Chapter VIII: Book II: Henry Clavering (3)

“He had doubtless some cause for hating the English with which we are unacquainted,” pursued the secretary. “He spent some time in Liverpool when young, and had, of course, many opportunities for studying their manners and character.” And the secretary made another movement, as if to leave.

But it was my turn to detain him now. “Mr. Harwell, you must excuse me. You have been on familiar terms with Mr. Leavenworth for so long. Do you think that, in the case of one of his nieces, say, desiring to marry a gentleman of that nationality, his prejudice was sufficient to cause him to absolutely forbid the match?”

“I do.”

I moved back. I had learned what I wished, and saw no further reason for prolonging the interview.

XXII. PATCH-WORK

“Come, give us a taste of your quality.”

Hamlet.

Starting with the assumption that Mr. Clavering in his conversation of the morning had been giving me, with more or less accuracy, a detailed account of his own experience and position regarding Eleanore Leavenworth, I asked myself what particular facts it would be necessary for me to establish in order to prove the truth of this assumption, and found them to be:

I. That Mr. Clavering had not only been in this country at the time designated, but that he had been located for some little time at a watering-place in New York State.

II. That this watering-place should correspond to the one in which Miss Eleanore Leavenworth was staying at the same time.

III. That they had been seen while there to hold more or less communication.

IV. That they had both been absent from town, at some one time, long enough to have gone through the ceremony of marriage at a point twenty miles or so away.

V. That a Methodist clergyman, who has since died, lived at that time within a radius of twenty miles of said watering-place.

I next asked myself how I was to establish these facts. Mr. Clavering’s life was as yet too little known to me to offer me any assistance; so, leaving it for the present, I took up the thread of Eleanore’s history, and found that at the time given me she had been in R----, a fashionable watering-place in this State. Now, if his was true, and my theory correct, he must have been there also. To prove this fact, became, consequently, my first business. I resolved to go to R---- on the morrow.

But before proceeding in an undertaking of such importance, I considered it expedient to make such inquiries and collect such facts as the few hours I had left to work in rendered possible. I went first to the house of Mr. Gryce.

I found him lying upon a hard sofa, in the bare sitting-room I have before mentioned, suffering from a severe attack of rheumatism. His hands were done up in bandages, and his feet incased in multiplied folds of a dingy red shawl which looked as if it had been through the wars. Greeting me with a short nod that was both a welcome and an apology, he devoted a few words to an explanation of his unwonted position; and then, without further preliminaries, rushed into the subject which was uppermost in both our minds by inquiring, in a slightly sarcastic way, if I was very much surprised to find my bird flown when I returned to the Hoffman House that afternoon.

“I was astonished to find you allowed him to fly at this time,” I replied. “From the manner in which you requested me to make his acquaintance, I supposed you considered him an important character in the tragedy which has just been enacted.”

“And what makes you think I don’t? Oh, the fact that I let him go off so easily? That’s no proof. I never fiddle with the brakes till the car starts down-hill. But let that pass for the present; Mr. Clavering, then, did not explain himself before going?”

“That is a question which I find it exceedingly difficult to answer. Hampered by circumstances, I cannot at present speak with the directness which is your due, but what I can say, I will. Know, then, that in my opinion Mr. Clavering did explain himself in an interview with me this morning. But it was done in so blind a way, it will be necessary for me to make a few investigations before I shall feel sufficiently sure of my ground to take you into my confidence. He has given me a possible clue----”

“Wait,” said Mr. Gryce; “does he know this? Was it done intentionally and with sinister motive, or unconsciously and in plain good faith?”

“In good faith, I should say.”

Mr. Gryce remained silent for a moment. “It is very unfortunate you cannot explain yourself a little more definitely,” he said at last. “I am almost afraid to trust you to make investigations, as you call them, on your own hook. You are not used to the business, and will lose time, to say nothing of running upon false scents, and using up your strength on unprofitable details.”

“You should have thought of that when you admitted me into partnership.”

“And you absolutely insist upon working this mine alone?”

“Mr. Gryce, the matter stands just here. Mr. Clavering, for all I know, is a gentleman of untarnished reputation. I am not even aware for what purpose you set me upon his trail. I only know that in thus following it I have come upon certain facts that seem worthy of further investigation.”

“Well, well; you know best. But the days are slipping by. Something must be done, and soon. The public are becoming clamorous.”

“I know it, and for that reason I have come to you for such assistance as you can give me at this stage of the proceedings. You are in possession of certain facts relating to this man which it concerns me to know, or your conduct in reference to him has been purposeless. Now, frankly, will you make me master of those facts: in short, tell me all you know of Mr. Clavering, without requiring an immediate return of confidence on my part?”

“That is asking a great deal of a professional detective.”

“I know it, and under other circumstances I should hesitate long before preferring such a request; but as things are, I don’t see how I am to proceed in the matter without some such concession on your part. At all events----”

“Wait a moment! Is not Mr. Clavering the lover of one of the young ladies?”

Anxious as I was to preserve the secret of my interest in that gentleman, I could not prevent the blush from rising to my face at the suddenness of this question.

“I thought as much,” he went on. “Being neither a relative nor acknowledged friend, I took it for granted he must occupy some such position as that in the family.”

