THE FILIGREE BALL.

Northland Age, Volume VI, Issue 44, 27 June 1910, Page 9

THE FILIGREE BALL.

(Copyright.)

BY ANNA KATHERINE GREEN,

Author ol "The Leavenworth Case." PART 11. “"Ri'lplace the old seat,” ordered j the major, "and let us make sure of ; Uns.’ Ready hands at once grasped it, fend, with some effort, 1 otvn, drew it Darafully back into position. "You seel' 1 quoth Durbin. We did. "Devilish!" came from the major’s Ups Then with a glance at the ball •rhioh, pushed aside by the scat, now hung over its edge a foot or so from j ike floor, he added briskly: “The ball Las fallen to the full length ol | Ihe cord. If it were drawn up a little- 1 ' “Wait,** I eagerly interposed. *'Let me see what I can do with it." And I dashed back upstairs and Into the closet of “The Colonel's Own. 1 ' With a einglo peep down to see il they were still on the watch, I seized the handle whose position I had !nado euro of when searching for the *priug, und began to turn; when inis tan tly—so quick was the response—itho long cord stiffened and I saw the ball ride into sight above tho settle-top. “Stop!” called out the major. r'Let go and press the spring again.’* I hastened to obey and, though the fcftftk of tho settle hid the result from kni, I Judged from the look and attitude of below that the old boloMl’t calculations had been made •with groat exactness, and that the pki oemfor table scat on the rude pn4 cumbevroine bench had been so plaead that this leaden weight in de-. eeeadtng would at the chosen mom* Pot ttelirt the head of him who sat inflicting death. That tho JVftlfht nhoJid l>c made just heavy fcftAogb tc produce a fatal concussion Jettfccut damaging the skull was proef of the extreme care with which Utin apparatus had been contrived. As open wound would have aroufwfl gosstionr, but a mere bruise tmigM ifedlly pest as a result of rWUa'i violent contact with tho fatmiehisgs of the hearth toward )*hi«h the shocked body would maturfiliy topple. *HiO far.t that a modern 1 i#y had eo regarded it shows how |«|t!flfd h« war. ir. this expectation. I was expending my wonder on Vhie anil a »tw discovery which, a very d«*ided shock to myself j had just' made in the closet, when l.Ue ceirmar.d came to turn the ban4id again and lo keep on turning It t!U it would turn no farther.

I complied, but with a trembling hand, and though I did not watch lh# rafult, tilt satisfaction I heal'd inrprossed bslow was significant of tha celerity and precision with which the weight rose, foot by foot, to the ! toiling and finally slunk snugly and Without seeming jar into its lair. , Whan, a few minutes later, I rejoined those below, I all, with p>cs directed toward tho cornice, s arching for the hole through which I had just been looking. It was rext to imperceptible, so naturally j siad it been made to fit with tho phadows of the scroll work; and even Sifter I had discovered it and pointed It out to them, I found dilliculty in inaking them believe that they realty looked upon an opening. But btrhen once convinced of this, the district attorney’s remark was significant. I am glad that my namfc is not h The superintendent made no reply; bis eye had caught mine, and he had became very thoughtful. “One of the two candelabra belonging to the parlor mantel was found lying on that closet floor,” he observed. “Somebody has entered there lately, as lately as the day •jwhon Mr. TfeifTer was seated here." “Pardon me," I impetuously cried. Pfeiffer’s death is quite explained." And, drawing forward my band, which up to this moment I bad held tight-shut behind my back, % slowly unclosed it before their astonished eyes. f A bit of lac© lay mjr palm, a delicate bit, such as is only worn by {women in full dress. “Where did you find that?" asked the major, with the first show of deep emotion I have ever observed in bim. My agitation was greater than his as I replied: "In the rough boarding under those drawers. Some woman’s arm and hand has preceded mino in qtealthy search after that fatal spring. A woman who wore lace, Valuable lace." There was but one woman connected with this affair who rightly answered these conditions. The bride! Veronica Moore. CHAPTER XXIII.

