With Leon, the Doctor's suggestion had worked differently, though none the less potently, despite the fact that the lad himself did not detect the symptoms, as did the girl. I think a woman's instincts are more attuned to the influences of the softer passions than are a man's. Certainly it has been often observed that she will recognize evidences of love, which man passes by unnoted and unheeded. If a girl is quicker to discover that she is loved, she also admits sooner that she is in love, though the admission be made only to herself. Thus, as we have seen, the Doctor's charm operated upon Agnes.
When Leon awoke that same morning, it was a sudden awakening from dreamless sleep. He recalled nothing of what had occurred during the previous night, nor had he even a suspicion that Agnes had been in his thoughts at all. Nevertheless he dressed himself with feverish haste, and, contrary to his usual custom, he left the house and went "for a walk," or so he explained his action to himself. Yet very soon he had reached the nearest station of the Suburban Elevated railroad, and was rapidly borne towards the city. During this trip he thought that he was going to town to obtain some chemicals which he needed in the laboratory, but, as there was no immediate necessity for them, he might have delayed their purchase for several days. The truth was he was answering a scarcely recognized inward restlessness, which demanded action of some sort. The cause of this change from his normal habit was that "something was the matter" with him, as he afterwards expressed it. But at the time he did not seek an explanation of his mood. He did procure the chemicals, but having done so, instead of returning home, he walked aimlessly for several blocks, until he stopped, seemingly without purpose, before a florist's shop. In an instant he had formulated a design, "on the spur of the moment" he told himself, though it was but the outcome of the secret agency which controlled his whole conduct that day. He went in and purchased some rose-buds, selecting red ones, and he wrote the card which Agnes found upon them. When he reached the signature he quickly scribbled "Leon," and then he paused. The thought within his mind was, "I have no other name." Therefore he did not continue. Thus it is evident that the single signature was not a familiarity, either intended or implied, but a response to that feeling, ever within his consciousness, that he had no right to call himself "Grath"! Upon this point he was ever sensitive. He hastened to the Judge's house and left the bouquet at the door. Then he returned to Villa Medjora with a lighter heart, and, man-like, he wrongly attributed this to the ozone with which the morning air was laden. As yet he did not suspect that he had fallen in love. I wonder why we use the term "fallen" in this connection, as though the acquirement of this chief passion of the human heart were a descent, rather than an elevation of the soul, as it surely is. For one must be on a higher plane, from that moment when he abandons himself as the first consideration of his thoughts, and begins to sacrifice his own desires, that he may add to the pleasures of another.
The first meeting between Agnes and Leon was one to which the former looked forward with anticipated embarrassment, while Leon scarcely thought of it at all, until the moment came. But when they did meet, all was reversed. The girl was self-possession personified, while Leon never before found words so tardily arriving to meet the demands of conversation. He went to his own room that night, and wondered what had come to him, that he should have been so disturbed in the presence of one for whom hitherto he had had rather a tolerance, because of her intellectuality, than any feeling of personal inferiority such as now occupied his thoughts. How could he be less than she? Was he not a man, while she—she was only a woman? Only a woman! Ah! Therein lies the mysterious secret of man's undoing; of his lifelong slavery, that the wants of woman shall be supplied. Yet women prate of women's rights, deploring the fact that they are less than those, who, analysis would show, are but their slaves.
From this time on, the bud of love in the hearts of these two young people advanced steadily towards maturity, and, before very long, Agnes was living in a secret elysium of her own creation. She no longer questioned her own feelings. She freely admitted to herself that all her future happiness depended upon obtaining and enjoying Leon's love. But she had come to be very sure of the fulfilment of her heart's desire, since Leon's visits became more and more frequent, and his books and science apparently lost their power to allure him away from her side. The situation was very entertaining to her, who was so fond of analyzing and studying the intricate problems of life; and, to such as she, what could be happier occupation than probing the heart of him to whom she had intrusted her own? She thought she saw so plainly that he loved her, that it puzzled her to tell why it was that as yet he himself was not aware of this fact. But at last the awakening came.
One pleasant afternoon in early summer, they were walking down Fifth Avenue, deeply engrossed in a discussion of another of Correlli's novels. Leon read novels in these days. He said he did so because it was so pleasant to discuss them with Agnes. Besides, he found that even in novels there might be something to learn. They were speaking of that excellent work,Thelma.
"I think that it is Correlli's most finished work," Agnes was saying; "but I am surprised at the similarity between it and Black's novel,The Princess of Thule."
"I have not yet read that. Wherein lies the resemblance?"
"In both books we find the story divided into three parts. First, the young Englishman seeking surcease from theennuiof fashionable society by a trip into the wild north country. Black sends his hero to Ireland, and Correlli allows hers to visit Norway. Each discovers the daughter of a descendant of old time kings; thePrincess of Thulein one, andThelma, the daughter of the Viking, in the other. The marriage ends the first part in each instance. In the second, we find the wedded couples in fashionable London society, and in each the girl finds that she is incongruous with her surroundings, and after bearing with it awhile, abandons the husband and returns to her old home, alone. The finale is the same in each, the husband seeking his runaway wife, and once more bringing her to his arms."
"Still, Miss Agnes,"—the formal "Miss Dudley" of the earlier days had been unconsciously abandoned—"what you have told is only a theme. Two artists may select the same landscape, and yet make totally different pictures."
"So they have in this instance, and I think that Correlli's management of the subject is far in advance of Black's, as beautiful and as touching as that master's story is. The death of the old Viking transcends anything inThe Princess of Thule. I do not at all disparage Correlli's work, only—well—it is hard to explain myself—but I would be better pleased had there been no likeness between the two."
"Yet I have no doubt that it is accidental, or, if there was any imitation, that it was made unconsciously. I believe that a writer may recall what he has read long before, and clothing the idea in his own words, may easily believe that it is entirely original with himself. There is one speech which Thelma makes, which I think most beautiful. You remember where the busy-body tries to make mischief by telling Thelma that her husband has transferred his love to another? Thelma replies, in substance, that if her husband has ceased to love her, it must be her own fault, and to illustrate her meaning she says that one plucks a rose, attracted by its fragrance, but when at last it is unconsciously thrown away, it is not because of fickleness, but rather because the rose having faded, has lost its power to charm, and so is cast aside. I think it was very touching for Thelma to make such a comparison, charging herself with the fault of losing the love of her husband."
"Yes! It is very pretty and poetical, but like poetry in general, it is not very sensible. I think that if a man has enjoyed the attractions of his wife in her youthful days he should cherish her the more when her charms have begun to fade. There is quite a difference between a rose, which in losing its outward beauty loses all, and a woman who, however homely in feature, may still possess a soul as beautiful as ever."
"Indeed, Miss Agnes, I indorse your sentiments. Such a man would be a brute. But Thelma's husband was not of that mould. He was true to her."