“I do not see why you should draw such an inference,” said I, anxious to determine how much he knew about him. “Mr. Clavering is a stranger in town; has not even been in this country long; has indeed had no time to establish himself upon any such footing as you suggest.”

“This is not the only time Mr. Clavering has been in New York. He was here a year ago to my certain knowledge.”

“You know that?”

“Yes.”

“How much more do you know? Can it be possible I am groping blindly about for facts which are already in your possession? I pray you listen to my entreaties, Mr. Gryce, and acquaint me at once with what I want to know. You will not regret it. I have no selfish motive in this matter. If I succeed, the glory shall be yours; it I fail, the shame of the defeat shall be mine.”

“That is fair,” he muttered. “And how about the reward?”

“My reward will be to free an innocent woman from the imputation of crime which hangs over her.”

This assurance seemed to satisfy him. His voice and appearance changed; for a moment he looked quite confidential. “Well, well,” said he; “and what is it you want to know?”

“I should first like to know how your suspicions came to light on him at all. What reason had you for thinking a gentleman of his bearing and position was in any way connected with this affair?”

“That is a question you ought not to be obliged to put,” he returned.

“How so?”

“Simply because the opportunity of answering it was in your hands before ever it came into mine.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you remember the letter mailed in your presence by Miss Mary Leavenworth during your drive from her home to that of her friend in Thirty-seventh Street?”

“On the afternoon of the inquest?”

“Yes.”

“Certainly, but----”

“You never thought to look at its superscription before it was dropped into the box.”

“I had neither opportunity nor right to do so.”

“Was it not written in your presence?”

“It was.”

“And you never regarded the affair as worth your attention?”

“However I may have regarded it, I did not see how I could prevent Miss Leavenworth from dropping a letter into a box if she chose to do so.”

“That is because you are a _gentleman_. Well, it has its disadvantages,” he muttered broodingly.

“But you,” said I; “how came you to know anything about this letter? Ah, I see,” remembering that the carriage in which we were riding at the time had been procured for us by him. “The man on the box was in your pay, and informed, as you call it.”

Mr. Gryce winked at his muffled toes mysteriously. “That is not the point,” he said. “Enough that I heard that a letter, which might reasonably prove to be of some interest to me, had been dropped at such an hour into the box on the corner of a certain street. That, coinciding in the opinion of my informant, I telegraphed to the station connected with that box to take note of the address of a suspicious-looking letter about to pass through their hands on the way to the General Post-Office, and following up the telegram in person, found that a curious epistle addressed in lead pencil and sealed with a stamp, had just arrived, the address of which I was allowed to see----”

“And which was?”

“Henry R. Clavering, Hoffman House, New York.”

I drew a deep breath. “And so that is how your attention first came to be directed to this man?”

“Yes.”

“Strange. But go on--what next?”

“Why, next I followed up the clue by going to the Hoffman House and instituting inquiries. I learned that Mr. Clavering was a regular guest of the hotel. That he had come there, direct from the Liverpool steamer, about three months since, and, registering his name as Henry R. Clavering, Esq., London, had engaged a first-class room which he had kept ever since. That, although nothing definite was known concerning him, he had been seen with various highly respectable people, both of his own nation and ours, by all of whom he was treated with respect. And lastly, that while not liberal, he had given many evidences of being a man of means. So much done, I entered the office, and waited for him to come in, in the hope of having an opportunity to observe his manner when the clerk handed him that strange-looking letter from Mary Leavenworth.”

“And did you succeed?”

“No; an awkward gawk of a fellow stepped between us just at the critical moment, and shut off my view. But I heard enough that evening from the clerk and servants, of the agitation he had shown on receiving it, to convince me I was upon a trail worth following. I accordingly put on my men, and for two days Mr. Clavering was subjected to the most rigid watch a man ever walked under. But nothing was gained by it; his interest in the murder, if interest at all, was a secret one; and though he walked the streets, studied the papers, and haunted the vicinity of the house in Fifth Avenue, he not only refrained from actually approaching it, but made no attempt to communicate with any of the family. Meanwhile, you crossed my path, and with your determination incited me to renewed effort. Convinced from Mr. Clavering’s bearing, and the gossip I had by this time gathered in regard to him, that no one short of a gentleman and a friend could succeed in getting at the clue of his connection with this family, I handed him over to you, and----”

“Found me rather an unmanageable colleague.”

Mr. Gryce smiled very much as if a sour plum had been put in his mouth, but made no reply; and a momentary pause ensued.

“Did you think to inquire,” I asked at last, “if any one knew where Mr. Clavering had spent the evening of the murder?”

“Yes; but with no good result. It was agreed he went out during the evening; also that he was in his bed in the morning when the servant came in to make his fire; but further than this no one seemed posted.”

“So that, in fact, you gleaned nothing that would in any way connect this man with the murder except his marked and agitated interest in it, and the fact that a niece of the murdered man had written a letter to him?”

“That is all.”

“Another question; did you hear in what manner and at what time he procured a newspaper that evening?”

“No; I only learned that he was observed, by more than one, to hasten out of the dining-room with the _Post_ in his hand, and go immediately to his room without touching his dinner.”

