“His rolling Eies did never rest in place,      But walkte each where for feare of hid mischance,
     Holding a lattis still before his Pace,
     Through which he still did peep as forward he did pace.”
 
        Faerie Queene.
MISS LEAVENWORTH, who appeared to have lingered from a vague terror of everything and everybody in the house not under her immediate¹ observation, shrank from my side the moment she found herself left comparatively alone, and, retiring to a distant corner, gave herself up to grief. Turning my attention, therefore, in the direction of Mr. Gryce, I found that person busily engaged in counting his own fingers with a troubled expression upon his countenance², which may or may not have been the result of that arduous³ employment. But, at my approach, satisfied perhaps that he possessed⁴ no more than the requisite⁵ number, he dropped his hands and greeted me with a faint smile which was, considering all things, too suggestive to be pleasant.
 
“Well,” said I, taking my stand before him, “I cannot blame you. You had a right to do as you thought best; but how had you the heart? Was she not sufficiently⁶ compromised without your bringing out that wretched handkerchief, which she may or may not have dropped in that room, but whose presence there, soiled though it was with pistol grease, is certainly no proof that she herself was connected with this murder?”
 
“Mr. Raymond,” he returned, “I have been detailed⁷ as police officer and detective to look after this case, and I propose to do it.”
 
“Of course,” I hastened to reply. “I am the last man to wish you to shirk your duty; but you cannot have the temerity⁸ to declare that this young and tender creature can by any possibility be considered as at all likely to be implicated⁹ in a crime so monstrous¹⁰ and unnatural¹¹. The mere¹² assertion of another woman’s suspicions on the subject ought not——”
 
But here Mr. Gryce interrupted me. “You talk when your attention should be directed to more important matters. That other woman, as you are pleased to designate the fairest ornament¹³ of New York society, sits over there in tears; go and comfort her.”
 
Looking at him in amazement¹⁴, I hesitated to comply; but, seeing he was in earnest, crossed to Mary Leavenworth and sat down by her side. She was weeping, but in a slow, unconscious way, as if grief had been mastered by fear. The fear was too undisguised and the grief too natural for me to doubt the genuineness of either.
 
“Miss Leavenworth,” said I, “any attempt at consolation¹⁵ on the part of a stranger must seem at a time like this the most bitter of mockeries; but do try and consider that circumstantial evidence is not always absolute proof.”
 
Starting with surprise, she turned her eyes upon me with a slow, comprehensive gaze wonderful to see in orbs¹⁶ so tender and womanly.
 
“No,” she repeated; “circumstantial evidence is not absolute proof, but Eleanore does not know this. She is so intense; she cannot see but one thing at a time. She has been running her head into a noose¹⁷, and oh,—” Pausing, she clutched my arm with a passionate¹⁸ grasp: “Do you think there is any danger? Will they—” She could not go on.
 
“Miss Leavenworth,” I protested, with a warning look toward the detective, “what do you mean?”
 
Like a flash, her glance followed mine, an instant change taking place in her bearing.
 
“Your cousin may be intense,” I went on, as if nothing had occurred; “but I do not know to what you refer when you say she has been running her head into a noose.”
 
“I mean this,” she firmly returned: “that, wittingly or unwittingly, she has so parried and met the questions which have been put to her in this room that any one listening to her would give her the credit of knowing more than she ought to of this horrible affair. She acts”—Mary whispered, but not so low but that every word could be distinctly heard in all quarters of the room—“as if she were anxious to conceal¹⁹ something. But she is not; I am sure she is not. Eleanore and I are not good friends; but all the world can never make me believe she has any more knowledge of this murder than I have. Won’t somebody tell her, then—won’t you—that her manner is a mistake; that it is calculated to arouse suspicion; that it has already done so? And oh, don’t forget to add”—her voice sinking to a decided²⁰ whisper now—“what you have just repeated to me: that circumstantial evidence is not always absolute proof.”
 
I surveyed her with great astonishment²¹. What an actress this woman was!
 
“You request me to tell her this,” said I. “Wouldn’t it be better for you to speak to her yourself?”
 
“Eleanore and I hold little or no confidential²² communication,” she replied.
 
I could easily believe this, and yet I was puzzled. Indeed, there was something incomprehensible in her whole manner. Not knowing what else to say, I remarked, “That is unfortunate. She ought to be told that the straightforward²³ course is the best by all means.”
 
Mary Leavenworth only wept. “Oh, why has this awful trouble come to me, who have always been so happy before!”
 
“Perhaps for the very reason that you have always been so happy.”
 
“It was not enough for dear uncle to die in this horrible manner; but she, my own cousin, had to——”
 
I touched her arm, and the action seemed to recall her to herself. Stopping short, she bit her lip.
 
“Miss Leavenworth,” I whispered, “you should hope for the best. Besides, I honestly believe you to be disturbing yourself unnecessarily. If nothing fresh transpires²⁴, a mere prevarication²⁵ or so of your cousin’s will not suffice to injure her.”
 
I said this to see if she had any reason to doubt the future. I was amply rewarded.
 
“Anything fresh? How could there be anything fresh, when she is perfectly²⁶ innocent?”
 
Suddenly, a thought seemed to strike her. Wheeling round in her seat till her lovely, perfumed wrapper brushed my knee, she asked: “Why didn’t they ask me more questions? I could have told them Eleanore never left her room last night.”
 
“You could?” What was I to think of this woman?
 
“Yes; my room is nearer the head of the stairs than hers; if she had passed my door, I should have heard her, don’t you see?”
 
Ah, that was all.
 
“That does not follow,” I answered sadly. “Can you give no other reason?”
 
“I would say whatever was necessary,” she whispered.
 
I started back. Yes, this woman would lie now to save her cousin; had lied during the inquest. But then I felt grateful, and now I was simply horrified²⁷.
 
“Miss Leavenworth,” said I, “nothing can justify²⁸ one in violating the dictates²⁹ of his own conscience, not even the safety of one we do not altogether love.”
 
“No?” she returned; and her lip took a tremulous curve, the lovely bosom³⁰ heaved, and she softly looked away.
 
If............