"Yes," said Agnes, smiling; "but Thelma's charms had not faded, nor even begun to decline. Her simile was inapt as applied to herself."
"Exactly! It was her heart, and not her head that gave birth to the beautiful sentiment. But I am sure that her husband would have loved her, however ugly she might have grown. I am sure that, in his place, I would have done so."
"You? Why, Mr. Grath, I thought that you told me you would never love any one?" She spoke the words with mischievous intent, and glanced at him archly, as she watched the effect of the speech.
Leon blushed and became confused. He was at a loss for words, but was relieved from the necessity of formulating an answer, by an occurrence which threatened to end in a tragedy. They were crossing a street at the moment, and so intent had they become upon their discourse, that they scarcely heard the warning cries of the excited people. A maddened horse was running away, and as at length Leon was aroused to the imminence of some danger, intuitively, rather than by any well-defined recognition of what threatened, he gave one hasty glance in the direction from which the animal was approaching, and with a rapid movement he encircled Agnes's waist with his arm, and drew her back, barely in time to escape from the horse and cab which rattled by.
It was in this instant that Leon's awakening came to him. In presence of a danger which threatened to deprive him forever of the girl beside him, he became suddenly aware of the fact that she was essential to his future happiness. At last he knew that he loved Agnes, and from his silence as he took her home, and the tenderness of his tones at parting, Agnes instantly knew that he had been aroused. She already began to look forward to their next meeting, and to wonder whether he would at once unbosom himself. She meant to help him as much as possible. Poor fellow! He would be very much abashed, she had no doubt. She would not be coy and tantalizing as so many girls are. She thought that such affectation would be beneath her. Her sense of justice forbade it. No! She would be very nice to him. She would show no signs of uneasiness as he floundered about seeking words. She would wait patiently for what he would say, and then, when he had said the words, why, then—well, then it would be time enough at that sweet moment to decide what to do. She would make him happy, at any rate. Of that she was determined. There should be no ambiguity about her reply. And in this mood the girl awaited the wooing.
Leon did not sleep at all that night, or if he slumbered, it was only to dream of Agnes. A hundred times he saw her mangled beneath the hoofs of that runaway horse, and suffered agonies in consequence; each time awakening with a start, to find beads of perspiration upon his brow. Again his vision was more pleasing, and in dream-land he imagined himself united to Agnes, and living happily ever afterward, as all proper books tell us that married lovers do. At last the day dawned, and with impatience he awaited that hour when with propriety he could call upon his sweetheart. He had a very good excuse, for by accident, (sic?) he had left his umbrella at the house the day before, and already it was growing cloudy. He might need it, and therefore of course he should go for it before it should actually begin to rain.
It was scarcely noon when Leon was announced to Agnes, who was in her morning room, sipping a cup of chocolate, and wondering when he would come. And now he was here. She expected to find himdistrait, and lacking in manner and speech, as she had seen him in the dawning of his passion. She was therefore wholly unprepared for what followed. If Leon had been bashful in her presence when he did not comprehend the cause of his disconcertion, having discovered that he loved Agnes, hesitation vanished. There was no circumlocution about his method at all. He was impulsive by nature, and, when a purpose was once well defined in his breast, he was impatient until he had put it into operation. Thus, without even alluding to the umbrella which he had ostensibly made the object of his visit, in accounting for it to himself, he addressed Agnes as follows:
"Miss Agnes, I have scarcely slept all night because of what might have happened through my carelessness yesterday."
"I do not understand you," said Agnes, and indeed she did not. She saw, however, that he intended to speak very directly, and was herself disconcerted.
"I mean the narrow escape which you had from being run over. I should have had my wits about me, and have prevented you from being in such danger."
"You saved my life!" she spoke softly, and drooped her head.
"I do not know. But for me it would not have been in need of saving. But if I did save your life, I know that I preserved what is dearest in all the world to myself. No! Let me speak, please! I have awakened from a dream. I have lived in dream-land for many weeks, and I have not understood. I have been near you, and I have been happy, but in my stupidity I did not see that it was because of your companionship that I was happy. In the moment when I was in danger of losing you, I realized how great the loss would be. Had you died, I must have died too. Because—because, Agnes, I, I, to whom the idea of love has always been repellent, I tell you that I love you. I love you with a species of worship which is enthralling. My whole being, my life, my soul is all yours. If you do not accept my love, then I have no further wish to live. Speak! Speak to me! I cannot wait longer. Tell me that you love me, or—or merely nod your head, and I will go!"
To such wooing as this how could woman answer? She had promised herself that she would not be ambiguous in speech, but now she learned that directness was demanded, and though her whole heart yearned for him, and she pitied the anguish which was born of his anxiety, she found it hard to say the words, which could not in honor be retracted. So, for a moment, she was silent, and he misunderstood. He thought that her hesitation was born of sympathy for him, and that she did not speak because she feared to cause him pain by refusing him. He felt a piercing throb of agony cross his heart, and his cheek paled. He reeled and would have fallen, for he had not seated himself, but he clutched the mantel for support. In a moment he mastered himself sufficiently to say hoarsely:
"I do not blame you! I am a nameless vagabond, and have been presumptuous! Good-bye!"
He turned away and was leaving the apartment swiftly, when his steps were arrested by a cry that thrilled him through with joy that was as painful as his sorrow had been.
"Leon! Leon! I love you!" Agnes cried, arresting his departure, and, as he turned and came again towards her, she was standing upright, and herself made the movement which gave him the privilege of embracing her.
By a singular chance, while they were thus enfolded in love's first rapturous clasp, and therefore oblivious of all the world except themselves, Judge Dudley, who had not yet left the house, entered the room. He saw them, but they did not observe him. Instantly he realized that the Doctor's scheme had borne fruition. He hesitated but for a moment, and then, stepping lightly, he went out of the room, and departed from the house.
How often do our joys and sorrows approach us hand in hand? There comes a moment fraught with bliss; the draught is at our lips, and we take one lingering sip of ecstasy, when on a sudden the brimming glass is dashed aside, and a cloud of misery enshrouds us round about! Thus it happened to Leon.