“Humph! that does not look---”

“If Mr. Clavering had had a guilty knowledge of the crime, he would either have ordered dinner before opening the paper, or, having ordered it, he would have eaten it.”

“Then you do not believe, from what you have learned, that Mr. Clavering is the guilty party?”

Mr. Gryce shifted uneasily, glanced at the papers protruding from my coat pocket and exclaimed: “I am ready to be convinced by you that he is.”

That sentence recalled me to the business in hand. Without appearing to notice his look, I recurred to my questions.

“How came you to know that Mr. Clavering was in this city last summer? Did you learn that, too, at the Hoffman House?”

“No; I ascertained that in quite another way. In short, I have had a communication from London in regard to the matter.

“From London?”

“Yes; I’ve a friend there in my own line of business, who sometimes assists me with a bit of information, when requested.”

“But how? You have not had time to write to London, and receive an answer since the murder.”

“It is not necessary to write. It is enough for me to telegraph him the name of a person, for him to understand that I want to know everything he can gather in a reasonable length of time about that person.”

“And you sent the name of Mr. Clavering to him?”

“Yes, in cipher.”

“And have received a reply?”

“This morning.”

I looked towards his desk.

“It is not there,” he said; “if you will be kind enough to feel in my breast pocket you will find a letter----”

It was in my hand before he finished his sentence. “Excuse my eagerness,” I said. “This kind of business is new to me, you know.”

He smiled indulgently at a very old and faded picture hanging on the wall before him. “Eagerness is not a fault; only the betrayal of it. But read out what you have there. Let us hear what my friend Brown has to tell us of Mr. Henry Ritchie Clavering, of Portland Place, London.”

I took the paper to the light and read as follows:

“Henry Ritchie Clavering, Gentleman, aged 43. Born in ----,
Hertfordshire, England. His father was Chas. Clavering,
for short time in the army. Mother was Helen Ritchie, of
Dumfriesshire, Scotland; she is still living. Home with H.
R. C., in Portland Place, London. H. R. C. is a bachelor,
6 ft. high, squarely built, weight about 12 stone. Dark
complexion, regular features. Eyes dark brown; nose
straight. Called a handsome man; walks erect and rapidly.
In society is considered a good fellow; rather a favorite,
especially with ladies. Is liberal, not extravagant;
reported to be worth about 5000 pounds per year, and
appearances give color to this statement. Property consists
of a small estate in Hertfordshire, and some funds, amount
not known. Since writing this much, a correspondent sends
the following in regard to his history. In ’46 went from
uncle’s house to Eton. From Eton went to Oxford, graduating
in ’56. Scholarship good. In 1855 his uncle died, and his
father succeeded to the estates. Father died in ’57 by a
fall from his horse or a similar accident. Within a very
short time H. R. C. took his mother to London, to the
residence named, where they have lived to the present time.

“Travelled considerably in 1860; part of the time was with
---- ----, of Munich; also in party of Vandervorts from New
York; went as far east as Cairo. Went to America in 1875
alone, but at end of three months returned on account of
mother’s illness. Nothing is known of his movements while
in America.

“From servants learn that he was always a favorite from a
boy. More recently has become somewhat taciturn. Toward
last of his stay watched the post carefully, especially
foreign ones. Posted scarcely anything but newspapers. Has
written to Munich. Have seen, from waste-paper basket,
torn envelope directed to Amy Belden, no address. American
correspondents mostly in Boston; two in New York. Names
not known, but supposed to be bankers. Brought home
considerable luggage, and fitted up part of house, as for
a lady. This was closed soon afterwards. Left for America
two months since. Has been, I understand, travelling in the
south. Has telegraphed twice to Portland Place. His friends
hear from him but rarely. Letters rec’d recently, posted in
New York. One by last steamer posted in F----, N. Y.

“Business here conducted by ----. In the country, ---- of
---- has charge of the property.

“BROWN.”

The document fell from my hands.

F----, N. Y., was a small town near R----.

“Your friend is a trump,” I declared. “He tells me just what I wanted most to know.” And, taking out my book, I made memoranda of the facts which had most forcibly struck me during my perusal of the communication before me. “With the aid of what he tells me, I shall ferret out the mystery of Henry Clavering in a week; see if I do not.”

“And how soon,” inquired Mr. Gryce, “may I expect to be allowed to take a hand in the game?”

“As soon as I am reasonably assured I am upon the right tack.”

“And what will it take to assure you of that?”

“Not much; a certain point settled, and----”

“Hold on; who knows but what I can do that for you?” And, looking towards the desk which stood in the corner, Mr. Gryce asked me if I would be kind enough to open the top drawer and bring him the bits of partly-burned paper I would find there.

Hastily complying, I brought three or four strips of ragged paper, and laid them on the table at his side.

“Another result of Fobbs’ researches under the coal on the first day of the inquest,” Mr. Gryce abruptly explained. “You thought the key was all he found. Well, it wasn’t. A second turning over of the coal brought these to light, and very interesting they are, too.”

