Carlos Conrad and Leonard Lester remained for a few moments after Haywood’s departure in conversation with Florence Darley. As their remarks were commonplace, we will take this opportunity to give a brief sketch of the young lady.

She was an orphan whom Colonel Conrad had adopted ten years before the opening of our story. He had educated her, lavished on her all the tender love and care of a heart that had no other object on which to bestow its affections, and made her all that a daughter could be to him. She had paid him by tender devotion and a deep regard.

In person she was a beautiful girl. She was neither tall nor short, but her form was one of rare symmetry in its proportions, being rather slim, but round and full in development. The principal attraction of her face was not the regularity of its features, but rather the soul which looked out of the beaming eyes, and the atmosphere of light which seemed to be cast around her. Every one felt the gentle influence of her presence, and her manner was charming, oftentimes even unto fascination.

Carlos Conrad felt this, and he gazed at her in such a spell as he had never known before, even when associated with the dark Spanish beauties among whom he had been thrown. He could scarcely utter a word, so deep were the feelings stirred within him as he gazed on the lovely Florence.

Leonard noticed this, and a half smile played about the corners of his mouth, while Florence must have observed it, for a slight blush rose to her cheeks.

But the young men did not linger long. They felt that their presence beneath that roof was out of place for the present—that they should forego intruding on their uncle’s hospitality until the issue of their visit of the preceding day was made known.

So after a short time they rose and announced their intention of departing, bidding Florence Darley good-day. They left the house and made their way toward the village. Carlos was taciturn, and spoke to his cousin only in monosyllables. His mind seemed to remain at Elm Grove, even though his footsteps carried him from it.

“So soon, eh?” laughed Leonard, gazing around into his face.

“What do you mean?” asked Carlos, starting.

“Why, you haven’t seen her half an hour yet.”

“Pshaw!” exclaimed Carlos.

He made no further reply, nor could his cousin induce him to enter into conversation during their entire walk to the hotel. Little did Leonard care for this. He whistled merrily, and walked along in undisturbed spirits.

When they arrived at the hotel he asked the clerk if there were no sources of amusement in Dalton—it was insufferably dull.

“Well,” replied the clerk, “you can play billiards, or you can hire a horse or buggy and drive to Rocky Beach, some four miles off, where there’s splendid fishing.”

“Just the thing!” exclaimed Leonard. “I’ll go off and make the arrangements at once.” He turned around to speak to Carlos, but he had disappeared. “Iwon’t wait for him,” thought Leonard, “he’ll be ready enough to go after Ihave made arrangements.”

And straightway he proceeded to a livery stable to engage a horse.

Carlos, meantime, had strolled down the street, and stepped into a news-room. Here he picked up a daily paper, and read an announcement of a concert by a celebrated artiste, to take place in a neighboring town that evening.

He was a passionate lover of music, and had studied the art himself. Here was an opportunity he had long wished for, and he determined to embrace it.

Briefly, then, Leonard Lester set off in one direction, on a fishing excursion, and Carlos Conrad in another, to hear the celebrated Madame P—— sing.

Now, if both could have foreseen what was to take place within the next twenty-four hours, they would probably have materially changed their course; for a great tragedy was about to be enacted—the whole village was to be thrilled through and through with excitement.

The road which Carlos took was the same which led to Elm Grove; so that, in making his journey, he was obliged to pass the residence of his uncle.

Carlos drove swiftly along until he came near Elm Grove, when he brought his horse to a walk. He noticed an express-wagon in front of the gate, and two men carrying a small but heavy box in between them. He looked curiously at this, and the driver of the wagon, who remained on his seat, holding the horse said:

“Prob’ly you don’t know what’s in that box, bein’ a stranger in town?”

“No,” answered Carlos; “Icertainly do not know what it contains.”

“Ha, ha! Thought so. Well, I’ll tell you. It’s gold.”

“Gold!”

“Yes. Colonel Conrad owns a mine out West, and about three times a year they send him a box full of gold. You saw, didn’t you, how strong the box was ironed together?”

“Yes, Inoticed it.”

“There’s about thirty thousand dollars in it, I’m told.”

“Indeed!” laughed Carlos. “That’s more than one man deserves, Ishould think.”

And he whipped up his horse to a brisk trot, as he had by this time passed the expressman, and could only talk to him by dint of shouting.

We will pass by the visit of Carlos to Knoxtown, which was his destination, the concert, his enthusiastic admiration of the singer, and the general excitement of applause.

At a late hour in the night he set out on his return. It was starlight, and the air was sultry. He gave himself up to deep thought. What to conclude in regard to his uncle he knew not. He had been agreeably surprised at the reception he had received, for he had expected a storm of reproaches and immediate dismissal.

However, the fact that his uncle had since refused to see him, and at the same time had admitted Haywood, their common enemy, into his own private room, filled him with misgiving. Had he told Haywood the story, and shown the documents to him, so as to give him a chance to explain it all away? If the artful intriguer and mischief-maker were thus early to be allowed the opportunity to justify his conduct, and speciously smooth over his wrong-doing, then indeed had Carlos’ journey been in vain. Thus he thought, and his reflections made him gloomy as he sped on the road to Dalton.

