Week after week of the dreary winter passed, and Karl Zikoff still went through the dull routine of his life as a music-teacher. But little progress was made that he could see in the investigation that was to clear his name from the infamous stain that rested upon it.

He received occasional letters from Leonard, written in German, urging him to remain contented and hopeful, and assuring him that Mr.Stark was shrewd, discreet, and sure (although of necessity slow) in his operations. But he was kept in ignorance of what these operations were, and the absence of any visible results tended to imbue him with a feeling of despondency. The passive, inactive part he was filling, was aggravating to his restless, nervous spirit. And the new motive for making clear his innocence grew in strength every day, and made him impatient and miserable.

He had been in Dalton about five months, when one afternoon in March he made one of his accustomed professional visits to Florence Darley.

These visits always filled him with ecstasy, strangely mingled with despondency. To be near her, to talk with her, to feel the intimate confidence that naturally arose in their relations of teacher and pupil, created in him a stimulation of hope that oftentimes soared above and almost put out of sight, for the time being, his trouble. On this day, an unusual depression had been followed, when he came into her presence, by a proportional though unnatural buoyancy.

He was cheerful and fairly eloquent over the lessons, for Florence Darley was one of those responsive, appreciative pupils, who are the true teacher’s delight. The classical gems which he offered her she seized with avidity, and studied them under his direction, as such music should be studied.

He had given the last hints toward an intelligent study of the lesson under consideration, when she arose from the piano-stool and requested him to play for her, as was often the case.

He sat himself at the instrument and considered for a moment before touching the keys.

Then, with a look in his eyes that seemed to tell of forgetfulness of all present trouble, of a view into regions of light and bliss unalloyed, he began to play. Soft, mellow chords and witching harmonic changes broke on the ear, and mingled with the murmuring sound was a melody of surpassing beauty, coming to the listener like a dream or a revelation. It was a tale of intense passion, timorously yet beseechingly told.

“Exquisite!” murmured Florence, in a low voice, as the last chord died away.

“It is the Liebeslied of Henselt—‘love song’ you call it in English,” he said, turning toward her and gazing intently into her face. “Oh, Florence, it is a wonderful story, told in a marvelous language. It breathes the tale of my secret—my precious, cherished secret—that cannot be spoken in words! In music only may it be confessed—in music only may be revealed to you the——”

A sudden pallor overspread his face, a spasm of pain distorted his features, as he abruptly ceased speaking.

He bethought himself, in the midst of his wild outpourings, of the burden under which he rested, and with a twinge of pain and misery checked his flow of speech.

A moment of silence—a brief struggle—and he resumed calmly, though in a voice not entirely firm:

“Yes, it is seh huebsch—very pretty. So you like it. Vell, you shall blay it. At anoder lesson Ivill give it you. Good-day, Fraulein.”

He strode rapidly from the room, and Florence, listening to his retreating footsteps, blushed vividly. For many minutes she stood by the piano just as he had left her, her head bowed in a subdued manner, and her thoughts communing with themselves in a wild tumult. One contemplating her then and there would have guessed that her heart followed Karl Zikoff—that had he thrown himself at her feet she would not have spurned him.

Karl, on reaching the hall, seized his hat and rushed into the open air. It was chilly and damp without; not cold enough to freeze, penetrating and deadening to the blood. Large, soggy snow-flakes fell, and melted as soon as they touched the wet ground. The sky was of a leaden hue, and the atmosphere forbidding and uncomfortable.

Shivering, and drawing his coat closely over his breast, Karl hastened down the road and into Dalton. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes glittered unnaturally, and on his face was an expression of reckless despair.

His rapid gait soon brought him to the stairs that led to his teaching-room. Ascending in mad haste, he entered, and closed the door behind him with a fling. Then he threw himself into a chair, pressed his hands to his head, and endeavored to collect his chaotic thoughts.

“This must not go on. Something shall be done. Iwill play this passive part no longer. For unless the end comes soon Ishall go mad. If all is to be in vain, if justice is never to prevail, the sooner Iknow it, and leave Dalton, the better. To remain here, where my true name is regarded with horror, to live in continual temptation, and on the very verge of self-exposure, is unbearable. Oh, Florence, you do not know the awful barrier that separates us! Ishall never offer you a false or dishonored name; and may the Father above help me to keep this resolution! Yes, Iwill act! Iwill dog Geoffrey Haywood’s footsteps; Iwill penetrate the secret of Rocky Beach to its innermost detail. And Iwill begin operations to-night!”

He arose and walked about the room. He now became conscious of a feeling of strange languor. Anumbness and dull pain seized his limbs and extended to his head. He was conscious that there was an unnatural heat on his brow, and that his pulse was bounding at a rapid rate. Was he going to be ill? He contemplated this possibility with alarm, and with a rebellious feeling.

Suddenly there came a knock at the door. Karl started in surprise, but, recollecting himself, muttered:

“It is Kate Heath. She was to have taken a lesson at this time, but Ihad hoped something would keep her away. It would be better for her—I hope what Isuspect is not true. Come in!” he called out, almost savagely.

