The startling news had been discussed in all its phases in the little parlor, Mary taking no part. She sat with averted face listening, but ever and anon when Edward's indignation became unrestrainable she turned and looked at him. She did not know that the paper contained a reference to her.

The astounding revelation, aside from the accusation, was the wound. Strange that he had not discovered it. Who could have murdered poor Rita? Positively the only person on the immediate premises were Virdow, Evan and Gerald. Virdow was of course out of the question, and the others were in the room. It was the blow that had driven her head through the glass. What enemy could the woman have had?

So far as he was concerned, the charge could amount to nothing; Evan was in the room with him; the general would surely remember that.

But the horror, the mortification—he, Edward Morgan, charged with murder, and the center of a scandal in which the name of Mary Montjoy was mentioned.

The passion left him; depressed and sick from reaction he sat alone in the little parlor, long after the ladies had retired; and then came the climax. A cablegram reached the house and was handed in to him. It was signed by Evan and read:

"You have been indicted. Return."

"Indicted," and for murder, of course. It gave him no uneasiness, but it thrust all light and sweetness from life. The dream was over. There could now be no search for Marion Evan. That must pass, and with it hope.

He had builded upon that idea castles whose minarets wore the colors of sunrise. They had fallen and his life lay among the ruins.

He threw himself upon the bed to sleep, but the gray of dawn was already over the city; there came a rumbling vehicle in the street; he heard the sound of a softly closing door—and then he arose and went out. The early morning air and exercise brought back his physical equipoise. He returned for breakfast, with a good appetite, and though grave, was tranquil again.

Neither of the ladies brought up the painful subject; they went with him to see the learned oculist and came back silent and oppressed. There was no hope.

The diagnosis corresponded with Dr. Campbell's; the blind eye might have been saved years ago, but an operation would not have been judicious under the circumstances. Continued sight must depend upon general health.

All their pleasures and hopes buried in one brief day, they turned their backs on Paris and started homeward.

Edward saw Cambia no more; Mrs. Montjoy called alone and said farewell. The next day they sailed from Havre.

In New York Norton met them, grave and embarrassed for once in his life, and assisted in their hurried departure for the far southern home. There was no exchange of views between the two men. The paper Norton had sent was acknowledged; that was all. The subject was too painful for discussion. And so they arrived in Georgia. They mere met by the Montjoy carriage at a little station near the city. It was the 11:20 p. m. train. Gen. Evan was waiting for Edward.

The handshaking over, they rapidly left the station. Evan had secured from the sheriff a temporary exemption from arrest for Edward, but it was understood that he was to remain out of sight.

They arrived within a couple of miles of the Cedars, having only broached commonplace subjects, traveling incidents and the like, when a negro stopped them. In the distance they heard a hound trailing.

"Boss, kin air one er you gentlemen gi' me a match? I los' my light back yonder, and hit's too putty er night ter go back without a possum." Evan drew rein. He was a born sportsman and sympathetic.

"I reckon so," he said; "and—well, I can't," he concluded, having tried all pockets. "Mr. Morgan, have you a match?" Edward had one and one only. He drew all the little articles of his pockets into his hand to find it.

"Now, hold," said the general; "let's light our cigars. If it's to be the last chance." The negro touched the blazing match to splinters of lightwood, as the southern pitch pine is called when dry, and instantly he stood in a circle of light, his features revealed in every detail. Edward gazed into it curiously. Where had he seen that face? It came back like the lines of some unpleasant dream—the thick lips, the flat nose, the retreating forehead, full eyes and heavy eyelids, and over all a look of infinite stupidity. The negro had fixed his eyes a moment upon the articles in Edward's hand and stepped back quickly. But he recovered himself and with clumsy thanks, holding up his flaming torch, went away, leaving only the uncertain shadows dancing across the road.

At home Gen. Evan threw aside all reserve. He drew their chairs up into the sheltered corner of the porch.

"I have some matters to talk over," he said, "and our time is short. Yours is not a bailable case and we must have a speedy trial. The law winks at your freedom to-night; it will not do to compromise our friends in the court house by unnecessary delay. Edward, where was I when you discovered the body of the woman, Rita Morgan?" Edward looked through the darkness at his friend, who was gazing straight ahead.

"You were standing by Gerald's bed, looking upon him."

"How did you discover her? It never occurred to me to ask; were you not in the room also?"

"I certainly was. She broke the glass by pressing against it, as I thought at the time, but now I see she was struck. I rushed out and picked her up, and you came when I called."

"Exactly. And you both talked loudly out there."

"Why do you ask?"

"Because," said Evan, slowly, "therein lies the defect in our defense. I cannot swear you were in the room upon my own knowledge. I had been astounded by the likeness of Gerald to those who had been dear to me—I was absorbed. Then I heard you cry out, and found you in the yard." There was a long pause. Edward's heart began to beat with sledge-hammer violence.

"Then," he said with a strange voice, "as the case would be presented, I was found with the body of the woman; she had been murdered and I was the only one who had a motive. Is that it?"