After an hour of joyous converse with Agnes, now "his Agnes," he started for home. Arriving there, he ran lightly up the steps, as if treading on air. He was whistling a merry tune, as he opened the door of his room, and closed it again having entered. His mind was filled with ecstatic anticipation of what the future had in store for him. It did not seem possible that anything could happen to disturb the sweet current of his thoughts. Yet a moment later he was arrested by the sound of a moan, an agonizing groan that filled his heart with dread. Again it was repeated, and immediately he knew that it was Lossy, who was suffering. He stooped and looked under the bed. There, indeed, was his fond animal friend, but around his mouth there was an ominous mass of foam. Had the poor beast gone mad? With a pang of anxiety, Leon drew the bedstead away from the wall, and went behind it to where Lossy had dragged himself. One glance into the dog's eyes turned up to meet his with all the loving intelligence of his customary greeting, and Leon dismissed the idea of rabies. Tenderly he lifted the dog and carried him to a table near the window, upon which he made a bed with pillows. He wiped the foam from his lips, and as he did so Lossy gently protruded his tongue and licked his master's hand. He also feebly wagged his tail, and endeavored to rise, but his exhausted condition prevented, and with a groan he dropped back and lay there crying piteously as a child might do. Leon could not comprehend the trouble. "What is the matter with him?" he asked himself. "He certainly was well this morning." As he looked, the foam began to gather again, as Lossy worked his lips in such a way as to eject the saliva from his mouth. Suddenly the explanation came to Leon. "Aconite!" he cried aloud. "Lossy has been poisoned! By whom? Perhaps he got into the laboratory. But how? How did he get at the poison? Oh! If I had only remained at home this morning!"
But regrets for the past are ever impotent, and Leon did not waste much time deploring what had gone before. He quickly procured some charcoal, and mixing it with milk administered it to his dog. The foaming ceased, and the beast seemed more comfortable, but it was questionable whether any permanent benefit would result from the use of the antidote.
While Leon sat watching his pet, with a growing pain gnawing at his heart as the conviction thrust itself upon him that the dog would die, his door opened and Madame Medjora appeared. Coming forward she looked at Lossy a moment, and then said:
"Do you think that the brute will die?"
"I am afraid that he will," mournfully answered Leon.
"Then why doesn't he die right off," she said. "It is several hours since I gave him the poison."
"You gave him the poison?" exclaimed Leon, springing up in wrath. "You poisoned Lossy, and you dare to tell me of it?"
"I dare to tell you? Yes! I dare do anything that woman can do. I am a descendant of soldiers. The brute ate one of my lace handkerchiefs, and I was glad of the excuse to be rid of him. There! You know the truth now, what will you do about it?"
As she uttered the words, Madame drew herself up to the full height of her commanding figure, and it would have been a daring man who would have attacked her. But when even feeble men are urged on by rage, they do deeds which braver men would hesitate to attempt. Utterly bereft of the restraining faculty of reason, by the information that his pet had been intentionally destroyed, Leon sprang forward, and would have seized the proud neck of Madame between his powerful hands, in an endeavor to carry out the desire to throttle her, which had forced itself upon his brain, but at that very instant Dr. Medjora came in, and, with a single glance, appreciating that the lad was beside himself, he rushed forward and held him firmly.
"What does this mean, Leon?" the Doctor demanded.
"She has poisoned Lossy! Let me go! I will kill her!"
Leon struggled fiercely to be free, but he found himself restrained by muscles which were like steel. The Doctor, however, was himself tremendously moved by what he heard. Addressing his wife he asked:
"Did you do that? Does he speak the truth?"
"I gave the beast poison. Yes! What of it?"
"Then you are a wicked fiend, Madame. Leave the room!"
"I will not!" replied Madame, with energy.
"Leave the room, or else I will release the boy. Go! go quickly whilst you may!" The Doctor's tones were imperative, and as the woman looked into the faces of the two men, her courage left her, and with a muttered imprecation she hurried from the room. As the door closed after her, the Doctor released Leon, but by a swift movement intercepted him as he endeavored to escape from the apartment, and turning the key in the lock he took it out, and thus prevented Leon from following his wife.
"Leon, my dear boy," said the Doctor, in tones expressive of the deepest sympathy, "let us see what we can do for Lossy. Perhaps it is not too late to save him, and it is better to do that, than to vent your anger upon a woman."
"A woman! Do not call her by that name. She is a contamination to her sex. Pardon my speaking so of your wife, Doctor, but—but—she has murdered Lossy. Murdered my dog, just as I called such a deed murder, in the little story which I showed to you that day in the woods. Do you remember?"
"Perfectly, but there can be no murder unless he dies. Let me see!"
"Yes! Yes! Save him! Use your wonderful knowledge to save this dumbbrute, as I have seen you pluck infants from the brink of the grave.Save my pet, my kind friend! Save him and I will do anything for you!Only save my Lossy!"
Poor Leon! This was the one love which had been his for so many years. How long he had taken comfort and pleasure in lavishing his affection upon his dog, who had learned to understand and obey his slightest nod.
Dr. Medjora examined Lossy carefully, and looked very grave. Presently he looked up, and placing one hand tenderly on Leon's head, he spoke softly:
"Be brave, my lad. Many such bitter moments as this must be borne through life. You must meet them like a courageous man."
"There is no hope?" sobbed Leon.
"None! He is dying now! See how faint his respirations are?"
With a cry of anguish Leon fell to his knees and gazed into his dog's eyes. He patted the head lying so limp and listless, and in response poor Lossy made one feeble effort. He gazed back into his master's face, and Leon ever afterward claimed that, in that last lingering look, he detected the living soul which was about to depart from his dying dog. Lossy painfully opened his mouth and protruded his tongue so that it barely touched Leon's hand in the old-time affectionate salutation, and the soul of the dog departed for that realm beyond the veil.
Leon leaned forward a moment, with his ear to the dog's heart, listening for an answering vibration, which would indicate that life yet lingered, but, receiving none, with a cry he fell forward to the floor and burst into uncontrollable sobs.
Doctor Medjora, wise physician that he was, made no futile effort to restrain these tears, knowing them to be the best outlet for natural grief. With a glance filled with tender love for hisprotégé, he unlocked the door and passed out unobserved, leaving Leon with all that remained of the Marquis of Lossy.
Early in the morning of the same day upon which Leon had offered himself to Agnes, Madame Medjora, reading herHerald, had at last found the long-awaited personal, "Come," the signal which she had arranged with the detective. Immediately after breakfast, therefore, she had started forth to learn what had been discovered.
Arrived at the agency, she was at once ushered into the presence ofMr. Barnes.
"Well," said she, scarcely waiting to be seated, "what have you found out?"
"I have learned everything," said Mr. Barnes, without any show of feeling.
"You have? Well, go on. Why don't you tell me?" Madame was very impatient, but the detective was in no hurry.
"I have known what I have learned for over a week, Madame Medjora," said he slowly, "and during that time I have hesitated to send for you. Even now, when you are here, I am not sure that I shall be doing the right thing to give you any information upon this subject, without first communicating with your husband."
"Ah! I see," said Madame, with a sneer, "you think he would pay you better than I. You are mistaken. I have plenty of money. My own money. What is your price?"
Mr. Barnes arose from his seat, in anger, but perfectly calm outwardly. As deferentially as though he were addressing a queen, he bowed and said:
"Madame, pardon me, but be kind enough to consider our interview at an end."
