutched her husband's sleeve, and Florence's eyes dilated with a nameless fear. The long pause was broken by Dr. Pye, who murmured, but in a voice loud enough to be heard by all, -

"It is a very strange likeness."

"To whom do you refer?" asked the Coroner.

"To that gentleman," replied Dr. Pye, pointing to Reginald. "He bears a singular resemblance to the man I saw leaving Mr. Samuel Boyd's house in Catchpole Square in the middle of the night."

Reginald started to his feet with an indignant protest on his lips, and there was great confusion in Court, in the midst of which Dick gently pulled Reginald down to his seat. "It is easily disproved," he said, in a low tone. "You were home and in bed before midnight. Be calm, Florence, there is nothing to fear, nothing to fear." But his heart fell; he saw the net closing round those he loved.

The Coroner (to Dr. Pye): "The gentleman you are pointing to is Mr. Samuel Boyd's son."

Dr. Pye: "I did not know. I say he resembles the man."

"Are you sure?"

"Who can be sure of anything? In hundreds of my experiments all my calculations have been overturned at the last moment. I have been sure of success, and the crucial test has given me the lie. It is the same in human affairs, and in this case I can do no more than record my impressions. In spite of the conditions under which I saw the man his likeness to this gentleman is very striking; but I would impress upon you that great wrongs have been committed by accidental likenesses, and there are cases on record in which men have been condemned to death, the proof of their innocence coming too late to save them." Florence shuddered and closed her eyes. To her fevered mind her beloved husband was on his trial, surrounded by pitiless judges. Dr. Pye continued: "There is a notable instance of this in Charles Dickens's story, 'A Tale of Two Cities,' where, happily, a life is saved instead of being sacrificed. The incident, strangely enough, occurs also in a court of justice."

The Coroner: "That is fiction. This is fact."

Dr. Pye: "True. If you have nothing more to ask I shall be glad to retire. The atmosphere of this Court is unpleasant to me."

The Coroner intimating that he had no further questions to put, Dr. Pye retired, and the inquiry was adjourned till the following day.

CHAPTER XXXVIII
DICK IS OF THE OPINION THAT THE MYSTERY SEEMS IMPENETRABLE, BUT IS STILL DETERMINED TO PIERCE IT

In great agitation Reginald and his party left the Court and turned in the direction of home, followed at a short distance by a few persons, whose appetite, whetted by what had transpired, thirsted for more. Those whose fate seemed to hang upon the result of the inquiry exchanged but few words on the way. Dick was plunged in thought, and Florence clung more closely to Reginald. Inspector Robson and Aunt Rob exchanged disturbed glances; she was wildly indignant, but his official experience warned him that Reginald was in peril.

With respect to the evidence given by Dr. Pye the one chance for the young man lay in his being able to prove that he had returned to his lodgings before twelve o'clock on that fatal Friday night, and did not leave them again. This proof would not only clear him of the suspicion which naturally attached to him through Dr. Pye's evidence, but would clear him in other respects. But was the proof obtainable? Reginald's silence on the point rendered it doubtful. Could he have brought it forward he would have been eager to speak of it.

When the little party reached the street in which Aunt Rob's house was situated Inspector Robson, turning, saw Mr. Lambert, the detective who had given evidence about the finding of the bullet. Telling his people to go into the house, and saying he would join them presently, he crossed over to the detective, and gave him good day, to which the inspector responded. Then they stood a moment or two without saying anything further.

"On duty?" asked Inspector Robson.

"Partly."

"Anything new stirring?"

"Nothing new."

"I won't beat about the bush," said Inspector Robson, "you have been following us."

The detective rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"Come, come, Lambert," continued Inspector Robson, "you and I have been friends this many a year, and friends I hope we'll remain. Be frank with me."

"Is it fair to put it that way, Robson?" said the detective. "When duty calls does friendship count?"

"Perhaps not, perhaps not," replied Inspector Robson, hurriedly, "but you see the close personal interest I have in this unfortunate affair. Are you shadowing my son-in-law?"

The detective rubbed his chin again. It was a habit with him when there was anything unusually grave in his mind, and Inspector Robson understood the meaning it conveyed.

"Now, I ask you, Lambert," he said, "could any man in the world have given his evidence more fairly?"

"No man," answered the detective; "but there's the outside of a man, and the inside of a man. We've had some experience of that, I think. If it's intimated to me to take up a case, I take it up. I won't go farther than that, so don't press me. It isn't often that a case so full of mystery crops up, and there'll be a lot of credit for the man who manages to get to the heart of it. It's something more than bread and butter: it's cake, and I don't want another man to get that cake. Now, mind you, I don't offer an opinion, but so far as this case has gone there are two or three parties to it."