I immediately bent over the torn and discolored scraps with great anxiety. They were four in number, and appeared at first glance to be the mere remnants of a sheet of common writing-paper, torn lengthwise into strips, and twisted up into lighters; but, upon closer inspection, they showed traces of writing upon one side, and, what was more important still, the presence of one or more drops of spattered blood. This latter discovery was horrible to me, and so overcame me for the moment that I put the scraps down, and, turning towards Mr. Gryce, inquired:

“What do you make of them?”

“That is just the question I was going to put to you.”

Swallowing my disgust, I took them up again. “They look like the remnants of some old letter,” said I.

“They have that appearance,” Mr. Gryce grimly assented.

“A letter which, from the drop of blood observable on the written side, must have been lying face up on Mr. Leavenworth’s table at the time of the murder--”

“Just so.”

“And from the uniformity in width of each of these pieces, as well as their tendency to curl up when left alone, must first have been torn into even strips, and then severally rolled up, before being tossed into the grate where they were afterwards found.”

“That is all good,” said Mr. Gryce; “go on.”

“The writing, so far as discernible, is that of a cultivated gentleman. It is not that of Mr. Leavenworth; for I have studied his chirography too much lately not to know it at a glance; but it may be--Hold!” I suddenly exclaimed, “have you any mucilage handy? I think, if I could paste these strips down upon a piece of paper, so that they would remain flat, I should be able to tell you what I think of them much more easily.”

“There is mucilage on the desk,” signified Mr. Gryce.

Procuring it, I proceeded to consult the scraps once more for evidence to guide me in their arrangement. These were more marked than I expected; the longer and best preserved strip, with its “Mr. Hor” at the top, showing itself at first blush to be the left-hand margin of the letter, while the machine-cut edge of the next in length presented tokens fully as conclusive of its being the right-hand margin of the same. Selecting these, then, I pasted them down on a piece of paper at just the distance they would occupy if the sheet from which they were torn was of the ordinary commercial note size. Immediately it became apparent: first, that it would take two other strips of the same width to fill up the space left between them; and secondly, that the writing did not terminate at the foot of the sheet, but was carried on to another page.

Taking up the third strip, I looked at its edge; it was machine-cut at the top, and showed by the arrangement of its words that it was the margin strip of a second leaf. Pasting that down by itself, I scrutinized the fourth, and finding it also machine-cut at the top but not on the side, endeavored to fit it to the piece already pasted down, but the words would not match. Moving it along to the position it would hold if it were the third strip, I fastened it down; the whole presenting, when completed, the appearance seen on the opposite page.

“Well!” exclaimed Mr. Gryce, “that’s business.” Then, as I held it up before his eyes: “But don’t show it to me. Study it yourself, and tell me what you think of it.”

“Well,” said I, “this much is certain: that it is a letter directed to Mr. Leavenworth from some House, and dated--let’s see; that is an _h_, isn’t it?” And I pointed to the one letter just discernible on the line under the word House.

“I should think so; but don’t ask me.”

“It must be an _h_. The year is 1875, and this is not the termination of either January or February. Dated, then, March 1st, 1876, and signed ----”

Mr. Gryce rolled his eyes in anticipatory ecstasy towards the ceiling.

“By Henry Clavering,” I announced without hesitation.

Mr. Gryce’s eyes returned to his swathed finger-ends. “Humph! how do you know that?”

“Wait a moment, and I’ll show you”; and, taking out of my pocket the card which Mr. Clavering had handed me as an introduction at our late interview, I laid it underneath the last line of writing on the second page. One glance was sufficient. Henry Ritchie Clavering on the card; H----chie--in the same handwriting on the letter.

“Clavering it is,” said he, “without a doubt.” But I saw he was not surprised.

“And now,” I continued, “for its general tenor and meaning.” And, commencing at the beginning, I read aloud the words as they came, with pauses at the breaks, something as follows: “Mr. Hor--Dear--a niece whom yo--one too who see--the love and trus--any other man ca--autiful, so char----s she in face fo---- conversation. ery rose has its ---- rose is no exception ----ely as she is, char---- tender as she is, s----pable of tramplin---- one who trusted ---- heart ----. ---- him to ---- he owes a ---- honor ----ance.

“If ----t believe ---- her to ---- cruel ---- face, ---- what is ----ble serv---- yours

“H----tchie”

“It reads like a complaint against one of Mr. Leavenworth’s nieces,” I said, and started at my own words.

“What is it?” cried Mr. Gryce; “what is the matter?”

“Why,” said I, “the fact is I have heard this very letter spoken of. It _is_ a complaint against one of Mr. Leavenworth’s nieces, and was written by Mr. Clavering.” And I told him of Mr. Harwell’s communication in regard to the matter.

“Ah! then Mr. Harwell has been talking, has he? I thought he had forsworn gossip.”

“Mr. Harwell and I have seen each other almost daily for the last two weeks,” I replied. “It would be strange if he had nothing to tell me.”

“And he says he has read a letter written to Mr. Leavenworth by Mr. Clavering?”

“Yes; but the particular words of which he has now forgotten.”

“These few here may assist him in recalling the rest.”

“I would rather not admit him to a knowledge of the existence of this piece of evidence. I don’t believe in letting any one into our confidence whom we can conscientiously keep out.”