Had I any premonition of ihe astounding fact thus suddenly and, I may say, dramatically revealed to us during the weeks I had devoted to the elucidation of the causes and circumstances of Mrs. Jeffrey’s death? I do not think so. Nothing in her face, as I remembered it; j nothing in the feeling evinced toward her by husband or sister, had prepared me for a disclosure of crime so revolting as to surpass all that I bad over imagined or could imagine in a woman of such dainty personality and unmistakable culture. Nor was the supei intendent or the district attorney less confounded by tho pvant. Durbin only trijed to look Wlsa and strut about, but it was of BO u«c; he deceived nobody. Veronica Moore’s real connection with Mr. fftiffor’s death,—a death which in •orae inscrutable way had in so short a time led to her own, —was an overwhelming surprise to every ono of to. The superintendent, as was natural, recovered first. "This throws quite a new light upon the matter,” said he. “Now we can understand why iftr. Jeffrey

uttered that extraordinary avowal overheard on the bridge; ‘She must die!’ She had conic to him with blood on her hands." It. seemed incredible, nay moro, unrecalled the sweet refined faco to me from tkfi Laj:_v

boards of this same floor, the accounts I had read of the vivacity of her spirits and the wild charm of her manner till the shadow of this old house fell upon her. I marveled’, still feeling myself in the d©rk, still clinging to my faith in womankind, still asking to what dopths her sister had followed her in the mazes of crime we were forced to recognize but could not understand. Durbin had no such feelings and no 6uch scruples, as was shown by the sarcastic comment which now left his lips. “So!" he cried, “we have to do with three criminals instead of two. Nice fuinily, the Moore-Jeffreys!" But no ono paid any attention to him. Addressing the major, the district attorney asked when he expected to hear from Denver, adding that it has now become of the first importance to ascertain the exact re- , lations existing between the persons ! under suspicion and the latest victim of this deadly mechanism. The major’s answer was abrupt, jHo had been expecting a report for j daysr He was expecting one yet. If |it came in at any time, night or , day, lie was to be immediately notii lied. Word might be sent him in an I hour, in a minute. Were his remarks a prophecy? He had hardly ceased speaking when an officer appeared with a telegram in | his hand. This the major eagerly ! took and, noting that it was in 'cipher, read it-by means of the code j he carried in his pocket. Translated, | it ran thus: , Result of open inquiry in Denver. I Three brothers Pfeiffer; all well ; thought of, but plain in their ways and eccentric. One doing business in Denver. Died June, '97. One perishj ed in Klondike, October, same year; j arid one, by name Wallace, died suddenly three months since in Washington. Nothing further- gained by secret inquiry in this place. Result of open inquiry in Owosso. A man named Pfeiffer kept a store

in Owosso during the time V; M. attended school there. He was one ol three brothers, homo Denver, name Wallace. Simultaneously with V. M.’s leaving school, P. broke up business and at instigation of his brother William, who accompanied him, went to the Klondike. v No especial relation between lady and this same P. ever noted. V. M. once heard to laugh at his awkward ways. Result of secret inquiry in Owosso. V. M. very intimate with schoolmate who has since died. Often rode together; once gone a long time. This was just before V. M. left