"My son-in-law for one?" asked Inspector Robson, anxiously.

"Yes, your son-in-law for one. I don't say that he's not as innocent as the babe unborn, but you've got to convince people. Just you ask a hundred men and women, and half of 'em 'll wag their heads at mention of Mr. Reginald Boyd's name. The other half 'll wag their heads at mention of Mr. Abel Death's name. I'd give a lot to lay hands on that chap. He's the second party in the case. That's a queer story Lady Wharton told, and of course a true story, only it wasn't the real Samuel Boyd she saw. Somebody made up for him. If it wasn't Abel Death, it was the third party in the case. What a nerve!" said the detective, admiringly. "I couldn't have done it better myself."

"That ought to remove the suspicions against my son-in-law," said Inspector Robson. "There are three or four witnesses who can prove he never left his bed for a week."

"That's all right, but lawyers will say collusion, conspiracy. We're speaking confidentially, you know."

"Yes, and I'm obliged to you, Lambert."

"No need to be. We've been long in the service, you and me-boys together, weren't we? – and we can take credit for keeping one thing steady before us. Duty. The case, you see, doesn't hang only on what took place in Bournemouth last Thursday night; it hangs quite as much upon what took place in Catchpole Square the Friday before. A man is accountable for his actions, and if there's a mystery that's got to be cleared up, as this has got to be, and Mr. Reginald Boyd is concerned in it-which there's no denying-the law calls upon him to explain his actions."

"There's many a man held responsible and accountable for what, in the absence of witnesses, he finds it out of his power to explain, and which, in the nature of the circumstances, he couldn't reasonably be expected to explain. But that doesn't prove him guilty."

"I don't say it does. The hardship to that man is that the law is the law, and, in the absence of an explanation that can be proved to be true, refuses to be satisfied. 'Guilty or not guilty?' says the law. 'Not guilty,' says the man. Does the law accept it? No. It proceeds to open the case. Robson, you've my best wishes, and I hope you and yours will come well through it. Let us leave it there. We've had a comfortable chat; let us leave it there."

"Very well," said Inspector Robson, rather stiffly, "we'll leave it there. If any charge is brought against my son-in-law he will be ready to meet it. I pledge you my word that he'll not run away. Perhaps, if any decided step is resolved upon you will give me timely notice, for old friendship's sake, in return for my promise that you will meet with no obstruction in the performance of your duty. It will help me to soften the shock to my dear daughter-our only child, Lambert, the sweetest girl!" —

He turned his head, to hide his emotion. Lambert pressed his hand, and said,

"You shall be the first to hear of it, Robson. Cheer up. Things mayn't be so bad as some people suspect."

Inspector Robson nodded and left him, and rejoined his family in the house. Aunt Rob had seen him talking to the detective from the window, and had been so successful in instilling courage into Florence and Reginald that cheerful faces greeted his entrance; the cloud left his own at this unexpectedly bright reception.

"We've been talking about things, father," said Aunt Rob in a brisk voice, "and have made up our minds not to mope and mourn because a bit of trouble seems to be coming on us. If it passes all the better, but if we've got to fight it we'll fight it bravely."

"Bravo, mother," said Uncle Rob, "that's the right spirit to show. Here's my hand, Reginald."

"And here's mine," said Aunt Rob, "with my heart in it."

"Thank you both," said Reginald. "I can bear anything rather than that you should doubt me."

"No fear of that, my dear. You've behaved like a man, from first to last. Never speak ill of the dead, they say, and I'm not going to. He was your father, and if his ways were not our ways, we're the better for it, and while he lived he was the worse for it. You were right in refusing to take up his business, right in trying to carve out an honourable career for yourself, right in going to see him that Friday, and trying to get the money you were entitled to. Not that you would have got it-but, there, I won't say anything against one that's gone to where I hope he'll be forgiven. You were right in everything, Reginald."

"God bless you, mother," said Florence.

"Right even in falling in love with our dear Florence?" said Reginald, tenderly.

"Who could help it, bless her sweet face! Give me a kiss, my son, and you, too, Florence, and you, too, Dick, and you, too, father. And mind you, lad, I'm as glad as glad can be that you gave your evidence as you did to-day, and made a clean breast of it. You spoke the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, with love and innocence in your heart. Now, father, what did the detective have to say to you? Don't be afraid to tell us. Is he keeping an eye upon Reginald?"