"That is it." The young man arose and walked the porch in silence.

"But that is not all," said Gen. Evan. "If it were, I would have cabled you to go east from Paris. There is more. Is there any one on earth who could be interested in your disgrace or death?"

"None that I know of—that is, well, no; none that I know of. You remember Royson; we fought that out. He cannot cherish enmity against a man who fought him in an open field."

"Perhaps you are mistaken."

"From what do you speak?"

"You had been in Paris but a few days when one night as I sat here your friend Barksdale—great man that Barksdale; a trifle heady and confident, but true as steel—Barksdale came flying on his sorrel up the avenue and landed here.

"'General,' said he, 'I have discovered the most damnable plot that a man ever faced. All this scandal about Morgan is not newspaper sensation as you suppose, it is the first step in a great tragedy.' And then he went on to tell me that Gerald had invaded his room and shown him pictures of an open grave, the face of a dead woman and also the face of the man who opened that grave, drawn with every detail perfect. Gerald declared that he witnessed the disinterment and drew the scene from memory——"

"Hold a minute," said Edward; he was now on his feet, his hand uplifted to begin a statement; "and then—and then——"

"The object of that disinterment was to inflict the false wound and charge you with murder."

"And the man who did it—who made that wound—was the man who begged a match from us on the road. I will swear it, if art is true. I have seen the picture." Evan paused a moment to take in the vital fact. Then there rung out from him a half-shout:

"Thank God! Thank God!" The chairs that stood between him and the door were simply hurled out of the way. His stentorian voice called for his factotum. "John!" and John did not wait to dress, but came.

"Get my horse and a mule saddled and bring that puppy Carlo. Quick, John, quick!" John fled toward the stable. "Edward, we win if we get that negro—we win!" he exclaimed, coming back through the wreck of his furniture.

"But why should the negro have disinterred the body and have made a wound upon her head? There can be no motive."

"Heavens, man, no motive! Do you know that you have come between two men and Mary Morgan?"

"I have never suspected it, even."

"Two have sought her with all the energy of manhood," said Evan. "Two men as different as the east from the west. Royson hates you and will leave no stone unturned to effect your ruin; Barksdale loves her and will leave no stone unturned to protect her happiness! There you have it all. Only one man in the world could have put that black devil up to his infamous deed—and that man is Royson. Only one man in the world could have grasped the situation and have read the riddle correctly—and that man is Barksdale." Edward was dazed. Gradually the depth and villainy of the conspiracy grew clear.

"But to prove it——"

"The negro."

"Will he testify?"

"Will he? If I get my hands on him, young man, he will testify! Or he will hang by the neck from a limb as his possum hangs by the tail."

"You propose to capture him?"

"I am going to capture him." He disappeared in the house and when he came out he had on his army belt, with sword and pistol. The mounts were at the door and for the first time in his life Edward was astride a mule. To his surprise the animal bounded along after the gray horse, with a smooth and even gait, and kept up without difficulty.

Evan rode as a cavalryman and carried across his saddle the puppy. With unerring skill he halted at the exact spot where the match had been struck, and lowered the dog gently to the ground. The intelligent, excited animal at once took up the trail of man or dogs, and opening loudly glided into the darkness. They followed.

Several miles had been covered, when they saw in the distance a glimmer of light among the trees and Evan drew rein.

"It will not do," he said, "to ride upon him. At the sound of horses' feet he will extinguish his light and escape. The dog, he will suppose, is a stray one led off by his own and will not alarm him." They tied their animals and pressed on.

The dog ahead had openel and Carlo's voice could be heard with the rest, as they trailed the fleeing possum. The general was exhausted. "I can't do it, Edward, my boy—go on. I will follow as fast as possible." Without a word Edward obeyed. The dogs were now furious, the man himself running. In the din and clamor he could hear nothing of pursuit. The first intimation he had of danger was a grip on his collar and a man's voice exclaiming excitedly:

"Halt! You are my prisoner!"

The torch fell to the ground and lay sputtering. The negro was terrified for the moment, but his quick eye pierced the gloom and measured his antagonist. He made a fierce effort to break away, and failing, threw himself with immense force upon Edward. Then began a frightful struggle. No word was spoken. The negro was powerful, but the white man was inspired by a memory and consciousness of his wrongs. They fell and writhed, and rose and fell again. Slippery Dick had got his hand upon Edward's throat. Suddenly his grasp relaxed and he lay with the white of his eyes rolled upward. The muzzle of a cavalry pistol was against his head and the stern face of the veteran was above him.

"Get up!" said the general, briefly.

"Certainly, boss," was the reply, and breathless the two men arose.

The defense had its witness!

"Ef he had'n conjured me," said the negro doggedly, "he couldn't 'er done it." He had recognized among the little things that Edward drew from his pocket on the road the voodoo's charm.

Edward breathless, took up the torch and looked into Dick's countenance. "I am not mistaken, general, this is the man."