school for good. Date same as that on which a marriage occurred in a town twenty miles distant. Bride, Antoinette Moore; groom, W. Pfeiffer of Denver; witness, young girl with red hair. Schoolmate had red hair. Had V. M. a middle initial, and was that initial A? Wo all looked at each other; this last question was ono none of us could answer. “Go for Mr. Jeffrey at once," ordered tho major, “and lot another one of you bring Miss Tuttle. No word to either of what has occurred and no hint of their possible meeting hero." It fell to me to fetch Miss Tuttle. 1 was glad of this, as it gave mo a few minutes by myself in which to compose my mind and adjust my thoughts to ,thc now conditions opened up by the amazing facts which had just come to light. But beyond tho fact that Mrs. Jeffrey had been answerable for the death which had occurred in the library at the time of hor marriage—that, in the words of tho district attorney, sho had come to her husband with blood on her hands,—my thoughts would not go; confusion followed the least attempt to settle tho vital question ol how far Miss Tuttle and Mr. Jeffrey had been involved in the earlier crimi and what the coming interview with theso two would add to our present knowledge. In my anxiety to have this question answered I hastened my etoDB and was soon at the dooi of Miss Tuttle’s prqsent dwelling place. I had not seen this lady since the inquest, and iny heart beat high as 1 sat awaiting her appearance in the dim little parlor where I had been seated by the person who held hor under secret surveillance. The scene 1 had just been through, the uncertain nature of tho relations held by this beautiful woman both toward the crime just discovered and the one long associated with hor name lent to these few moments of anticipation an emotion which poorly pre

pared me for the touching sight of t the patient smile with which she j presently entered. But I doubt if she noticed my ] | agitation. She was too much sway- j ] ' ed by her own. Advancing upon me i in all the- unconscious pride of her ] 1 great beauty, she tremulously re- 1 marked: 1 “You have a message for me. Is : it from headquartors? Or has* the , district attorney still more questions j i to ask?" I “I have a much more trying errand than that," I hastened to say, i with some idea of preparing her for an experience that could not fail to I 1 be one of exceptional trial. “For reasons which will be explained to you by those in greater authority than myself, you are wanted at tiie I house where—where" I could not help stammering under the light of her : melancholy eyes—“where I saw you ; once before," I lamely concluded, j “Tho house in Waverley Avenue?" j she objected wildly, with the first signs of ' positive terror I had ever | beheld in her. j I nodded, dropping my eyes. What ’ ! call had I to penetrate tho conscience ; 1 \ of this woman? 1 ■ | “Are they there? all there?" she ; * i presently asked again. “The police and —and Mr. Jeffrey?" * j “Madam," I respectfully protested, ’ "my duty is limited to conducting J ! you to the place named. A carriage I

is waiting. May I beg that you will j prepare yourself to go at once to Waverley Avenue?" For answer she subjected me to a long and earnest look which I found j it impossible to evade. Then sho : hastened from the room, but with : very unsteady stops. Evidently the courage which had upborne her so ; long was beginning to fail. Iler very countenance was changed. Had she recognized, as I meant she should, that the secret of the Moore house was no longer a secret confined to her own breast and to that of her unhappy brother-in-law? When sho returned ready for her ride this change in her "spirits was less observable, and by the time we had reached the house in Waverley Avenue she had so far regained her

old courage ns to move and speak with the calmness of despair if not of mental serenity. The major was awaiting us at th© door and bowed gravely btfore h©r heavily veiled figure. “Miss Tuttle," he asked, without any preamble, the moment she was well inside the house, “may I inquire of you here, and before I show you what will Bxcuse us for subjecting you to the distress of entering those doors, whether your sister, Mrs. Jeffrey, had any other name or was ever known by any other nami than that of Veronica?" “She was christened Antoinette, as j well as Veronica; but the person ia whoso memory the former name was j given her was no honor to the fam- ! ily and she very soon dropped it and | was only known as Veronica. Oh. what have I done?" she cried, awed | and frightened by the silence which ; followed the utterance of these simple words. No ono answered her. For the first time in her presence, the minds of those*who faced her were with another than herself. Tho bride! tho unhappy bride—no maiden but a wife! nay, a wife one minute, a widow tho next, and then again a newly-wedded bride before the husband lying below was cold! Mliat wonder that sho shrank when her now-made bridegroom’s lips approached her own! or that their honeymoon was a disappointment! Or that the shadow which fell upon her on that evil day never left her till sho gave herself | wholly up to its influence and rci turned to die on the spot made awful by her own crime. Before any of us were quite ready to speak, a tap at the door told us that Durbin had arrived with Mr. Jeffrey. When they had been admitted and the latter saw Miss Tuttle standing there, he, too, seemed to realize that a turn had come in their

