The merchant was the first to recover his self-possession.

"I have not the pleasure of knowing you, sir," he said to Major Woodley.

"My name is Woodley," said the latter. "I was a friend of this boy's father," and he laid his hand on the shoulder of Robert.

"May I ask how you fell in with him? I confess I am puzzled at his unexpected appearance, having just received intelligence from this person (indicating Cromwell) that he had disappeared."

"May I ask, as his father's friend, why you should have committed Robert to the care of a man, who is, to say the least, wholly unfitted by education or experience, to have the charge of him?"

"I do not choose to be called to account," said Mr. Morton, haughtily. "His father made me his guardian, and confided in my judgment."

"Then, sir, you should have shown yourself worthy of the confidence he reposed in you," said Major Woodley.

"Sir, you assume an extraordinary tone," said Paul Morton, angrily.

"Are you aware of the manner in which the boy has been treated by the person to whom you committed him?"

"Yes, I presume so. You perhaps have credited the boy's story, which probably is wholly unreliable. Of course, I don't know what he has told you."

"Then, sir, I have to inform you that it is only by a miracle that the boy stands here to-day in health. This wretch made two distinct attempts to murder him!" and he pointed his finger at James Cromwell.

"Impossible!" exclaimed Paul Morton, nervously.

"It is not only possible, but true. On the first occasion he attempted to hurl him over Niagara Falls, but the boy's quick grasp saved him from the fearful fate."

"I cannot believe this," muttered Mr. Morton.

"On the second occasion he seized him unawares while both were in a boat on a pond, and threw him into the water to drown. Fortunately, he was rescued by one who witnessed the attempt."

"These are fables," said Paul Morton. "The boy has grossly deceived you."

"We can send for evidence, if necessary," said Major Woodley, coolly, "but that will hardly be necessary. If you look at that man's face, you will read upon it the proof that the story is no invention, and is the literal truth."

He pointed to Cromwell, who was livid with terror, and stricken with the confusion of conscious guilt. He staggered to his feet, and in his wild terror attempted to rush out of the apartment.

In this he was unsuccessful. Woodley coolly stepped in front of him, and said, "Not so fast, Mr. Cromwell. We cannot dispense with you yet."

Cromwell glanced at the stalwart figure of the Major, and saw that resistance would be useless. Hoping to make better terms for himself, he said, "Promise not to harm me, and I will tell you all."

"Are you mad?" said Paul Morton, sharply, filled with terror lest his confederate should betray him. "Do you never plead guilty to this atrocious charge!"

"Why should he not, if he is guilty?" demanded Major Woodley. "It appears that you desire to shield him."

Paul Morton saw his imprudence, and determined to adopt a different course.

"If he is guilty, I do not wish to shield him. But I thought you meant to terrify him into confessing what was not true."

"There is no need of that. We can prove the charge on the testimony of the boy, and the man who witnessed the attempt to drown him. I will not engage to screen him from punishment, but if he confesses it, he will stand a better chance of mercy."

"Then," said Cromwell, clutching at this promise, "I will tell you all. I did try to drown the boy."

"And what could have been your motive for such a dastardly deed?"

"Mr. Morton promised me ten thousand dollars when the boy was dead."

"It's a lie!" ejaculated Paul Morton, hoarsely. "He has told an atrocious falsehood!"

But, though he spoke thus, his face became livid and the truth was patent in his look.

"Can this be true?" demanded Major Woodley, shocked and startled, "What motive could Mr. Morton have for conniving at such a crime? How would the boy's death benefit him?"

"Read his father's will, and you will know," said Cromwell. "At the boy's death the whole property goes to Mr. Morton."

"Is this true, Mr. Morton?" said Major Woodley, sternly.

"So much is true, but the other is a base lie," said the merchant.

"I could wish it were so. What evidence can you give of the truth of your statement? Have you the offer in writing?"

"No, he was too careful to write it, but he hinted at it in terms which only I could understand."

"He is a miserable liar," said the merchant.

"I can hardly believe him capable of such atrocity."

"You cannot?" said Cromwell, glancing at Paul Morton, spitefully. "Then I will tell you what he is capable of. I accuse him of poisoning the boy's father."

"Good heavens! are you mad?" exclaimed Major Woodley, starting.

"I am perfectly aware of what I am saying, and I can prove it. He bought the poison of me, at a time when I was employed in a drug store on the Bowery. It was a slow poison which accomplished its work without leaving any perceptible traces."

Robert listened to the revelations with pale face, horror-stricken, and for a moment no word was spoken.

"Mr. Morton," said Major Woodley, "this is an extraordinary charge, which, whether you are innocent or guilty, must be investigated. I brought a policeman here with the view of arresting this man Cromwell, but I feel it is my duty to direct your arrest also." As he spoke, he opened the door communicating with the hall, and a policeman entered.

"Arrest these two men," he said.

Paul Morton's face wore the look of one brought to bay, and he exclaimed, "Never will I submit to the indignity. Here is one means of escape."

He pulled a drawer beside him open, and drew forth a revolver.

"I must die," he said, "but I will not die alone."

As he spoke he pointed the revolver at Cromwell, and there was a sharp report.

The unhappy druggist bounded from his chair with a shrill cry, then sank lifeless on the carpet, the life-blood welling from his heart.

There was a cry of horror from all who witnessed the tragic scene.

Major Woodley sprang forward to seize the revolver, but too late. Paul Morton turned it, and pressing it to his forehead, drew the trigger.

There was another report, and he fell forward, his brains being scattered over the floor.

"This is most terrible!" exclaimed Major Woodley, in a tone of horror. "May it never be my lot to be witness to such a scene again!"

Robert, over-excited by the revelation of his father's fate, and the horrible scene which had been enacted before him, fainted.

Major Woodley raised him gently, and carried him from the room.

"I leave you in charge, sir," he said to the policeman. "It is fortunate that you were a witness to what has occurred."

The tragical end of Paul Morton was a nine-days' wonder in the city, and then some other startling event surpassed it in the popular thought. It was found on examination of the late merchant's affairs that his ward's fortune was intact. This would not have been the case, but that his own affairs had taken a fortunate turn, and he had redeemed his losses by a fortunate rise in some securities which had been for a while depressed, and had at last advanced rapidly in price.

Robert Raymond selected Major Woodley as his guardian, and was fortunate in doing so, for the Major was a man of the utmost probity, and of excellent judgment in business affairs. He was at once returned to his former school, where he continued his studies. In due time he entered college, where he acquitted himself with credit. On his graduation he went to Europe, where he traveled for two years. Returning last year, he found that he had wholly mistaken the feeling which he supposed he entertained toward the fair Edith. He was no longer willing to look upon her as a sister, but aspired to a nearer relation. Major Woodley was not slow in giving his sanction to a suit which received his entire approbation, and the wedding took place.

In a beautiful country seat on the Hudson, Robert Raymond lives with his fair young wife. They are happy in each other and in the gifts of fortune. Long may they remain so!

The reader may be interested to learn that Clara Manton has not yet found a husband, nor does she desire it. Her father's death put her in possession of his property, and she prefers to maintain a selfish independence to risking her money in a husband's charge. Cato was handsomely rewarded for the signal service he had rendered our young hero, and was made comfortable for life.