“I see you don’t,” dryly responded Mr. Gryce.

Not appearing to notice the fling conveyed by these words, I took up the letter once more, and began pointing out such half-formed words in it as I thought we might venture to complete, as the Hor--, yo--, see--utiful----, har----, for----, tramplin----, pable----, serv----.

This done, I next proposed the introduction of such others as seemed necessary to the sense, as _Leavenworth_ after _Horatio_; _Sir_ after _Dear_; _have_ with a possible _you_ before _a niece_; _thorn_ after _its_ in the phrase _rose has its_; _on after trampling_; _whom_ after _to_; _debt after a_; _you_ after _If_; _me ask_ after _believe_; _beautiful_ after _cruel_.

Between the columns of words thus furnished I interposed a phrase or two, here and there, the whole reading upon its completion as follows:

“---- House.”
March 1st, 1876.

“_Mr. Horatio Leavenworth_;
“_Dear Sir_:

“(You) have a niece whom you one too who seems worthy
the love and trust of any other man ca so
beautiful, so charming is she in face form and
conversation. But every rose has its thorn and (this) rose
is no exception lovely as she is, charming (as she is,)
tender as she is, she is capable of trampling on
one who trusted her heart a

* * * * *

him to whom she owes a debt of honor a ance

“If you don’t believe me ask her to her cruel beautiful
face what is (her) humble servant yours:

“Henry Ritchie Clavering.”

“I think that will do,” said Mr. Gryce. “Its general tenor is evident, and that is all we want at this time.”

“The whole tone of it is anything but complimentary to the lady it mentions,” I remarked. “He must have had, or imagined he had, some desperate grievance, to provoke him to the use of such plain language in regard to one he can still characterize as tender, charming, beautiful.”

“Grievances are apt to lie back of mysterious crimes.”

“I think I know what this one was,” I said; “but”--seeing him look up--“must decline to communicate my suspicion to you for the present. My theory stands unshaken, and in some degree confirmed; and that is all I can say.”

“Then this letter does not supply the link you wanted?”

“No: it is a valuable bit of evidence; but it is not the link I am in search of just now.”

“Yet it must be an important clue, or Eleanore Leavenworth would not have been to such pains, first to take it in the way she did from her uncle’s table, and secondly----”

“Wait! what makes you think this is the paper she took, or was believed to have taken, from Mr. Leavenworth’s table on that fatal morning?”

“Why, the fact that it was found together with the key, which we know she dropped into the grate, and that there are drops of blood on it.”

I shook my head.

“Why do you shake your head?” asked Mr. Gryce.

“Because I am not satisfied with your reason for believing this to be the paper taken by her from Mr. Leavenworth’s table.”

“And why?”

“Well, first, because Fobbs does not speak of seeing any paper in her hand, when she bent over the fire; leaving us to conclude that these pieces were in the scuttle of coal she threw upon it; which surely you must acknowledge to be a strange place for her to have put a paper she took such pains to gain possession of; and, secondly, for the reason that these scraps were twisted as if they had been used for curl papers, or something of that kind; a fact hard to explain by your hypothesis.”

The detective’s eye stole in the direction of my necktie, which was as near as he ever came to a face. “You are a bright one,” said he; “a very bright one. I quite admire you, Mr. Raymond.”

A little surprised, and not altogether pleased with this unexpected compliment, I regarded him doubtfully for a moment and then asked:

“What is your opinion upon the matter?”

“Oh, you know I have no opinion. I gave up everything of that kind when I put the affair into your hands.”

“Still----”

“That the letter of which these scraps are the remnant was on Mr. Leavenworth’s table at the time of the murder is believed. That upon the body being removed, a paper was taken from the table by Miss Eleanore Leavenworth, is also believed. That, when she found her action had been noticed, and attention called to this paper and the key, she resorted to subterfuge in order to escape the vigilance of the watch that had been set over her, and, partially succeeding in her endeavor, flung the key into the fire from which these same scraps were afterwards recovered, is also known. The conclusion I leave to your judgment.”

“Very well, then,” said I, rising; “we will let conclusions go for the present. My mind must be satisfied in regard to the truth or falsity of a certain theory of mine, for my judgment to be worth much on this or any other matter connected with the affair.”

And, only waiting to get the address of his subordinate P., in case I should need assistance in my investigations, I left Mr. Gryce, and proceeded immediately to the house of Mr. Veeley.

XXIII. THE STORY OF A CHARMING WOMAN

“Fe, fi, fo, fum,
I smell the blood of an Englishman.”

Old Song.

“I hold you as a thing enskied and sainted.”

Measure for Measure.

“You have never heard, then, the particulars of Mr. Leavenworth’s marriage?”

It was my partner who spoke. I had been asking him to explain to me Mr. Leavenworth’s well-known antipathy to the English race.

“No.”

“If you had, you would not need to come to me for this explanation. But it is not strange you are ignorant of the matter. I doubt if there are half a dozen persons in existence who could tell you where Horatio Leavenworth found the lovely woman who afterwards became his wife, much less give you any details of the circumstances which led to his marriage.”

“I am very fortunate, then, in being in the confidence of one who can. What were those circumstances, Mr. Veeley?”