affairs, and that courage rather than endurance was the quality most demanded from him. Facing the small group clustered in the dismal hall fraught with such unutterable associations, he earnestly prayed: “Do not keep me in suspense. Why am I summoned here?" The reply was as grave as the occasion warranted. “You are summoned to learn the murderous secret of thes® old walls, and who it was that last made use of it. Do you feel inclined to hoar these details from my lips, or are you ready to state that you already know the means by which so many persons, in times past as well as in times present, have met death here? We do not require you to answer us." ‘ “I know the means," he allowed, recognizing without doubt that the crisis of crises had come, and that | denial wo.uld be worse than useless. “Then it only remains for us to acquaint you with tho identity of | tho person who last pressed tho fatal ; spring. But perhaps you know that, j too?" | “I—” He paused; words were im- | possible to him; and in that pause his eyes flashed helplessly in the dij lection of Miss Tuttle. But the major was quick on his feet and was already between him ; and that lady. This act forced from ! Mr. Jeffrey’s lips the following brok--1 en sentence: 1 “I should—like—you—to—tell—me." ; Great gasps came with each heavily I spoken word. "Perhaps this morsel of lace will do it in a gentler manner than I could," responded the district attorj ney, opening his hand, in which lav ! the scrap of lace that, an hour or so

before, I had plucked away from the i boarding of that fatal closet. ! Mr. Jeffrey eyed it and understood. llis hands went up to his face and he ! swayed to tho point of falling. Miss Tuttle came quickly forward, i “Oh!" she moaned, as her eyes fell on the little white shred. “The | providence of God has found us out. j vVo have suffered, labored and denied j in vain." j “Yes," came in dreary echo from the man none of us had understood till now; “so great a crime could not be hid. God will have vengeance. What are we that we should hope to avert it by any act or at any cost?" I The major, with his eyes fixed piercingly on this miserable man, re- , plied with one pregnant sentence: i "Then you forced your wife to sui- , ; cide?" | “No,"he began; but before anothei

word could follow, Miss Tuttle, resplendent in beauty and beaming with now life, broke in with the fervid cry: “You wrong him and you wrong her by such a suggestion. It was not her husband but her conscience that forced her to this retributive act. What Mr. Jeffrey might have done had she proved obdurate and blind to the enormity of her own guilt-, I do not know. But that he is innolent of so influencing her is proved by ! the shock he suffered at finding sho had taken her punishment into her own hands." “Mr. Jeffrey will please answer the question," insisted the major. Whereupon the latter, with great effort, but with the first appearance of real candor yet seen in him, said earnestly:

"I did nothing to influence her. I was in no condition to do so. I wasbenumbed—dead. .When first she told ! me—it was in some words muttered ’ in her sleep—l thought sho was la- ! baring under some fearful nightmare; j but when she persisted, and I questioned her, and found tho horror true, . I was like a man turned instantly l into stone, save for one intolerable | throb within. I am still so; every- | thing passes by me like a dream. She I was so young, seemingly innoI cent and light-hearted. I loved her! Gentlemen, you have thought me guilty of my wife's death —this young fairy-like creature to whom I ascribed all the virtues! and I was will wig, I willing that you should think so, | willing even to face the distrust and opprobrium of tho whole world—and j sq was her sister, .the noble woman whom you see before you—rather j than that the full horror of her | crime should be known and a name so dear bo given up to execration. We thought wo could keep the secret j —ape felt that we must keep the seam—we took an oath—in French—in the carriage—with the detectives opposite us. She kept it—God bless her! I kept it. But it was all useless—a tiny bit of lace is found hanging to a lifeless splinter, and all our efforts, all the hopes and agony of weeks are gone for naught. Tho world will soon know of her awful deed—and I—" He still loved her! That was jipDarent in every look, in every word