"What do you mean? You wish me to go?"
"Precisely, Madame. That is my wish."
"But you have not yet told me—ah! I see! I have made a mistake. But you will pardon me, Mr. Barnes. I did not know. How could I? I judged you by what I have heard of detectives. But you are different. I see that now, and I ask your forgiveness. You will forget my stupid words, will you?" She extended her hand cordially, and appeared truly regretful. Mr. Barnes yielded to her persuasive influence, and sat down again.
"Madame Medjora, I do not fully comprehend your motives in this matter. That is why I hesitate to speak." Mr. Barnes paused a moment. "Suppose you answer one or two questions. Will you?"
"Certainly! Ask me what you please."
"Very well, Madame! You married Dr. Medjora after his trial for murder. At that time he had little money. Am I right, then, in concluding that you married him because you loved him?"
"I loved him with my whole soul!"
"And now, do you love him as well now?" Mr. Barnes scrutinized her closely, lest her words should belie her real feeling. But her answer was sincere.
"I love him more now than I ever did. He is all the world to me!"
"Ah! I see!" Mr. Barnes communed with himself for a brief moment, then suddenly asked: "You have had no children, I believe?" Madame grew slightly paler, and answered in a low tone:
"None!"
"Just so! Now then, Madame, you of course recall the trial. It was more than hinted at that time that the Doctor had a child by his first wife. Did he ever tell you the truth about that?"
"Never!"
"Suppose that he had done so, and had confided to you the fact that rumor was right, and that there was a child. Understand I am only supposing a case! But if so, what would you have done?"
"I would have taken the little one, my husband's child, and I would have cherished it for its father's sake!"
This was a deliberate lie, but Madame uttered the words in tones of great sincerity. She was a very shrewd woman, and half-suspecting the object of the detective's questioning, did not hesitate to tell this falsehood in order to gain her own end. She succeeded, too, for after a few moments more, Mr. Barnes said:
"After all, Madame Medjora, I am merely a detective, and it is my business to take commissions such as you have intrusted to me, and work them out. I will make my report to you. With the letter which you gave me it was easy enough to make a start. I found the writer, Matilda Grath, and a particularly unprepossessing old hag she is. As is readily seen by her letter, she is ignorant of even common-school knowledge. She is simply a rough product of her surroundings, and is as untutored as when she was born. But she had a younger sister, Margaret, who was very different. This Margaret was a very attractive girl, and having some ambition, attended school until she was fairly well educated. This her elder sisters called "putting on airs" and "flyin' in the face of the Lord, tryin' to know more 'n her elders." Margaret also had numerous beaux, and this was another source of irritation to her sisters. Finally there came a young man to the neighborhood, and in the language of the people thereabout, Margaret "set her cap" for him. However, he did not marry her, but after he had left the vicinity, Margaret went to Boston, where she remained several months. When she returned she brought a baby back with her. That baby was Leon."
"Then he was her child?"
"The gossips said so, but there is no doubt in my mind that he was not. He was the child of the man to whom she had given her heart, but the mother was his lawful wife."
"Then why was the baby given to Margaret Grath?"
"Because the mother died, and the father was tried for murdering her!"
"My God! You mean that——"
"I mean that Leon's father is your husband, Dr. Medjora!"
"Impossible!" Madame wished to disbelieve exactly what she had always suspected to be the truth.
"What I tell you is fact. I never do anything by halves. In the first place I had a hint of the truth from your own suspicions. You of course had little to go on, but you loved your husband, and when a jealous eye watches the relation between the beloved one and another, it will see much. I had no doubt that you had taken your idea from your observation of the love which the Doctor bestowed upon hisprotégé. Next I noted the coincidence of the dates. Margaret Grath appeared with the child a very few months prior to the death of Mabel Sloane. But I obtained substantial proofs."
"What are they?"
"Matilda Grath is an avaricious old woman. Her letter was in the nature of blackmail. She did not actually know that the Doctor is the boy's father, but she adopted that idea merely from the fact that he appeared upon the scene as soon as the guardian died. Then at the auction, it appears that there was a squabble over the possession of a collie dog, and the Doctor settled the dispute by purchasing the animal, and presenting it to Leon."
"Oh! He did that?" Madame was inwardly incensed, but she quickly suppressed any expression of her emotion.
"Yes! Old Miss Grath thought this was 'queer.' Then when she subsequently learned, what she did not at first know, that Leon had been taken into the Doctor's home, her doubts vanished. This accounts for her allusion to the Doctor in the letter, and the reason why she did not write again, was that she had no proof with which to substantiate her suspicions. I instituted a search, however, and unearthed a package of old letters in a worm eaten writing-desk, upon which no bid had been offered at the auction, so that it had been thrown into the waste bin in the barn. Among these I found two, which were from the Doctor, alluding to the boy, and also a photograph of himself sent at the earnest solicitation of Margaret Grath, as one letter explains. I suppose he thought that this was the least repayment he could make for a lifelong sacrifice."
"You have those letters?" asked Madame, with some anxiety.
"I have them here," answered the detective. "Do you wish them?"
"I do!"
"I will give them to you upon one condition,—that you give them to your husband. They are perhaps more valuable to Leon, as the only evidence which would prove that he is the Doctor's son. But as the Doctor has taken him into his house, it is evident that he means to provide for him."
"I will accept your terms. My husband shall know what you have told me, and I will give him the letters to-night."
"With that understanding, I give them into your custody."
He handed a packet to Madame, who quickly placed it in her hand-satchel. Then she arose to depart. Handing him a check already signed she said:
"Please fill in the amount of my indebtedness to you."
Mr. Barnes took the check, wrote "five hundred dollars" on the proper line, and handed it back to Madame Medjora.
"Will that be satisfactory?" he asked.
"Quite!" she answered shortly, and left the office. Having accomplished her purpose she had no further need to assume a friendliness which she did not feel.
All the way home this woman's heart grew more and more bitter because of the jealous thoughts that rankled in her breast. Her love for her husband was of that selfish sort, that exacted all for herself. She wished not only to be first in his affections, but she desired to be second, third, and last. He must not love any other than herself, unless indeed it might have been a child of hers. Having been denied that boon, she could not bear to think that he had been the father of a child not hers. She hated that dead mother, and lacking opportunity to vent her spite in that direction, she transferred her venom to her offspring. She had never liked Leon, but now she despised him utterly. She thought of Lossy, the dog which her husband had bought and presented to Leon. That the Doctor should have been so solicitous for the lad, galled her. The dog had always been an object upon which she would vent her spite when it could not be known, but now she would give some open evidence of her displeasure.