It was past twelve o’clock when he came in sight of his uncle’s residence. It was but natural that he should drive more slowly, and look at the house and grounds.

He approached from the north side. Everything was quiet and gloomy. The air was still and clear, with not a breath of wind stirring. Silence reigned, broken only by the stepping of the horse, and the creaking of the wheels on the ground.

As he passed the house, and looked back at the south side, Carlos gave an involuntary start at seeing one room brilliantly lighted. This was so unexpected, and seemed so out of keeping with the general solitude, that he pulled up his horse and stopped.

He turned around in his seat, and regarded intently the window from which came the light. Acareful scrutiny and calculation enabled him to conclude that the room must be his uncle’s study. It was on the ground floor, and, as near as he could judge, in that portion of the house to which he and Leonard had been conducted on their first interview with Colonel Conrad.

What could he be doing at that late hour? Surely, all the rest of the household were abed; and if Colonel Conrad were indisposed, it was, to say the least, curious that he should be occupied reading or studying at that hour. Perhaps he was so ill as to be unable to leave the room or summon assistance.

Suddenly Carlos discovered a dark form hovering stealthily in the shrubbery near the window. This sight decided him. He leaped from the buggy, tied his horse to a stump on the side of the road, and proceeded cautiously toward his uncle’s house.

Slowly he went, climbing over the fence, and making as little noise as possible. He avoided the gravel paths, but kept on the green lawn, which was velvet-like in its softness.

He arrived by the clump of rose-bushes, and thought he heard a rustling among them. He stopped and listened, holding his breath that no sound might escape his ear. Nothing was discernible to break the silence, however, and he resumed his way toward the house.

Finally he stood on the greensward, about a rod from the window he sought. The light was shining brightly still. But another circumstance increased the surprise of Carlos. The window was a long one, extending to the floor, and protected on the outside by blinds.

The blinds were open, and the lower sash of the window was raised.

He again stopped and listened, but still could hear no sound. He crept slowly up to the window and looked in.

There sat Colonel Conrad by the table, his head bowed over on it, motionless, and apparently asleep. The lamp stood beside him, burning brightly.

Carlos looked earnestly in at the figure of his uncle, debating what step to take next. Should he speak or depart, silently as he had come, leaving him to awake at his leisure?

But even as he looked something sent a choking, sickening sensation through him. He gasped for breath, and nearly fainted away, as he saw on the floor beside his uncle a dark-red pool.

It lay there, a glistening, horrible, fascinating puddle. Carlos stood rooted to the spot, for the moment thrown into a dumb, helpless lethargy. But the spell passed from him, and he suddenly roused himself into action.

He sprang into the room, approached his uncle, and touched his shoulder. The figure moved not. Carlos shivered from head to foot. Then he looked about him furtively. He stepped around to the other side of the motionless form, and saw in the neck a bloody wound, as if from a single vigorous deep thrust of a dagger. All this was so sudden and so awful that he could not realize its horror for the time being.

Again he walked around to the other side of the table. The face of the dead body was bent over, out of sight; one arm was extended out straight, and the other was bent and the fingers clutched tightly together. Carlos could see that within this hand was a fragment of white paper. He seized hold of the fingers, not yet cold and stiff, and unclasped them. The paper was crumpled and wrinkled from the tightness with which it had been grasped. Carlos straightened it out, pulled it smooth, and examined it. It was irregular in shape, with two edges smooth and the other rough and jagged, as if it had been torn from a sheet. On it were two words, in the colonel’s handwriting. The paper and the writing were as follows:

On the table was an envelope, addressed as follows:

Carlos merely glanced at the envelope, and then his gaze immediately returned to the piece of paper he held in his hand.

“Seven o’clock,” he repeated, and uttered the words over and over again in a low, husky voice. “Good Heaven! how horrible!”

But in the midst of it all he was calm enough to reflect.

“This paper,” he thought, “is a fragment of something my uncle was writing. Where is the other part?”

And he looked on the table and on the floor. His search was fruitless.

But again the pool of blood met his eye, and again the sickly, deathly feeling passed over him.

“Murdered!” he exclaimed, “in the night! Ah, who could have done it?”

At that instant he heard a sound without—it was unmistakable this time—and then he suddenly realized his position. What if he were discovered there at that hour, alone with that dead body, which had so recently been living, acting, moving? There could be but one conclusion. He would be accused of being a murderer.

Horrified at the thought, he leaped from the window, only to be met by the stalwart figure of a man, large in stature, and threatening in aspect, bearing in his hand a long, gleaming knife. He had on a black mask, and was advancing slowly, his hand raised as if to strike at an instant’s warning.

Carlos stopped in terror, regarding the mysterious figure in silence, and awaiting its onslaught.

Aconflict seemed inevitable, and, gazing for an instant heavenward, he prayed for strength. Then, with sudden resolve, he stood erect, and braced his nerves for whatever might follow.