he uttered. We marveled In awkward silence, and war* glad when the major said: “The deed, to I take it, waa an unpremeditated one on her part. I* that why her honor was dearer to you than your own, and why you | c.ould risk the reputation if not the ! life of the woman who you say sacrificed herself to it?" “Yes, it waa unpremeditated; she hardly realized hor act. If> you must know her heart through all this dreadful business, we have her words to show you —words which she spent the last miserable day of her life in writing. The few lines which I showed the captain and which have been published to the world was an enclosure meant for the public eye. The real letter, telling the whole terrible truth, I kept for myself and for the sister who already knew her sin. Oh, we did everything wo could!" And he again moaned: "But it was in vain; quite in vain." There were no signs of subterfuge in him now, and we all, unless I except Durbin, began to yield him credence. Durbin never gives credence to anybody whose name he has once heai’d associated with crime. “And this Pfeiffer was contracted to her? A man she had secretly married while a school-girl and who at this very critical instant had found his way to the house —" “You shall read her letter. It waa meant for me, for mo only —but you shall see it. I can not talk»of him or of her crime. It is enough that I have been unable to think of anyj thing else since first those dreadful | words fell from her lips in sleep, thirty-six hours before she died." Then with the inconsistency of great anguish he suddenly broke forth into the details he shrank from and cried: “She muttered, lying there, that she was no bigamist. That she had killed one husband before she married the other. Killed him in the old house and by the method her ancestors had taught her. And I, risen on my elbow, listened, with the sweat oozing from my forehead, but not believing her, oh, not believing her, any more than any one of you would believe such words uttered in a dream by the darling of your heart. But when, with a long-drawn sigh, she j murmured, ‘Murderer!’ and raised her fists—tiny fists, hands which I had i kissed a thousand times—and shook ! them in the air, an awful terror seized me, and I sought to grasp them and hold them down, but was hindered by some nameless inner recoil under which I could not speak, nor grisp, noV move. Of course, it was I some dream-horror she was laboring under, a nightmare of unimaginable acts, and thoughts, but it was ono to hold me back; and when she : lay quiet again and her face resumed its old sweetness in the moonlight I found myself staring at her almost as if it were true—what she had said 1 —that word—that" awful word which I no woman could use with regard to herself, even dreams, unless— Something, an echo from the discordant cliord in our two weeks’ married life, rose like the confirmation of a doubt in my shocked and rebellious breast. From that hour till dawn nothing in that slowly brightening i room seemed real, not her face lying 1 buried in its youthful locks upon tho i pillow, not tho objects well-known , and well-prized by which wo were sur- ! rounded—not myself—most of all, not myself, unless tho icy dew oozing from the roots of my lifted hair was real, unless that shape, fearsome vague, but persistent, which hovered in the shadows above us, drawing a i Bile of eternal separation between me and my wife, was a thing which could bo caught and strangled and i —Oh! I rave! I chatter a madi man; but I did not rave that night. Nor did I rave when, in the bright 5 broad sunlight, her eyes slowly uni closed and she started to see me bending so near her, but not with 1 my usual kiss or glad good-morning. 1 could not question her then; I darl ed not. The smile which slowly rose 1 to her lips was too piteous—it showl ed confidence. I waited till after - breakfast. Then, while she was seatl ed where she could not see my face, t I whispered the question: ‘Do you know that you have had a horrible i dream?' She shrieked and turned. I - saw her face and knew that what she had uttered in her sleep was true. - | “I have no rememforanoe of what I said to her. She tried to tell me r how she had been tempted and how