“It will aid you but little to hear. Horatio Leavenworth, when a young man, was very ambitious; so much so, that at one time he aspired to marry a wealthy lady of Providence. But, chancing to go to England, he there met a young woman whose grace and charm had such an effect upon him that he relinquished all thought of the Providence lady, though it was some time before he could face the prospect of marrying the one who had so greatly interested him; as she was not only in humble circumstances, but was encumbered with a child concerning whose parentage the neighbors professed ignorance, and she had nothing to say. But, as is very apt to be the case in an affair like this, love and admiration soon got the better of worldly wisdom. Taking his future in his hands, he offered himself as her husband, when she immediately proved herself worthy of his regard by entering at once into those explanations he was too much of a gentleman to demand.

The story she told was pitiful. She proved to be an American by birth, her father having been a well-known merchant of Chicago. While he lived, her home was one of luxury, but just as she was emerging into womanhood he died. It was at his funeral she met the man destined to be her ruin. How he came there she never knew; he was not a friend of her father’s. It is enough he was there, and saw her, and that in three weeks--don’t shudder, she was such a child--they were married. In twenty-four hours she knew what that word meant for her; it meant blows. Everett, I am telling no fanciful story. In twenty-four hours after that girl was married, her husband, coming drunk into the house, found her in his way, and knocked her down. It was but the beginning. Her father’s estate, on being settled up, proving to be less than expected, he carried her off to England, where he did not wait to be drunk in order to maltreat her. She was not free from his cruelty night or day. Before she was sixteen, she had run the whole gamut of human suffering; and that, not at the hands of a coarse, common ruffian, but from an elegant, handsome, luxury-loving gentleman, whose taste in dress was so nice he would sooner fling a garment of hers into the fire than see her go into company clad in a manner he did not consider becoming. She bore it till her child was born, then she fled. Two days after the little one saw the light, she rose from her bed and, taking her baby in her arms, ran out of the house. The few jewels she had put into her pocket supported her till she could set up a little shop. As for her husband, she neither saw him, nor heard from him, from the day she left him till about two weeks before Horatio Leavenworth first met her, when she learned from the papers that he was dead. She was, therefore, free; but though she loved Horatio Leavenworth with all her heart, she would not marry him. She felt herself forever stained and soiled by the one awful year of abuse and contamination. Nor could he persuade her. Not till the death of her child, a month or so after his proposal, did she consent to give him her hand and what remained of her unhappy life. He brought her to New York, surrounded her with luxury and every tender care, but the arrow had gone too deep; two years from the day her child breathed its last, she too died. It was the blow of his life to Horatio Leavenworth; he was never the same man again. Though Mary and Eleanore shortly after entered his home, he never recovered his old light-heartedness. Money became his idol, and the ambition to make and leave a great fortune behind him modified all his views of life. But one proof remained that he never forgot the wife of his youth, and that was, he could not bear to have the word ‘Englishman’ uttered in his hearing.”

Mr. Veeley paused, and I rose to go. “Do you remember how Mrs. Leavenworth looked?” I asked. “Could you describe her to me?”

He seemed a little astonished at my request, but immediately replied: “She was a very pale woman; not strictly beautiful, but of a contour and expression of great charm. Her hair was brown, her eyes gray--”

“And very wide apart?”

He nodded, looking still more astonished. “How came you to know? Have you seen her picture?”

I did not answer that question.

* * * * *

On my way down-stairs, I bethought me of a letter which I had in my pocket for Mr. Veeley’s son Fred, and, knowing of no surer way of getting it to him that night than by leaving it on the library table, I stepped to the door of that room, which in this house was at the rear of the parlors, and receiving no reply to my knock, opened it and looked in.

The room was unlighted, but a cheerful fire was burning in the grate, and by its glow I espied a lady crouching on the hearth, whom at first glance I took for Mrs. Veeley. But, upon advancing and addressing her by that name, I saw my mistake; for the person before me not only refrained from replying, but, rising at the sound of my voice, revealed a form of such noble proportions that all possibility of its being that of the dainty little wife of my partner fled.

“I see I have made a mistake,” said I. “I beg your pardon”; and would have left the room, but something in the general attitude of the lady before me restrained me, and, believing it to be Mary Leavenworth, I inquired:

“Can it be this is Miss Leavenworth?”

The noble figure appeared to droop, the gently lifted head to fall, and for a moment I doubted if I had been correct in my supposition. Then form and head slowly erected themselves, a soft voice spoke, and I heard a low “yes,” and hurriedly advancing, confronted--not Mary, with her glancing, feverish gaze, and scarlet, trembling lips--but Eleanore, the woman whose faintest look had moved me from the first, the woman whose husband I believed myself to be even then pursuing to his doom!

The surprise was too great; I could neither sustain nor conceal it. Stumbling slowly back, I murmured something about having believed it to be her cousin; and then, conscious only of the one wish to fly a presence I dared not encounter in my present mood, turned, when her rich, heart-full voice rose once more and I heard:

“You will not leave me without a word, Mr. Raymond, now that chance has thrown us together?” Then, as I came slowly forward: “Were you so very much astonished to find me here?”