"He is, mother; and I said if any charge is brought against him he'll be ready to meet it."

"Of course he will, and we'll stand by him, shoulder to shoulder. Father, you've been thirty years in the service, and you ought by this time to be pretty well used to the ways of witnesses. What is your opinion of Dr. Pye as a witness?"

"He gave his evidence in a straightforward manner," replied Uncle Rob, guardedly. "What one has to consider in reckoning up a witness is the effect he produces upon judge and jury, whether they put faith in what he says, or throw doubt upon it."

"Which way would it be with Dr. Pye?"

"They'd believe every word he spoke."

"What do you think, Dick?" asked Aunt Rob.

"I don't trust him," Dick replied.

"Give your reason."

"Can't. Haven't any?"

"Prejudice, then, Dick," said Uncle Rob.

"Perhaps. Call it that. Aunt, have you never seen a man you disliked, without being able to account for it?"

"It's happened more than once."

"And you've found him out afterwards to be a bad lot?"

"That has happened, too."

"A kind of instinct, you see," said Dick.

"What gets over me," said Aunt Rob, shaking her head, as though she had not made up her mind, "is the way he stood up for Reginald. All he seemed to want was fair play."

"Yes, seemed to want," said Dick, doggedly.

"At all events it was honest in him not to be too positive about the resemblance to the man he saw. Do you know anyone, Dick, that answers to the description and that might be mistaken for Reginald?"

"No one, aunt."

"Not Abel Death?"

"Not a bit like Reginald."

"In the name of all that's mysterious, what is he keeping out of the way for? Did you ever know a case in such a tangle?"

"Never. I don't wonder that Lambert is keen upon it. It would make his fortune to unravel the tangle."

"I mean to unravel it," said Dick. "Oh, you may shake your head, aunt. I've certain ideas I'm not going to speak of just now; you would think me mad if I were to tell you what they were. If you keep your mind upon a thing it's wonderful how ideas crowd upon you."

"Leading too often to confusion," observed Uncle Rob. "The main thing is a starting point."

"I've a dozen," said Dick.

"That's the mischief of it. You put a bloodhound on the track. What's the consequence unless he gets a scent? He flounders; he might as well be a mongrel for all the use he is. Coming back to the evidence that was given in Court to-day, might not the man who presented himself to Lady Wharton as your father, Reginald, be the same man Dr. Pye saw, who made himself up to resemble you in case any one caught sight of him. Such things have been done, you know."

"Look out!" cried Dick, starting forward, and catching Reginald, who was swaying forward.

"We'll talk no more of this miserable business to-day," said Aunt Rob, in a tone of stern decision. "Take him up to bed, Florence, and keep him quiet. If we're not careful he'll be having a relapse."

Reginald, indeed, had overtaxed his strength, and the caution did not come too soon.

"I must be off," said Dick, when Florence and Reginald were gone. "If I'm not back before nine o'clock you need not expect to see me again to-night."

In point of fact he had made up his mind to sleep in Catchpole Square, and to keep secret vigil there. But first he must go to Reginald's old lodgings in Park Street to speak to the landlady. So much depended upon proof being forthcoming that Reginald's account of his movements after leaving his father's house was true that Dick could not rest until he had questioned her.

When Dick said to his uncle that he had ideas which would be considered mad if he revealed them, it was no mere figure of speech. So weird and grotesque was one of these ideas that, even in the midst of his gloomy forebodings, he could not resist a smile as he pondered upon it. "It's a game that two can play at," he muttered, "and my short experience on the stage ought to carry me successfully through. It may be time wasted, but it's worth the trying. We'll see whether that flashlight invention of Dr. Pye will come upon the scene again. If it does he'll see something that will astonish his weak nerves."

He brightened up when he presented himself to the landlady, who not only welcomed him because he was a favourite with every one, but because he might be able to impart something new relating to a mystery with which, through the fact of the son of Samuel Boyd being her lodger, she was indirectly connected. Mrs. Weevil was one of those women to whom a gossip is one of the most enjoyable things in life, and she gave Dick good day with glad anticipation in her voice.

"And 'ow's the poor young gentleman, sir," she said, "after 'is day at the inkwich? I've been readin' about it in the papers, but wot I say is, if it wos the last word I spoke, it ain't no more like 'im than chalk is to cheese."

"What is not like him?" inquired Dick.

