Paul Morton was sitting in his library, carelessly scanning the daily paper. He no longer wore the troubled expression of a few weeks before. He had succeeded in weathering the storm that threatened his business prospects by the timely aid afforded by a portion of his ward's property, and now his affairs were proceeding prosperously.

It may be asked how with such a crime upon his soul he could experience any degree of comfort or satisfaction. But this is a problem we cannot explain. Probably his soul was so blunted to all the best feelings of our common nature that he was effected only by that which selfishly affected his own interest.

"At last I am in a secure position," he said to himself. "Then the opportune death of my ward, of which I am advised by Cromwell, gives me his large estate. With this to fall back upon, and my business righted, I do not see why I should not look forward in a few years to half-a-million."

He was indulging in these satisfactory reflections when the door opened, and a servant entered.

"A gentleman to see you," she said.

"Who is it?" asked Mr. Morton.

"I think it is the same one that called several times about the time of Mr. Raymond's funeral."

"Cromwell!" repeated Mr. Morton. "Show him up," he said.

A moment afterward James Cromwell entered the room.

The two looked at each other with a kind of guilty intelligence. Each saw in the other a murderer. One had put to death his intimate friend, for the sake of his money. The other had sent to death (so both supposed) an innocent boy, confided to his charge, and his crime, too, was instigated by the same sordid motive.

"Well," said Paul Morton, slowly.

"Did you receive a letter from me a day or two since?" asked James Cromwell.

"Yes."

"About the boy?"

"Yes, but I did not quite understand it. You wrote that he had disappeared. Has he returned to you?"

"No," said Cromwell.

"How do you account for his disappearance?" asked Paul Morton.

"I think he must have gone out in a boat on the pond and got drowned," said Cromwell.

"Has the body been found?" questioned the merchant.

"Not yet."

"Was not the pond searched, then?"

"No."

"Then how do you know that he was drowned there?"

James Cromwell moved uneasily in his chair. It was not a pleasant question for him to answer.

"I cannot, of course, say positively," he stammered, "but I have every reason to feel satisfied that the boy is dead."

"And yet, come away from Madison without ascertaining definitely."

"I thought there was no need," said Cromwell.

"No need! Do you think I am willing to remain in uncertainty as to whether or not my ward is dead? What faith am I to put in your statement since it appears that you have no satisfactory evidence to offer?"

James Cromwell began to perceive his mistake. He saw that he ought to have had the pond dragged, and personally superintended the funeral ceremonies of his victim, in order that he might have brought to the merchant the most indubitable proof of the reality of his death.

"Why need he be so particular?" he thought. Then, with a suspicious feeling, he began to think that Mr. Morton was making all this unnecessary trouble in order to evade the payment of the sum which he had promised him. This thought irritated him, and to satisfy himself whether his suspicions were correct, he determined to broach the subject at once.

"I need not remind you," he said, "of the promise you made me in case the boy should not live."

"To what promise do you refer?" demanded Paul Morton.

"You promised me the sum of ten thousand dollars as a reward for my care of your ward."

"It would be a handsome reward for a few weeks' care," said the merchant, sneering.

"I can't help that," said Cromwell, angrily. "Handsome or not, it is what you promised me. Do you mean to say you did not?" he added, defiantly.

"Softly, my friend. I have said nothing of the sort. But you will do me the favor to remember that it was only to be given in case the boy died."

"Well, he is dead."

"How am I to know that?"

"Because I say so."

"You only say you think he is dead. You bring me no proof. When I ask you how you can know it positively, you offer me no explanation."

"I saw his ghost Thursday night," said James Cromwell, shuddering.

"His ghost! What ridiculous nonsense is this?" demanded the merchant.

"I saw his ghost as plain as I see you," said Cromwell, in a subdued voice.

"And where was it that this precious apparition came to you?" asked Mr. Morton, with contempt.

"It was in a hotel at Wheeling," said James Cromwell. "I was lying awake when the door of my chamber suddenly opened, and his person entered."

"Did he speak?" asked Paul Morton, impressed in spite of himself, by the tone of conviction with which the other spoke.

"Yes," said Cromwell.

"What did he say?"

"I—cannot tell," he said, with a shudder.

"Pooh, man! you had a night-mare, nothing more and nothing less," said the merchant. "You must be crazy if you expect me to believe that the boy is dead on any such absurd testimony as this. I dare say you had eaten a heavy dinner, or perhaps drank too much, and so the supposed ghost was only the offspring of your own distempered fancy, and that proceeded from a disordered stomach."

James Cromwell shook his head.

"You are wrong," he said. "I was as wide awake as I am now."

"Well, that is your affair—if you choose to believe in the reality of this visitation, well and good. That is nothing to me. But if you want me to credit the story of the boy's death, you must bring a certified statement from the coroner in your town—Madison is the name, I believe—then there will be no room for doubt."

"To do that, I shall be obliged to return to the West," said Cromwell, disconcerted.

"Then you have only yourself to blame for the extra trouble you are obliged to take. You ought not to have come away at all until you could bring with you satisfactory evidence of the boy's death."

James Cromwell looked down in dismay. This did not suit his views at all. Besides, he saw that it would be awkward to go back, and institute such proceedings so late. But Paul Morton evidently meant to keep him to it.

"Perhaps it would have been better," he said, at last.

"Of course it would. You can see for yourself that until I have satisfactory proof of my ward's decease I cannot take possession of the property, nor of course can I give you any portion of it while I am not sure whether it is mine to give. I should think that was plain enough."

It was plain enough. James Cromwell saw that now, and he was provoked at his mistake.

"Then," he said, disappointed, "I suppose I must go back."

"No, that will not be necessary. You can telegraph to some person to institute a search of the pond, if you have reason to think the body will be found there, and request information to be sent at once of any discovery that may be made."

"I will do so," said Cromwell, relieved.

While they were speaking, the doorbell had rung, though neither had heard it, and Major Woodley, instructing the servant to usher him in without previous announcement, entered the presence of the guilty employer and his equally guilty confederate; close behind him followed Robert Raymond.

At the sight of him Cromwell staggered to his feet, and gazed upon him with distended eyes, and Paul Morton sat as if rooted to the chair.

It was an effective tableau.