As she entered the hallway at home, imagine her delight to see Lossy, poor dog, sitting down idly tearing a fine lace handkerchief with his teeth. It seemed to her that Providence offered her an excuse for what she contemplated. She called the dog to her, and the faithful, unsuspecting creature followed her up the stairs to his doom. She went into the laboratory, knowing that both the Doctor and Leon were out, and readily found a bottle marked "Aconite."
She sat upon a low bench and called Lossy. The confiding beast went to her, and, raising himself, planted his forepaws in her lap. He would have kissed her face, but she prevented him. Grasping his jaws in her powerful hands she forced them open, and poured the entire contents of the bottle into his mouth, holding his jaws apart until he was forced to swallow the liquid. Then she released him, and he ran to that asylum of refuge and safety, his master's room. Alas, that master was away, courting! Thus Lossy's fate was sealed!
Madame awaited for Leon's return, anxious to gloat over his grief at the death of his pet, and it was for this, and to carry out another design, that she went to his room while he was ministering to his dog. Before she could fulfil her other project her husband, having returned home, interrupted them, having been attracted by the noise from Leon's room.
When she left them Madame went to her own apartment, and after the death of the dog, Dr. Medjora followed her there, determined to discover the whole truth. As he entered she arose to meet him, facing him with an undaunted air.
"Cora," demanded the Doctor, "how dared you commit such a hideous crime? Why did you poison that dog?"
"Because it was my pleasure to do so!"
"Your pleasure to deprive a poor dumb brute of life? You should be ashamed to make such a confession!"
"I am not the only one who might make confessions!"
"What do you mean?" The Doctor instantly realized that a covert threat lay hidden in her words.
"You have deceived me," cried his wife, at last giving full play to her anger. "For years you have lied to me. But at last I know everything. I know who Leon is!"
"Do you?" The man was exasperatingly calm. He folded his arms and, gazing coldly upon the wrathful woman, added, "What is it that you think you know?"
"I do not think! I tell you I know! You brought him here, calling him a poor boy whom you wished to befriend. That was a lie! He is your own child!"
"How do you know that?"
"I hired a detective. He found out the whole hideous truth. I have your letters for proof, so you need not attempt denial."
"So you have found letters? Are they genuine? Let me see them?"
"I am not such a fool as that. I have hidden them where you cannot find them. I have a better use for them than to give them to you!"
"Indeed, and may I ask what use you intend to make of them?"
"I mean to take them to Judge Dudley, and to his daughter Agnes! Ha!That idea does not please you, does it?"
"With what purpose would you show them the letters?"
"I know what you are aiming at! I am not the fool that you think! I have studied you, and watched you all these years, and I understand you very well. You wish Leon and Agnes to be married?"
"I do! What of it?"
"What of it? It shall never be! That shall be my vengeance for your long deception. I will prevent that marriage if it cost me my life!"
"If you dare to interfere with my plans it may cost you your life!" The words were said in threatening tones, which at any other time would have cowed Madame, but now she had thrown aside her mask, and could not be stayed from her purpose. She answered haughtily, and with a tantalizing sneer:
"No! No! My fine Doctor! You cannot rid yourself of me, as you did ofMabel Sloane! I will not drink your poison!"
"Woman! Beware!" He grasped her wrists, but with a wrench she freed herself, and stepping back spoke wildly on:
"Yes! You can strangle me perhaps! You are strong, and I am only a woman. But, before I die, I will frustrate your grand scheme to marry this miserable son of yours to an aristocrat. When I tell Judge Dudley that the boy is yours, he will hesitate to admit the son of a murderer into his family. For though he obtained your acquittal, and though he has been your friend for so many years, mark me, he will decline an alliance with one who was so near the gallows!"
She paused to note the effect of her words, a slight fear entering her heart, as she thought that perhaps she had said too much. To her amazement, her husband, without answering a single word, turned and left the room.
Leon lay beside his dog so long, that at last the twilight closed in, and slowly the light of day faded until darkness surrounded him.
He heard the strokes upon the Japanese bronze which summoned him to dinner, but he did not heed. It seemed to him that he would never care to eat again. Through the weary hours of the night Leon was struggling against suggestion. It will be remembered that, in his little story, he likened the killing of a dog to murder. Therefore in his opinion the killing of Lossy, was a murderous act; and thus the thought of murder occupied his mind. He considered Madame a self-confessed criminal, and, as such, justice demanded that she should be punished. But the justice of man did not include her act within the statutes of the criminal code. She had killed Lossy, but, were he to demand her punishment at the hands of the law, the law's representatives would laugh at him. But punished she should be, of that he was already determined.
If it seem to you that Leon over-estimated the wrong which had been done to him, then one of two things is true. Either you have never loved and been loved by a dog, or else you forget that the love lavished upon him by Lossy was all the affection which Leon had enjoyed for years. To the lad, his collie was his dearest friend. In the grief for his death he had even forgotten for the time his human love, Agnes. Thus it was that the idea of meting out justice against Madame himself, having once entered his mind, took a firm hold upon him.
How should he accomplish it? What should her punishment be? What is the usual punishment of murder? Death! A chill passed over him at the thought. Yet was not Lossy's life as dear to him, as Madame Medjora's was to her? Then why should not she lose her life in payment for the crime which she had committed, her victim being a defenceless and confiding dog? Leon pictured to himself how she had accomplished the deed. He saw, in his mind, the poor creature going to her, and thus placing himself within her power. The thought maddened him, and setting his teeth together he muttered audibly:
"She shall die!"
Then his brain sought some way to compass such an end with safety to himself, and before long he had concocted a scheme of devilish ingenuity. His knowledge of chemistry warned him that poisons could be traced in the tissues of the body after death, and that such means would be suicidal.
"But suppose she were to die a natural death? Then, not even suspicion would be aroused."
That was the idea. He must convey to her the germs of some deadly disease from which she would be apt to die. Then thepost-mortemwould show nothing out of the common. There would be no way to detect how the disease had been contracted. The attending physician would certify that the death was due to a known disease, and an autopsy, if held, would substantiate his statements.
What disease should he choose? Asiatic cholera? He had some pure cultures in a tube in the laboratory. But no! That would not serve his purpose. Cholera is such an uncommon and dangerous malady, that the Board of Health would strictly investigate a sporadic case. It might not be difficult to trace the fact that he had obtained the germs from the European laboratory whence they had been sent to Dr. Medjora for experimental purposes. It would be safer to select some disease of frequent occurrence. He had the germs of diphtheria also, in the form of a pure culture. Should he use them? It would not be sure that the woman would die, but at any rate she might, and surely she would suffer. Yes! He would cause her to contract diphtheria. But how to proceed? Ah! He would use chloroform upon her in her natural sleep, and thus obtain the opportunity for his inoculation.