“I do not know--I did not expect--” was my incoherent reply. “I had heard you were ill; that you went nowhere; that you had no wish to see your friends.”

“I have been ill,” she said; “but I am better now, and have come to spend the night with Mrs. Veeley, because I could not endure the stare of the four walls of my room any longer.”

This was said without any effort at plaintiveness, but rather as if she thought it necessary to excuse herself for being where she was.

“I am glad you did so,” said I. “You ought to be here all the while. That dreary, lonesome boarding-house is no place for you, Miss Leavenworth. It distresses us all to feel that you are exiling yourself at this time.”

“I do not wish anybody to be distressed,” she returned. “It is best for me to be where I am. Nor am I altogether alone. There is a child there whose innocent eyes see nothing but innocence in mine. She will keep me from despair. Do not let my friends be anxious; I can bear it.” Then, in a lower tone: “There is but one thing which really unnerves me; and that is my ignorance of what is going on at home. Sorrow I can bear, but suspense is killing me. Will you not tell me something of Mary and home? I cannot ask Mrs. Veeley; she is kind, but has no real knowledge of Mary or me, nor does she know anything of our estrangement. She thinks me obstinate, and blames me for leaving my cousin in her trouble. But you know I could not help it. You know,--” her voice wavered off into a tremble, and she did not conclude.

“I cannot tell you much,” I hastened to reply; “but whatever knowledge is at my command is certainly yours. Is there anything in particular you wish to know?”

“Yes, how Mary is; whether she is well, and--and composed.”

“Your cousin’s health is good,” I returned; “but I fear I cannot say she is composed. She is greatly troubled about you.”

“You see her often, then?”

“I am assisting Mr. Harwell in preparing your uncle’s book for the press, and necessarily am there much of the time.”

“My uncle’s book!” The words came in a tone of low horror.

“Yes, Miss Leavenworth. It has been thought best to bring it before the world, and----”

“And Mary has set you at the task?”

“Yes.”

It seemed as if she could not escape from the horror which this caused. “How could she? Oh, how could she!”

“She considers herself as fulfilling her uncle’s wishes. He was very anxious, as you know, to have the book out by July.”

“Do not speak of it!” she broke in, “I cannot bear it.” Then, as if she feared she had hurt my feelings by her abruptness, lowered her voice and said: “I do not, however, know of any one I should be better pleased to have charged with the task than yourself. With you it will be a work of respect and reverence; but a stranger--Oh, I could not have endured a stranger touching it.”

She was fast falling into her old horror; but rousing herself, murmured: “I wanted to ask you something; ah, I know”--and she moved so as to face me. “I wish to inquire if everything is as before in the house; the servants the same and--and other things?”

“There is a Mrs. Darrell there; I do not know of any other change.”

“Mary does not talk of going away?”

“I think not.”

“But she has visitors? Some one besides Mrs. Darrell to help her bear her loneliness?”

I knew what was coming, and strove to preserve my composure.

“Yes,” I replied; “a few.”

“Would you mind naming them?” How low her tones were, but how distinct!

“Certainly not. Mrs. Veeley, Mrs. Gilbert, Miss Martin, and a--a----”

“Go on,” she whispered.

“A gentleman by the name of Clavering.”

“You speak that name with evident embarrassment,” she said, after a moment of intense anxiety on my part. “May I inquire why?”

Astounded, I raised my eyes to her face. It was very pale, and wore the old look of self-repressed calm I remembered so well. I immediately dropped my gaze.

“Why? because there are some circumstances surrounding him which have struck me as peculiar.”

“How so?” she asked.

“He appears under two names. To-day it is Clavering; a short time ago it was----”

“Go on.”

“Robbins.”

Her dress rustled on the hearth; there was a sound of desolation in it; but her voice when she spoke was expressionless as that of an automaton.

“How many times has this person, of whose name you do not appear to be certain, been to see Mary?”

“Once.”

“When was it?”

“Last night.”

“Did he stay long?”

“About twenty minutes, I should say.”

“And do you think he will come again?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“He has left the country.”

A short silence followed this, I felt her eyes searching my face, but doubt whether, if I had known she held a loaded pistol, I could have looked up at that moment.

“Mr. Raymond,” she at length observed, in a changed tone, “the last time I saw you, you told me you were going to make some endeavor to restore me to my former position before the world. I did not wish you to do so then; nor do I wish you to do so now. Can you not make me comparatively happy, then, by assuring me you have abandoned or will abandon a project so hopeless?”

“It is impossible,” I replied with emphasis. “I cannot abandon it. Much as I grieve to be a source of sorrow to you, it is best you should know that I can never give up the hope of righting you while I live.”

She put out her hand in a sort of hopeless appeal inexpressibly touching to behold in the fast waning firelight. But I was relentless.

“I should never be able to face the world or my own conscience if, through any weakness of my own, I should miss the blessed privilege of setting the wrong right, and saving a noble woman from unmerited disgrace.” And then, seeing she was not likely to reply to this, drew a step nearer and said: “Is there not some little kindness I can show you, Miss Leavenworth? Is there no message you would like taken, or act it would give you pleasure to see performed?”

She stopped to think. “No,” said she; “I have only one request to make, and that you refuse to grant.”