"'Is pictcher, sir, and yours, too, sir,' I ses to Mrs. Porter, the 'am and beef shop across the road, 'It's a shame,' I ses, 'that sech things is allowed. If a portrait it is, a portrait it ought to be. Actions 'ave been brought for less.' 'Wot you say, Mrs. Weevil, I say,' ses Mrs. Porter, 'but we're obliged to put up with it. Them newspaper men don't mind wot liberties they take.'"

Dick listened with patience to this and to much more to the same effect, and then approached the object of his visit.

"I've come to ask you," he said, "whether you recollect what occurred last Friday night week."

"Ah," she said, abstractedly, running her eye along the hem of her apron, "there's them as 'as cause to remember; there's them as won't forget to their last hour."

"Meaning?" he asked.

"Mr. Abel Death, sir, and Mr. Samuel Boyd."

"His last hour has gone by; he's past remembering."

"A truer word you never spoke, sir, and it's wot we must all come to. But Mr. Abel Death ain't past remembering, and wot 'e's got on 'is conscience I shouldn't like to 'ave on mine."

"That is one of the things that has yet to be settled," said Dick, ambiguously.

"And settled I 'ope it will be, sir, and better sooner than later, for Mr. Reginald's sake. You see, sir, I speak of 'im as Mr. Reginald because that's the name he went by when he first come to me. 'A reference, is usual, sir,' I ses to 'im, 'if so be as you'll egscuse me for mentionin' of it.' 'Mrs. Weevil,' he ses, 'I can't give you a reference, but I can give you a month in advance.' Wot gentleman could say more? A month in advance 'e paid, from first to last, and never a word between us when I give 'im the book on Monday mornin'-puncchual, because 'e said 'e liked to be. When I 'eard 'e wos Mr. Samuel Boyd's son you might 'ave knocked me down with a feather. I ses to Mrs. Porter, while she wos spreadin' mustard on a sangwitch for a gent as eats six every afternoon of 'is life as the clock strikes three, 'Well,' I ses to 'er, 'of all the strange things!' 'That's my opinion, Mrs. Weevil,' she ses."

"Last Friday week," said Dick, taking up the threads of the subject. "I wish you to tell me at what hour of the night Mr. Reginald came home."

"And you ain't the first as wishes me to tell you. There's been two detectives 'ere, and three newspaper men. 'Do you recollec',' they ses, 'wot time Friday night young Mr. Boyd come 'ome?' Your own words, sir, as if they wos turned out of a mould. 'No, I don't,' I ses to them. 'I went to bed at ten, when Mr. Reginald was out. I knocked at his door,' I ses, 'to see if 'e wanted anythink, but he didn't answer, and I jest peeped in to make sure 'e was out. Which he wos.' 'Oh,' ses they, 'did 'e keep 'is door unlocked?' 'Yes, 'e did,' I ses, 'and everything else as well. 'E wos always as open as open can be. I wish all wos like 'im, but that can't be egspected, because it takes all sorts to make a world.' They wanted to go up to 'is rooms, but I ses, 'No, you don't. I know my duties as a landlady,' I ses, 'and I won't 'ave no pokin' and pryin' in a gentleman's private apartments.' Would you believe it, sir, they orfered me money to let 'em go in, but they couldn't wheedle me. I ain't one of that sort."

"Try and remember," urged Dick, earnestly, "whether, after you were in bed you didn't hear him come in on Friday night."

"If I tried ever so 'ard, sir, I couldn't recollec' wot I don't remember. Why should a gentleman be spied upon when 'e pays 'is rent reg'lar? Mr. Reginald 'ad 'is own street door key, and wos free to come and go. 'E might 'ave come 'ome any time in the night without me knowin' it.

"It is a very important matter," said Dick, greatly disheartened. "Perhaps your servant may recollect something."

"I'll ring for 'er, sir, and you can arsk 'er yourself."

In answer to the bell the servant came up, a heavy lumbering girl of twenty, in a chronic state of sulks, with whom Dick fared no better than he had with her mistress. She did not know what time she went to bed, nor what time she got up. Sometimes she awoke in the middle of the night, and sometimes she didn't; she generally didn't, and if she did she did not know what time it was. She did not recollect when Friday night was, she could not think so far back as the week before last. All she knew was that it wasn't her night out, and if the gentleman kept talking to her all day long how could she get her work done? So Dick reluctantly let her go, and took his departure himself, no wiser than when he came. 'Reginald's statement that he had returned to his lodgings before midnight was of no value in the absence of corroborative evidence. Thicker and blacker grew the clouds around him.