And so the idea grew, and his plans were arranged and perfected hour after hour, until at last midnight had arrived. Stealthily he left his room and went towards the Doctor's study. Arrived there, he was about to cross and enter the laboratory, when his attention was attracted by a line of light under the door. Some one was evidently in the laboratory. Leon slipped behind a curtain and waited. The minutes passed tediously, but at last the door opened, and there appeared Dr. Medjora, only partly dressed, his feet slippered. In one hand he carried a night lamp, and in the other he held a bottle and a test tube. Of this Leon was certain. Closing the door of the laboratory, the Doctor crossed the study and went out into the hall. Leon stole after him, and saw him start up the stairs. He watched until, as the Doctor ascended, the light gradually disappeared. Then he heard footsteps overhead, and knew that the Doctor had gone to his own room. Madame slept at the other end of the dwelling.
"Some experiment which he is studying out," muttered Leon, and proceeded with his own grim purpose. He went into the laboratory, and lighted a lamp which was on the bench. He searched the closet where the drugs were kept, but the chloroform bottle was missing. He turned to the rack where he had left the tube in which the diphtheria bacillus had been cultivated, but that also could not be found.
In a moment, realizing that the means of committing the contemplated crime had in some mysterious way been taken from him, he awoke from the delirium of his thoughts, which had been brought on by his grief at the death of his dog, and he fervently thanked the fortune which had saved him from committing murder. Like a culprit, he returned stealthily to his room, head down, and there he sat at the window, looking out at the stars, grateful that he could do so, free from that dread secret which might have been his. He was saved!
On the next morning, however, Leon was horrified to hear that Madame had been suddenly taken ill, and that the malady was diphtheria, in its most virulent form. He could not understand it, but he was more than glad that his own conscience was free from stain.
Two days later, Madame Medjora succumbed to the disease, which is often fatal when it attacks one of her age; and so she went to her long account, with her sins upon her head.
Mr. Barnes was sitting in his office, looking listlessly over his morning paper, when his eye suddenly met a headline announcing the death of Madame Medjora. Instantly his interest was aroused, and he read the account with avidity until he reached the statement that the disease of which Madame had died was diphtheria. Then he put his paper down upon his desk, slapped his hand upon it by way of emphasis, and ejaculated:
"Foul play, or my name is not Barnes!"
He remained still for a few moments, thinking deeply. Then he resumed his reading. When he had reached the end, he started up, gave a few hurried instructions to his assistant, and went out. He visited the Academy of Medicine and obtained permission to enter the library, where he occupied himself for a full hour, making a few memoranda from various books. Next he proceeded in the direction of Villa Medjora, and arriving there he asked to see Leon Grath.
Leon entered the reception-room in some surprise, and seeing Mr.Barnes he asked:
"Is your errand of importance? We have death in the house."
"It is in connection with the death of Madame Medjora that I have called to see you, Mr. Grath. I am a detective!"
The effect of this announcement was electrical. Leon turned deathly pale, and dropped into a seat, staring speechless at his visitor. Mr. Barnes also chose to remain silent, until at last Leon stammered forth:
"Why do you wish to see me?"
"Because I believe that you can throw some light upon this mysterious subject."
"Mysterious subject? Where is the mystery? The cause of Madame's death is clearly known!"
"You mean that she died of diphtheria. Yes, that is a fact. But how did she contract that disease? Is that clearly known? Can you throw any light upon that phase of the question?"
Leon controlled his agitation with great difficulty. He had thought, when urged on by that terrible temptation which he had resisted, that a death such as this would arouse no suspicion. Yet here, while the corpse was yet in the house, a detective was asking most horribly suggestive questions. Questions which had haunted him by day and by night, ever since that visit to the laboratory.
"I am not a physician," at length he murmured. "I am merely a student."
"Exactly! You are a student in the laboratory of Dr. Medjora. You can supply the information which I seek. Do you know whether, three days ago, there was a culture of the bacillus of diphtheria in the Doctor's laboratory?"
"Why do you ask? What do you suspect?"
Leon was utterly unnerved, and stammered in his utterance. He made a tremendous effort, in his endeavor to prevent his teeth from chattering, and barely succeeded. Indeed, his manner was so perturbed that for an instant Mr. Barnes suspected that he was guilty of some connection with Madame's death. A second later he guessed the truth, that Leon's suspicion's were identical with his own.
"What I think," said Mr. Barnes, "is not to the point. My question is a simple one. Will you reply to it?"
"Well, yes! We did have such a culture tube in the laboratory."
"Did have," said the shrewd detective, quickly. "Then it is not there now. Where is it?"
"I do not know. I think the Doctor took it away. Of course he used it in some harmless experiment, or—or—or—or for making slides for the microscope."
"You mean that you surmise this. All you know is that Doctor Medjora took the tube out of the laboratory. Am I not right? Now when did that occur? You saw him take it, did you not?"
Leon stared helplessly at his tormentor for a moment, great beads of perspiration standing on his brow. Then starting to his feet he exclaimed:
"I will not answer your questions! I have said too much! You shall not make me talk any more," and with a mad rush he darted from the room, and disappeared upstairs.
Mr. Barnes made no effort to arrest his flight. Indeed he sympathized with the lad, well comprehending the mental torture from which he suffered. He pondered over the situation awhile, and finally appeared to have decided upon a plan of action. He took a card from his case, and wrote upon it these words:
"Mr. Barnes, detective, would like to see Dr. Medjora, concerning the coincidence of the death of his two wives. This matter is pressing, and delay useless."
This he placed in an envelope which he took from a desk that stood open, and then he touched a gong, which summoned a servant.
"Hand this to Dr. Medjora, immediately. I will await a reply here."
Ten minutes elapsed, and then the servant returned, and bidding Mr. Barnes follow him, led the way to the laboratory. Here Dr. Medjora received the detective, as though he were a most welcome visitor.
"So, Mr. Barnes," said the Doctor, opening the conversation, "you have attained your ambition, and are now a full-fledged detective. I have read something of your achievements, and have watched your progress with some interest. I congratulate you upon your success."
"Dr. Medjora," said the detective, with much dignity, "the object of my visit is so serious that I cannot accept flattery. We will proceed to business, if you please."
"As you choose! Let me see! From your card, I judge that you fancy that there is some suspicious circumstance about my late wife's death. You speak of a coincidence which connects hers with that of my first wife. What is it?"
"Both died of diphtheria," said Mr. Barnes, impressively.
"You are entirely mistaken, sir," said the Doctor, with a touch of anger. "My first wife, Mabel, died of morphine, self-administered, and fatal because of other organic disease from which she suffered. She did not die of diphtheria."
"A physician so testified, and signed a death certificate to that effect."
"He did, but he was mistaken. Physicians are mortal as other men are, and as liable to errors of judgment. I repeat, Mabel died of poison."
"Well, we will pass that for a moment. Your last wife died of diphtheria, and she did not contract that disease legitimately."