she had not realized her own act, till tha moment I bent down to kiss her lips as her husband. But I did not stop to listen —I could not. I flew immediately to Miss Tuttle with the violent demand as to whether she know that' her sister was already a wife when she married me, and when she cried out ‘No!’ and showed great dismay, I broke forth with the dreadful tale and cowered in unmanly anguish at her feet., and went mad and lost myself for a little while. Then I went back to my wretched wife and asked her how the awful deed had been done. She told me, and again I did not believe her and began to look upon it all as some wild dream or the distempered fancies of a disordered brain. This thought calmed me and I spoke gently to her and even tried to take her hand. But she herself was raving now, and clung about my knees, murmuring words of such anguish and contrition that my worst fears returned and, only stopping to take the kpy of the Moore house from my bureau, I left the house and wandered madly-I know not wh6re. “I did not go back that day. I could not face her again till I know how much of her confession was fancy and hew much was fact. I roamed the streets, carrying that key from one end of tlio city to the other, and at night I used it to open the house which she had declared contained so

dreadful a secret. ‘T had bought candles on my way there but, forgetting to take them from tho store, I had no light with which to penetrate the horrible place that even the* moon refused to illumine. I realized this when once in, but would not go back. All I have told about using matches to light me to the southwest chamber is true, also my coming upon the old candelabrum there, with a candle in one of its sockets. This candle I lit, ,my sole reason for seeking this room being my desire to examine the antique sketch for the' words which she had said could be found there. “I had failed to bring a magnifying glass with me, bqt m.y eyes are phenomenally sharp. Knowing where to look, I was able to pick out enough words hero and there in the lines composing the hair, to feel auito sure that my wife had neither

deceived me nor neon deceived as to certain directions being embodied there in writing. Shaken in my last lingering hope, but not yet quite convinced that thes© words pointed to outrageous crim©, I flew next to the closet and draw omt tha fatal drawer. “You have b©fh there and know what the place is, but no one but myself can ever realize what it was for me, still loving, still clinging to a wild inconsequent belief in my wife, to grope in that mouth of hell for the spring she had chattered about in her sleep, to find it, press it, and then to hear, down in the dark of the fearsome recess, the sound o! something deadly strike against what I took to be the cushions of the old settle standing at the edge of the library hearthstone. “I think I must have fainted. For when I found myself possessed of sufficient consciousness to withdraw from that hole of death, the candle in the candelabrum was shorter by an inch than when I first thrust my head into the gap made by the removed drawers. In putting back the drawers I hit tho ©andelabrum with my foot, upsetting it and throwing out the burning candle. As tlie flames began to lick the worm-eaten boarding of the floor a momentary impulse seized me to rush away and leave the whole place to burn. But I did not. With a sudden' frenzy I stamped put the flame, and then finding myself in darkness, groped my way downstairs and out. If I entered the library I do not remember it. Some lapses must be pardoned a man Involved as I was." “But tho fact which you dismiss so lightly is an important one," insisted the major. "We must know positively whether you entered this room or not." “I have no recollection o! doing so." “Then you can not tell us whether the little table was standing there,with the candelabrum upon it or—" "I can tell you nothing about it." The major, after a long look at this suffering man, turned toward Miss Tuttle. “You must have loved your sister very much," he sententiously rel marked. ! She flushed and for the first time her eyes fell from their resting-place on Mr. Jeffrey’s face, i “I loved her reputation," was her j quiet answer, "and—"- The rest | died In her throat, j But wo all—such of us, I mean, 1 who were possessed of the least sen- ■ sibiLity or insight, knew how that | sentence sounded as finished in her heart—"and I loved him who asked i this sacrifice of me."

Yet was her conduct not quito clear., "And to save that reputation you tied the pistol to her wrist?" insinuated the major. “No," was her vehement reply. “I jiever knew what I was tying to her. My testimony in that regard was absolutely true. She held tho pistol concealed in the folds of her dress. I did not dream —I could not—that she was contemplating any such end to the atrocious crime to which she had confessed. Her manner was too light, too airy and too frivolous—a manner adopted, as I now see, to forestall all questions and hold back all expressions of feeling on my part. ‘Tie these hanging ends of ribbon to my wrist,' were her " words. ‘Tie them tight; a knot under and a bow on top. I am going out— There, don’t say anything—What you want to talk about will keep till to-mor-row. For one night more I am going to make merry—to—to enjoy mj'Self.’ She was laughing. I thought her horribly callous and trembled with such unspeakable repulsion that I had difficulty in making the knot. To speak at all would have been impossible. Neither did I dare look in her face. I was touching the hand that—and she kept on laughing—such a hollow laugh covering up such an awful resolve! When she turned to give me that last injunction about the note, this resolve glared still in her eyes." “And you never suspected?" ''Not for an instant. I did not do Justice either to her misery or to her conscience. I fear that I have never done her justice in any way. I thought her light, pleasure-loving. I did not know that it was assumed to hide a terrible secret."