From Park Street he proceeded to Draper's Mews, and there he met with another disappointment. Mrs. Death opened the door for him, and he saw a change in her. She was embarrassed, suspicious, sorrowful, angry. The old cordiality was gone.

"Is Gracie at home?" he asked, looking around without seeing the sallow, wistful face.

"No, she isn't," answered Mrs. Death, in a constrained voice, "and I don't know where she is. I haven't had misfortune enough, I suppose, that my own child should go against me."

She dashed away the tears that were gathering in her eyes, and Dick gazed at her in pity and surprise.

"Go against you, Mrs. Death!" he exclaimed. "No, no. It isn't in Gracie's nature."

"It wasn't," she retorted, "till you stepped between us."

"You are labouring under some grievous error," he said, sadly. "I have not seen Gracie. I came to ask how she was-as a friend, Mrs. Death, as a true friend."

"Oh, yes," she cried, bitterly, "as a true friend! I'm learning the meaning of that word. It's time, it's time. Hush children!" For one or two, alarmed at their mother's loud voice, began to cry. They were all huddled together on the floor, and had looked up eagerly when Dick entered. "If you're not quiet I'll give you a beating all round." She turned to Dick. "Come into the next room; it isn't right that they should hear us. There, children, there, be good."

With compressed lips, and eyes that seemed to be inwardly searching for an explanation, Dick accompanied her to the adjoining room. Night was coming on, but there was still light enough for them to see each other's face.

"Be fair to me, Mrs. Death," he said, in a gentle tone. "Whatever you may think of me now, think of me for a moment as I was, and tell me first about Gracie."

"There isn't much to tell," she returned; and she, also, seemed to be searching inwardly for something she could not understand. "She does nothing but talk of you. Dr. Vinsen walked home with us from the funeral yesterday, and Gracie wouldn't keep by our side; she walked behind. Two or three times he beckoned to her, but she was rebellious. 'What have you been thinking of, child?' he asked when we got home. 'I've been thinking of Dick,' she answered. 'Always of Dick, Gracie?' he said. 'Yes,' she answered, 'always of Dick.' 'Never of me?' he asked, and no one in the world could have spoken more kindly. 'Oh, yes,' she said, 'I think of you a lot, but in another way.' 'Now, tell me, child,' he said, 'what you think of me?' 'You'd best not ask,' she answered, and ran away. When we were alone I asked her what she meant by behaving so to our best friend. I will not tell you what her reply was; I was shocked and grieved that a child of mine could be so ungrateful. She looked out for you yesterday afternoon and evening, and this afternoon, too. 'Why doesn't Dick come?' she kept on saying. 'Where's Dick?' It's three hours now that she went away, and I don't know what's become of her. That's all I've got to tell you about Gracie, if you didn't know it before. I want my child, I want my child! Do you hear, Mr. Remington. I want my child! I have lost my husband-am I to lose my Gracie, too?"

"I sincerely hope not," said Dick; "I honestly believe not. She will come back presently. But there is something else in your mind against me, Mrs. Death."

She stepped close to him, and looked fiercely into his eyes.

"Who killed Mr. Samuel Boyd?" she said, in a hissing whisper. "Tell me that."

"I wish to God I could!" he replied.

"I wish to God I could!" she retorted, still speaking in a low, fierce whisper, so that the children in the next room should not hear. "But though we don't know, we have our suspicions. I know what mine are. What are yours? Tell me, if you dare!"

He did not answer her. In the presence of misfortune so undeserved, of suffering so keen, how could he breathe a word against her husband?

"No, you do not dare," she continued. "You haven't the courage to say to my face that you believe my poor husband to be guilty of the crime; but you can say so behind my back, you can go about poisoning people's minds against him, and then come to me smiling in pretended friendship. Oh, Mr. Remington," she said, with a remorseful sob, and her changeful moods showed how her heart was torn, "I would not have believed it of you. You make us trust you, you make us love you, and then you turn against us. See here!" She pulled up the sleeve of her gown, and bared her emaciated arm to his pitying gaze. "As this is, so my whole body is, and my soul is on the rack. You have seen us in our poverty, you know the state to which we have been driven, you have witnessed how we live. Is it the work of an honest man to oppress and malign us?"

"It would be the work of a coward," he answered, "if I had done a hundredth part of what you bring against me. I have done you no wrong, no injustice. I think I know who has instilled these thoughts into your mind, but I will not ask you for his name. Doubtless he has laid the seal of silence on your lips-"

"He has not," she interrupted. "What he has said to me he would say to you if you stood before him."