"No? You interest me. Pray then how did she contract it?"
"By inoculation with the bacillus of diphtheria, Dr. Medjora, and you administered this new form of poison, which an autopsy does not disclose."
"Quite an ingenious theory, Mr. Barnes, and I admire your skill in evolving it. It shows what an enterprising detective you are. You think that if you make a discovery of this nature, you will cover yourself with glory. Only you are wrong. I did not do what you charge. Why should I wish to kill my wife?"
"Because she had discovered your secret!"
"What secret?"
"That Leon is the child of Mabel Sloane and yourself!"
"Mabel Medjora, you mean," said the Doctor, sternly. "When a woman marries, she assumes her husband's name."
The Doctor was apparently very jealous of the good name of his first wife. Mr. Barnes was amazed at this exhibition of feeling. The Doctor continued, as though soliloquizing:
"So you are the detective that my wife engaged? Strange fatality! Very strange!" He walked up and down the room a few times, and then confronted the detective.
"Mr. Barnes," said he, "it is evident that you and I must have a serious and uninterrupted conversation. Leon may come in here at any moment. Will you accompany me to a room below, where we will be safe from intrusion?"
"Certainly!"
Dr. Medjora raised the trap-door, which revealed the secret stairway, and started down. Mr. Barnes arose to follow him, saying:
"You are taking me to some secret apartment, Doctor. I will go with you, but this trap must be left open, and I warn you that I am armed."
"You need no weapons, Mr. Barnes. No danger will threaten you. My purpose in taking you below is entirely different from what you have in your mind."
At the foot of the stairway he turned aside from the crypt of Æsculapius, and led the way into the secret chamber in which the hypnotic suggestion of love had been put into operation. At this time it appeared simply as an ordinary room, the staging and curtains having been removed.
"Be seated, Mr. Barnes," said the Doctor, "and listen to me. You are laboring under a misapprehension, or else you have not told me all that you know. A most curious suspicion has been aroused in your mind. Upon what facts is it based?"
"Perhaps it will be best for me to explain. I must again refer to the fact that your first wife was supposed to have died of diphtheria. Your second wife falls a victim to the same malady. It is uncommon in adults. This of itself might be but a coincidence. But when I know that, on a given day, I revealed to your wife the truth about Leon, which you had carefully hidden from her for so many years, and when I subsequently discover that Madame was attacked by this disease on the very night following her visit to my office, suspicion was inevitable."
"As you insist upon going back to that old case, let me ask you how you can suppose that I induced the disease at that time?"
"Just as you have done now. By using the diphtheria bacillus."
"You forget, or you do not know, that the bacillus of diphtheria was not discovered until Klebs found it in 1883, and the fact was not known until Löffler published it in 1884. Now my wife died in 1873."
"True, these scientists made their discoveries at the time which you name, but I feel certain that you had anticipated them. You are counted the most skilful man of the day, and I believe that you know more than has been learned by others."
"Your compliment is a doubtful one. But I will not dispute with you. I will grant, for the sake of argument, that your suspicion is natural. You cannot proceed against me merely upon suspicion. At least you should not do so."
"My suspicion is shared by another, whose mind it has entered by a different channel."
"Who is this other?"
"Your son!"
"What do you say? Leon suspects that I have committed a crime? This is terrible! But why? Why, in the name of heaven, should he harbor such a thought against me?" The Doctor was unusually excited.
"He saw you take the culture tube, containing the bacillus, out of the laboratory."
"You say Leon saw me take a culture tube from the laboratory?" The Doctor spoke the words separately, with a pause between each, as though stung by the thought which they conveyed. Mr. Barnes merely nodded assent.
"Then the end is at hand!" muttered the Doctor, softly. "All is ready for the final experiment!" Mr. Barnes did not comprehend the meaning of what he heard, but, as the Doctor walked about the room, back and forth, like a caged animal, seemingly oblivious of the fact that he was not alone, the detective thought it wise to observe him closely lest he might attack him unawares.
Presently the Doctor stopped before the detective, and thus addressed him, in calm tones:
"Mr. Barnes, you are shrewd and you are clever. You have guessed a part of the truth, and I have decided to tell you everything."
"I warn you," said Mr. Barnes, quickly, "that what you say will be used against you."
"I will take that risk!" The Doctor smiled, and an expression akin to weariness passed over his countenance. "You have said that, in your belief, as early as 1873, I knew of the bacillus of diphtheria, and that I inoculated my wife with it. You are right, but, nevertheless, you are mistaken when you say that she died from that malady. I must go further back, and tell you that the main source of my knowledge has been some very ancient hieroglyphical writings, which recorded what was known upon the subject by the priests of centuries ago. Much that is novel to-day, was very well understood in those times. The germ theory of disease was thoroughly worked out to a point far in advance of what has yet been accomplished in this era. The study required to translate and comprehend the cabalistic and hieroglyphical records has been very great, and it was essential that I should test each step experimentally. About the time of Mabel's death I had discovered the germ of diphtheria, but I found that my experiments with the lower animals were very unsatisfactory, owing to the fact that it does not affect them and human beings in a precisely similar manner. I therefore risked inoculating my wife."
"That was a hideous thing to do," ventured Mr. Barnes.
"From your standpoint, perhaps you are right. But I am a unique man, occupying a unique position in the world. To me alone was it given to resurrect the buried wisdom of the past. Even if I had known that the experiment might be attended by the death of my wife, whom I loved dearer than myself, I still would not have been deterred. Science transcended everything in my mind. Death must come to us all, and a few years difference in the time of its arrival is surely immaterial, and not to be weighed against the progress of scientific research. But I was confident that the disease, thus transmitted, would not prove fatal. That is, I was sure that I could effect a cure."
"But it seems that you did not do so. The woman died."
"She died from poison. I carefully attended her during her attack of diphtheria, until an unlooked-for accident occurred. I became ill myself. It was not an ailment of any consequence, but I felt that it would be safer to call in assistance, and I placed the case in the hands of Dr. Fisher. He afterwards stupidly called in Dr. Meredith. However, despite their old fogy methods, she made a good rally and was on the safe side of the crisis, when that hypodermic case was left temptingly within her reach. I think now that she shammed sleep, in order to distract my attention from her. Morphinehabituésare very cunning in obtaining their coveted drug. However that may be, I was suddenly aroused to the fact that there was a movement in the bed, and turning my head, I saw her pushing the needle of the syringe under her flesh. I sprang up and hastened to her, but she had made the injection, and dropped back to the pillows, when I reached her. She had not withdrawn the needle, and I was in the act of doing that, when the nurse entered."
"Then you adhere to the story which you told upon the stand?"
"Certainly! It is the truth!"
"But, Doctor," said Mr. Barnes, "you have not, even yet, proven that she did not die of diphtheria."