‘‘Then you had no knowledge of the contract she had entered into while a school-girl?" “Not in the least. Another woman, and not myself, had been her confidante; a woman who has since died. No intimation of hor first unfortunate marriage had ever reached me till Mr. Jeffrey rushed in upon me that Tuesday morning with her dreadful confession on his lips." The district attorney, who did not seem quite satisfied on a certain point passed over by the major, now took the opportunity of saying: “You assure ns that you had no idea that this once light-hearted sister of yours meditated suicide when she left you?" “And I repeat it, sir." “Then why did you immediately go to Mr. Jeffrey’s drawer, where you could have no business, unless it Was to see if she had taken his pistol with her?”

Miss Tuttle's head fell and a soft flush broke through tho pallor of her cheek.

“Because I was thinking of him. Because I was terrified for him. lie had left the house the morning before in a half-maddened condition and had not come back to sleep or eat since. I did not know what a man so outraged in every sacred feeling of and honor might bo tempted to do. I thought of suicide. I remembered the old house and how he had said, ‘I don't believe her. I don’t believe sho ever did so coldblooded an act, or that -any such dreadful machinery is in that house. I never shall believe it till I have seen and handled it myself. It is a nightmare, Cora. We are insane.' I thought of this, sirs, and when I went into her room, to change the place of the little note m the book, I went to his bureau drawer, not to

look for" the pistol—l did not think of that then—but to see if the keys of the Moore house were still there, t knew that they were kept in this drawer, for I had been present in tho room when they were brought in after tho wedding. I, had also been short-sighted enough to conclude that if they were gone it was ho who had taken them. They wore gone, and that was why I flew immediately from the hous© to llio old place in Waverley Avenue. I was concerned for Mr. Jeffrey! I feared to find him there, demented or dead." “But vou had no kav.*£

“No. Mr. Jeffrey had taken ono of them and my sister tho other. But ( the lack of a key or even of a light —for the missing candles were not taken by me # - s *could not keep m© at home after I twice convinced that he had gone to this dreadful hou>e. If I could not get in I could at least hammer at the door or rouse the neighbors. Something must be done. I did not thifik what; I merely flew.” "Bid you know that the house had two keys?" “•Not then." . "But your sister did?’ 4 >jt "■Probably." “And finding the only key, as you supposed, gone, you flew to the Moore house?" "Immediately." “And now what else?" “I found the door unlocked." “That was done by Mrs. Jeffrey?’* “Yes, but I did not think of her then." “And you went in?" "Yes; it was all dark, but I felt my way till I came to the gilded pillars." “Why did you go there?" “Because I felt—l knew—if ho were anywhere in that house he would be there! ’ ’ “And why did you stop?" Her voice rose above its usual quiet pitch in shrill protest: “You know! you know! I heard a pistol-shot from within, then a fall. I don’t remember anything else. They say I went wandering about town. Perhaps I did; it is all a blank to ine—everything is a blank till the policeman said that my sister was dead and I learned for the first time that tho shot I had in tho Moor© house- was not the signal of his death, but hers. Had I been myself j when at that library door," she add-