Kate Heath entered. She gave a flitting glance at Karl, walked to the piano, and then looked at him more deliberately.

“You are not well,” she exclaimed, with a flush on her cheeks and an expression of anxious interest.

“Yes, I am,” he replied, shortly.

“Oh, but Iam sure you are not. Your face is flushed and your eyes look feverish.”

“Never mind my eyes,” he replied, going to the piano and opening her book. “This is your lesson, Ibelieve.”

She looked chagrined and hurt, but proceeded to play at this very decided hint. She secretly took notice of one thing, however. Karl’s few words were spoken in good English, unimpaired by his habitual German accent. This phenomenon had occurred once or twice before, and had not been lost upon her.

After playing a few bars, she suddenly stopped and said:

“Mr. Zikoff, I have long been wanting to tell you of something—to make a confession, and ask you whether a certain act Icommitted was right or wrong.”

“Miss Heath, why should you ask me to pronounce judgment on your acts?”

“Please let me tell my story,” she said, imperatively; and then, with mildness, “Ihave confidence in you—I value your good opinion more than—I value it very highly. It is about Carlos Conrad——”

“Who?”

Karl sprang to his feet.

“Carlos Conrad,” she repeated, with a curious smile of satisfaction, mingled with tenderness, “the young man who was suspected of murdering Colonel William Conrad. You have heard that he escaped?”

“Yes,” replied Karl, through whose brain had rushed a torrent of wild thoughts, and who had quickly and resolutely reduced himself to a state of calmness. “Yes,” he said, “but vat care Ifor that?”

The Teutonic twang was very decided and broad now.

“Perhaps you care nothing for it,” she replied, dreamily, “but he was innocent, Ibelieve, and was to be pitied for all that he endured. On the night of the murder he stopped at our house. He had lost his way, and was wet and cold. He was determined to go on in the darkness; the night was very dark, for there had just been a terrible rain-storm; but we prevailed on him to stay, and made him dry and warm. How Ipitied him! He looked so sad and desperate. Ican never forget his face.”

Karl thought there was a tinge of significancy in the tone of this last remark, but he maintained a stolid exterior.

“He left us at daybreak,” continued Kate, “and was arrested as soon as he reached Dalton. There was strong evidence against him, but Inever believed him guilty. At the examination it was decided to send him to the jail at Hillsdale to be tried in court. But they never got him to the jail.”

“I haf understand all dat,” said Karl. “De young man shump from de car window, or somet’ings?”

“No, the young man did not jump from the car window,” replied Kate, calmly. “He would be a fool to do that, when other and easier means of escape were offered him.”

“Other means!” echoed Karl, in dull wonderment at the girl’s recital.

“Yes; a New York detective——”

“Ah!” cried Karl, “I thought no one knew of that?”

“Of what? What have Itold?”

“I thought,” said Karl, in confusion, “dat it vas von grand secret how de young man got avay?”

“And so it was. But the secret is in my possession. Would you like to hear about it?”

“I care not’ings for him,” said Karl, coolly.

“Consider a moment. Wouldn’t you like to hear something about that New York detective?”

“Oh, if you like to tell, I listen. Go on.”

With a furtive smile Kate proceeded:

“An officer named Johnson had Carlos Conrad in charge, and at the depot they met the New York detective. He slyly put a package in the prisoner’s pocket—why do you start so?—and afterward engaged in conversation with Johnson. After some friendly words they stepped up to the bar to drink. The detective drugged his own whisky, and then, under the pretense that he had by mistake poured out the wrong liquor, induced Johnson to change with him. So Johnson drank the drugged whisky. What is the matter?”

“Nothing,” replied Karl, who with blanched face was listening intently.

“The plan was for Officer Johnson to fall asleep on the cars, and then for Carlos Conrad to make sure of his not awakening by the application of chloroform. The chloroform was in the package that had been placed in his pocket. There was also a pair of steel cutting-nippers, with which he was to free himself, he being fastened to the officer by handcuffs. Anote accompanied the package, directing him how to go to work. It is supposed that he profited by the opportunity thus offered him, for when Officer Johnson reached Hillsdale his prisoner was gone, and has never been heard of since.”

“Yes?” gasped Karl, in a cold sweat of apprehension.

His agitation did not permit him to observe the excitement under which Kate Heath was laboring. Her face was suffused with a crimson blush, and her eyes glittered brilliantly.

“Would you like to know who this detective was?” she whispered.

“Do you know?”

“Yes, Iknow. He is by your side now.”

“WHAT! You do not mean to say—it cannot be—it is impossible that it was you!”

“It is not impossible; it is true. It wasI.”

In a wild wonder of frenzy Karl, who had risen to his feet, grasped the edge of the piano so tightly that every drop of blood was forced back from his fingers. An awful look was on his face, for he was seized with a conviction the realization of which he shrank from. In a last despairing effort to maintain his assumed character, he asked:

“Vy do you tell me of dis, young lady?”

“Because,” she said, slowly, and as if afraid to proceed. “Because”—speaking with sudden resolve, yet with plaintive humility, and at the same time covering her face with her hands and half averting her bowed head, “I love you, Carlos Conrad!”