"She did not! I tell you it was the morphine that deprived her of life. I know it! She died of poison! There is no question about that!"
Thus the Doctor, though admitting that he had produced the diphtheria, persistently asseverated that Mabel had not succumbed to its influence. Thus is explained his not advancing the theory of diphtheria as a cause of death, when arranging his defence, at the trial. To have escaped the gallows in that manner, would have been to burden his conscience with the murder of the woman whom he loved, for if she died of diphtheria, while he must have escaped conviction by the jury, he would know within his own heart that it was his hand that deprived her of life. Mr. Barnes replied:
"But there is a question in this last case. Madame died of diphtheria, and since you admit that you can produce it by inoculation, what am I to believe?"
"I care not what you believe," said the Doctor, sharply, "so long as you can prove nothing."
"Well, then, since you do not care," said the detective, nettled, "let me tell you that I believe you deliberately planned to kill your last wife. What is more, I do not doubt that a jury would adopt my views."
"In that you are utterly mistaken. Were I considering myself alone, I would permit you to accuse me, feeling perfectly confident that I would be in no danger."
"You are a bold man!"
"Not at all! Where there is no danger, there can be no special bravery. Why, my dear Mr. Barnes, you have no case at all against me. In your own mind you think that there is ample proof, but much of what you know could not be offered to a jury. You are aware of the fact that the diphtheria bacillus was known to me prior to my first wife's death, and so you trace a connection between the two cases. But my lawyer would merely show that the discovery was made ten years after Mabel died, and any further allusion to my first trial would be ruled out. I know enough about law, to know that previous crimes, or accusations of crime, cannot be cited unless they form a part of a system, and as your idea of induced diphtheria could not be substantiated, all of that part of your evidence would be irrelevant."
"That would be a question for the presiding judge to decide."
"If he decide other than as I have stated, we would get a new trial on appeal. The law is specific, and the point is covered by endless precedents. Now then, obliged to confine yourself to positive evidence in the present case, what could you do? You think you could show a motive, but a motive may exist and not be followed by a crime, and your motive is weak besides. Next, you declare that I had the knowledge and the opportunity. I might have both, and still refrain from a murder. But you say that the tube containing the bacillus was missing from my laboratory on that very night, and that my son, Leon, saw me take it. I think that you have formed a rash conclusion on this point, because I doubt that Leon has told you any such thing. However, granting that it is true, and even that the boy would so testify, I am sure that he would admit under cross-examination that it is a common habit for me to take such tubes to my room to make slides for the microscope." The detective recalled that Leon had made this same explanation, and he realized that the Doctor had made a valuable point in his own defence. Dr. Medjora continued: "We would produce the slides which I did actually make, and, being warned by you so early, it would be easy for me to remain in your company until I could send for an expert to examine the slides, so that at the trial he would be able to testify, that from the condition of the balsam he could swear that they had been very recently made. Thus, by admitting all of the damaging parts of your evidence, and then explaining them so that they become consistent with the hypothesis of innocence, we would feel safe. You would still be at the very beginning of your case. It would devolve upon you to show that I not only made the slides, but that I likewise used a part of the contents of that tube to inoculate my wife. You would need to show how such an act were possible. You have no witness who saw me commit the deed which you charge, have you?"
"No," said Mr. Barnes, reluctantly. "But I still think that the circumstantial evidence is sufficient." Mr. Barnes felt sure that this man was guilty, and however skilfully his defence was planned he was reluctant to yield.
"It is sufficient!" said Dr. Medjora, "Not to convict me at a trial by jury, but to raise a doubt of my innocence in the minds of those, whose good will I am determined not to forfeit. Therefore I will not submit to a trial."
"How will you escape? I intend to arrest you!"
"You intend to arrest me, but your intention will not be carried into effect. I mean to place myself beyond the reach of the law."
"You do not contemplate suicide?" asked Mr. Barnes, alarmed.
"Not at all! There is no object in such an act, and good reason why I should not resort to it. You do not comprehend my position, and I must explain it to you, because I must depend upon you for assistance."
"You expect assistance from me?" Mr. Barnes was puzzled.
"Certainly, and you will grant it. I must tell you that for many years I have planned a scheme which is now on the verge of accomplishment. I wish my son Leon to marry Agnes Dudley. I had some difficulty to obtain my friend's consent, but since he has discovered that the young people love one another, he has acquiesced. Only to-day he told me this. But if he was reluctant, when Leon's parentage was unknown, he would be more so, were he to learn that I am his father."
"But I thought that Judge Dudley was your warm friend?"
"He is! But even strong friendships have a limitation, beyond which they must not be tried. Judge Dudley would strenuously argue that I am innocent of the old charge. His friendship for me, and his pride at winning his first great case, would prompt him thus. But were he to hear your suspicions, like you, he would believe that both women died similarly, and he would not only be apt to accept your theory of Madame's death, but he might also come to think that I had murdered Mabel also."
"So! You admit there is some potency in my charge, after all."
"You would fail with a jury, but you would convince Judge Dudley, and that would forever prevent him from consenting to this marriage. He would move heaven and earth to stop his daughter from marrying the son of one whom he believed to be a murderer. Thus you see the disaster that threatens, if you pursue your course. You would blast the lives of two people, who love one another."
"Duty cannot consider sentiment!" said Mr. Barnes, though in his heart he was already sorry that he suspected, and that he had followed up his suspicion.
"Leon now troubles himself because he does not known who his father is," continued the Doctor, without noticing what Mr. Barnes had said. "It would be far worse for him to know his father, and then believe him to be a murderer, and even that he had himself supplied a clue against him. It would be too horrible! Agnes too would suffer. She might abandon her love, from a sense of duty to her father, but her heart would be broken, and all the bright promises of her youth crushed. No! No! It must not, it shall not be!" The Doctor became excited towards the end, and Mr. Barnes was startled at his manner.
"What will you do?" he asked, feeling constrained to say something.
"Place myself beyond the reach of the law, as I said before. But not by suicide, as you suggested. Do you not see that my only reason for avoiding the trial which would follow your accusation is, that I do not wish the knowledge to reach those three persons, in whose welfare my whole heart is centred? Suicide would be a confession of guilt. It is the hackneyed refuge of the detected criminal who lacks brains, and of the story writer, who, having made his villain an interesting character, spares the feelings of his readers by not sending him to prison, or to the gallows. Nor do I contemplate flight, because the effect would be the same."
"Then how do you purpose evading the law?" Mr. Barnes was intensely interested, and curious to know the plans of this singularly resourceful man.
"The law cannot reach the insane, I believe," said the Doctor, calmly.
"You surely do not suppose that you can deceive the experts by shamming madness?" asked Mr. Barnes, contemptuously. "We are too advanced in science, in these days, to be baffled long by malingerers."