ed, after a moment of silence, “I would have rushed in at the sound of that .shot and have received my sister’s dying breath." *‘Coral’ f The cry was from Mr, Jeffrey, and seemed to be quite involuntary. “In tho weeks during which we have been kept from speaking together 1 have turned all these events my mind till I longed ! for any respite, even that of tho grave. But in all my thinking I nev- | er attributed this motive to your , visit here. Will you forgive me?” j There was a new tone in his voice, [ a tone which no woman could hear, without emotion. “You had other things to think ! of,” she said, and her lips trembled, j Never have I seen on the human face : a more beautiful expression than I j saw on hers at that moment; nor do jl think Mr. Jeffrey had either, for J as he marked it his own regard soft--1 ened almost to tenderness. | The major had no time for sentl- j j mentalities. Turning to Mr. Jeffrey, i he said: i ‘ ‘One more question before we send 1 for the letter which you say will j give full insight into your wife’s ! j crime. Do you remember what oc- j | currcd on the bridge at Georgetown j ! just before you cam© into town that night?" j He shook his head. I “Did you meet any oae there?’ l j “I do not know." i “Can you remember your state ol

1 mind?" j “I was facing the future. **- j “And what did you see in the future?" j “Death. Death for her and death for me! A crime was on her soul and she must die, and if she, then myself. 1 knew no other course. I could not summon the police, point out my bride of a fortnight and, ; with the declaration that she had been betrayed into killing a man, coldly deliver her up to justice. Neither could I live at her side knowing the guilty secret which j parted us; or live anywhere in the world under this same consciousness. Therefore, I meant to kill myself before another sun rose. But she was more deeply stricken with a sense of her own guilt than I realized. When j I returned homo lor the pistol which I was to end our common misery I j found that she had taken her punishi ment into her own hands. Thi» 1 strangely affected me, but when 3 ! found that, in doing this, she had 1 remembered that I should have to ! face the world after she was gone, ! and so left a few lines for me to i show in explanation of her act, n?y | revolt against her received a check which the reading of her letter only increased. kut the lines she thus wrote and left were not true lines. All her heart was mine, and if it was a wicked heart sho has atoned He paused, quite overcome. Others i amongst us were overcome, too, but ! only for a moment. The following 1 remark from the district attorney soon recalled us to the practical us* , pects of tho case. “You have accounted for many facts not hitherto understood. But there - is still a very important one i which neither yourself nor Misa Tut- j tie has yet made plain. There waa ; i & candle on tho scene of crime; it j was out when this officer arrived j here. There was also one found burn* i ing in the upstairs room, aside from , : tho one you professedly used in your, , i tour of inspection there. Whence 1 ■ came those candles? And did you* | wife blow out tho ono in th© library herself, previous to the shooting, or ■ was it blown out afterward and by j other lips?" “These aro questions which, as J } have already said, I have no means ■ ! of answering,” repeated Mr. Jefi frey. “Tho courage which brought - her hero may have led her to supply t herself with light; an*l hard as it ie> - to conceive, s-bfl may ©ven 1 avo j found nerve to bio©' cut tho light . before the lifted the pistol to hor r breast." Thu district Rltonvey and t*i« mt- - jor looked unconvinced, end tho lati tor, tuning toward Mis* Tuttle, . asked if Bi.a had any ntfnaik to make ; on tho subject. 1 But she could only repeat Ur. Jo!- [ frey’s statement. [ “These are questions I c£n not an* ■ 3 swer cither. I have said that I step- ! , ped at the library door, which means j ) that I saw nothing of what passed , t within." 3 Here the major asked wlitre Mrs. . Jeffrey’s letter was to be found. It 3 was Mr. Jeffrey who replied: 3 “Search in my room for a book | - with an outside cover of paper still i i on it. You will probably find it on , t my table. The inner cover is red. 1 Bring that book here. Our secret ii j 1 i hidden in it." ■t Durbin disappeared on this errand, l I followed him as far as the door,

but 1 did not think it necessary to state that I had seen this book lying on tho table when I paid *my second visit to Mr. Jeffrey’s room in company “with tho coroner. Tho thought that my hand had been within reach of this man’s secret so many weeks before was sufficiently humiliating without being shared. (To qe Continued.) 1202.