“For the most unselfish of reasons,” I urged.

She slowly shook her head. “You think so”; then, before I could reply, “I could desire one little favor shown me, however.”

“What is that?”

“That if anything should transpire; if Hannah should be found, or--or my presence required in any way,--you will not keep me in ignorance. That you will let me know the worst when it comes, without fail.”

“I will.”

“And now, good-night. Mrs. Veeley is coming back, and you would scarcely wish to be found here by her.”

“No,” said I.

And yet I did not go, but stood watching the firelight flicker on her black dress till the thought of Clavering and the duty I had for the morrow struck coldly to my heart, and I turned away towards the door. But at the threshold I paused again, and looked back. Oh, the flickering, dying fire flame! Oh, the crowding, clustering shadows! Oh, that drooping figure in their midst, with its clasped hands and its hidden face! I see it all again; I see it as in a dream; then darkness falls, and in the glare of gas-lighted streets, I am hastening along, solitary and sad, to my lonely home.

XXIV. A REPORT FOLLOWED BY SMOKE

“Oft expectation fails, and most oft there
Where most it promises; and oft it hits
Where Hope is coldest, and Despair most sits.”

All’s Well that Ends Well.

When I told Mr. Gryce I only waited for the determination of one fact, to feel justified in throwing the case unreservedly into his hands, I alluded to the proving or disproving of the supposition that Henry Clavering had been a guest at the same watering-place with Eleanore Leavenworth the summer before.

When, therefore, I found myself the next morning with the Visitor Book of the Hotel Union at R---- in my hands, it was only by the strongest effort of will I could restrain my impatience. The suspense, however, was short. Almost immediately I encountered his name, written not half a page below those of Mr. Leavenworth and his nieces, and, whatever may have been my emotion at finding my suspicions thus confirmed, I recognized the fact that I was in the possession of a clue which would yet lead to the solving of the fearful problem which had been imposed upon me.

Hastening to the telegraph office, I sent a message for the man promised me by Mr. Gryce, and receiving for an answer that he could not be with me before three o’clock, started for the house of Mr. Monell, a client of ours, living in R----. I found him at home and, during our interview of two hours, suffered the ordeal of appearing at ease and interested in what he had to say, while my heart was heavy with its first disappointment and my brain on fire with the excitement of the work then on my hands.

* * * * *

I arrived at the depot just as the train came in. There was but one passenger for R----, a brisk young man, whose whole appearance differed so from the description which had been given me of Q that I at once made up my mind he could not be the man I was looking for, and was turning away disappointed, when he approached, and handed me a card on which was inscribed the single character “?” Even then I could not bring myself to believe that the slyest and most successful agent in Mr. Gryce’s employ was before me, till, catching his eye, I saw such a keen, enjoyable twinkle sparkling in its depths that all doubt fled, and, returning his bow with a show of satisfaction, I remarked:

“You are very punctual. I like that.”

He gave another short, quick nod. “Glad, sir, to please you. Punctuality is too cheap a virtue not to be practised by a man on the lookout for a rise. But what orders, sir? Down train due in ten minutes; no time to spare.”

“Down train? What have we to do with that?”

“I thought you might wish to take it, sir. Mr. Brown”--winking expressively at the name, “always checks his carpet-bag for home when he sees me coming. But that is your affair; I am not particular.”

“I wish to do what is wisest under the circumstances.”

“Go home, then, as speedily as possible.” And he gave a third sharp nod exceedingly business-like and determined.

“If I leave you, it is with the understanding that you bring your information first to me; that you are in my employ, and in that of no one else for the time being; and that _mum_ is the word till I give you liberty to speak.”

“Yes, sir. When I work for Brown & Co. I do not work for Smith & Jones. That you can count on.”

“Very well then, here are your instructions.”

He looked at the paper I handed him with a certain degree of care, then stepped into the waiting-room and threw it into the stove, saying in a low tone: “So much in case I should meet with some accident: have an apoplectic fit, or anything of that sort.”

“But----”

“Oh, don’t worry; I sha’n’t forget. I’ve a memory, sir. No need of anybody using pen and paper with me.”

And laughing in the short, quick way one would expect from a person of his appearance and conversation, he added: “You will probably hear from me in a day or so,” and bowing, took his brisk, free way down the street just as the train came rushing in from the West.

My instructions to Q were as follows:

1. To find out on what day, and in whose company, the Misses Leavenworth arrived at R---- the year before. What their movements had been while there, and in whose society they were oftenest to be seen. Also the date of their departure, and such facts as could be gathered in regard to their habits, etc.

2. Ditto in respect to a Mr. Henry Clavering, fellow-guest and probable friend of said ladies.

3. Name of individual fulfilling the following requirements: Clergyman, Methodist, deceased since last December or thereabouts, who in July of Seventy-five was located in some town not over twenty miles from R----.

4. Also name and present whereabouts of a man at that time in service of the above.

To say that the interval of time necessary to a proper inquiry into these matters was passed by me in any reasonable frame of mind, would be to give myself credit for an equanimity of temper which I unfortunately do not possess. Never have days seemed so long as the two which interposed between my return from R---- and the receipt of the following letter:

“Sir: