Carlita had never in her life undertaken anything so difficult as her entrance into that room. She was forced to stop outside the door in order to gain some control over her trembling lips, that she might speak the name and meet the eye of the man whom she felt she hated with all the strength of her soul.

It gave Edmond Stolliker time to gain his position in the conservatory, and enabled him to witness the greeting.

He could have desired nothing better.

She entered quietly, her long black robe trailing after her girlish figure in fascinating contrast, and Stolliker observed all too clearly the whitening and compression of Pierrepont's lips as he went toward her in the old indolent, graceful fashion.

"I half feared you would not receive me, that you might be ill," he said, putting out his large, beautifully shaped white hand to take her cold fingers. "It was very good of you."

"I wanted—so much to know—all—you know—all that concerns—him," she faltered, in exactly the tone Stolliker would have had her use had he been able to suggest it. "I don't believe I have been in bed since—since you were here, and—"

"I was a brute," he interrupted, not looking at her—a fact which Stolliker observed, "to tell you so abruptly. I wanted to ask your forgiveness. There are times, you know, when a man forgets—everything, and is almost pardonable."

He had placed a chair for her before the fire, and she had sat down, her eyes fixed upon the blaze. She felt that a glance into his face would have dispersed all her courage, and she dared not risk it. But she knew that Stolliker would lose no point.

Leith did not sit. He stood with his elbow upon the mantel-shelf, his head supported by his closed hand, looking into the fire also. Once he glanced toward her, moved nervously, and allowed his eyes to return to the fire again.

Stolliker grunted a curious "Umph!"

The silence grew unbearable at last.

"Won't you—go on?" Carlita asked, wistfully. "Won't you tell me without—without questioning? It is so hard, so hard!"

"You loved him—so—then?"

"Yes, I loved him," she answered, with quivering passion.

He glanced toward her again, but Stolliker could not quite determine what the expression in his quickly averted eyes could have been; whether pity, sorrow, remorse, or all three blended, but he distinctly saw the shiver that passed through the magnificent frame.

"I wish I could help you, but it is too late for that," he said, heavily. "Poor little girl! After all, Olney is to be envied, for at least you have loved him."

"You saw him—die?" she interrupted in a choking voice, utterly unable to keep silent and listen longer.

"No; he was—dead when—when I reached his side."

He had drawn himself up, stiffened, so to speak, as if nerving himself for a terrible trial.

"Then he left no message for me? Spoke no word?"

Pierrepont moved uneasily.

"He—he could not," he answered, hoarsely. "There was no time."

"He was shot—Jessica told me that."

"Yes."

"And through the heart?"

"Yes."

"I shall always hate them—my people—that they should have done so vile a thing, committed so causeless a murder. And there was no reason, was there?"

She lifted her eyes for the first time and saw the crimson flush that glowed upon his cheeks, the flush of shame. He hesitated for a moment, then answered heavily:

"None."

For a moment it seemed to her that she must cry out, that she must brand him "murderer;" but she subdued the wild desire by a wilder effort. She interlaced her fingers on her lap, and held herself closely for strength, then she summoned all her histrionic powers, as Stolliker had instructed her, and leaned slightly toward him.

"You have been—his friend—my friend, though I have been foolish enough not to recognize it until now," she said, loathing herself for the deception and yet continuing it. "But you will forgive me for all that and help me, will you not? You will be my friend in future as you were his in the past?"

He turned toward her eagerly, but controlled himself suddenly, and answered quietly, but with deep emotion:

"It is greater happiness than—I deserve."

"And you do forgive me?"

"If there were anything to forgive, with all my heart; but it is I who have always been the offender, not you."

"I am so alone, and—and he was all—I had!" she exclaimed, repressing a sob, which was, nevertheless, very audible.

"Do you think I did not understand that?" he cried, passionately. "Do you think there was a single word or act of yours that I did not comprehend? Why—There! Forgive me. I don't quite know myself of late. I am like some foolish, hot-headed boy, the yielding tool of every emotion. I wish I could make you understand how I appreciate the sweet trust of your generous friendship."

He took a step toward her, and placing his hand upon the back of her chair, bent downward until his lips almost touched her hair—not quite.

A tremor passed throughout her body, but she did not move.

"You accept it?" she asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

"As I would a pardon from God."

She started ever so slightly, but controlled herself again.

"And you will help me?" she asked in the same low tone.

"In all things so far as in my power lies."

"Thank you! thank you!" she murmured, lifting her intertwined fingers from her lap to her breast, and shrinking downward away from him just a trifle. "You will understand how I feel. You do not wish, any more than I, that he should sleep out there—in that lonely grave. You will help me to bring—his body here, and—and to find his murderer?"

Stolliker caught his breath hard as he watched the man—watched the cold, gray loam overspread his face—watched the stiffening of the joints and the slow lifting of the graceful form to an upright position.

The gray eyes were bent upon the dark head with an expression of horror which it was not necessary he should conceal, as she was not looking; but Stolliker observed that he pressed his hand above his heart, as if he feared she might hear its beating.

"I—I can't promise—that," he stammered helplessly. "It is so—useless. Of course, I will do all I can; but you can't understand the—the condition of the railroads there. It would be impossible—simply impossible—now, at least."

"Then—then later, when the—the condition of the country—has improved?" she gasped, hoarsely; and for a moment Stolliker feared she was going to faint.

"Yes, later," he assented, huskily.

"But—but the other?" she cried, almost fiercely. "You will help me with the other—you will help me to find his murderer?"

There was another silence, long and ominous. Somehow, Leith was leaning upon the mantel-shelf again, though neither Stolliker nor Carlita could have told how he got there.

"You don't know what you are asking," he said at last, in a dull, tense voice. "The place is so wild, so unreal. Wait for awhile. Wait until you have got over the first shock—the first horror of it all. Then, if you wish it, I will help you."

And with that she was apparently content.

"I may come again?" he asked shortly afterward, as he was leaving; and, mindful of Stolliker's words and her own oath, she answered:

"Yes, you may come again."

He pressed her hand and left her silently, passing out into the hall and out of the house without seeing Jessica's mocking face at the head of the stairs, though he might not have understood the scornful, triumphant smile upon it, even if he had.

He wearily closed the hall door upon himself, and as he slowly descended the stoop, he lifted his hat and pushed the damp hair back from his forehead.

"God!" he muttered, half aloud, "if I had suspected half how hard it would be, I should never have undertaken it even for her. Ay, verily, 'whom the gods would destroy they first make mad.'"

Stolliker watched him down the street, then joined Carlita upon the hearth-rug.

"I have to congratulate you upon playing your part superbly!"

"You heard—"

"Everything."

"Bah!"—with a shiver of repulsion—"it was a hateful part, a despicable part—"

"But one that is absolutely essential if you would discover and bring to justice the murderer of your betrothed husband."

"Then you think—"

"Pardon me; detectives have no right to 'think.' They must know. You have given me a clew, and it is worth working out; that is all. In the meantime, your part in the drama is to keep this man beside you as much as possible, night and day. Watch his most minute act, his lightest word, and report them all to me—everything. Let nothing escape. Don't trust your memory for a single day, but write everything down the moment he has gone. Take care that no act or word of his shall betray you into any exhibition of suspicion; and, above all, don't reject too much his overtures of affection. That part you must play with great care and finesse, neither being too quickly won nor too cold in your demeanor. You think you can assist me so far?"

"I will do it—that, or anything that may be required of me to bring this man to a punishment of his foul crime."

"Good!"

"And in the meantime, you—what will you be doing?"

"I? Oh, I shall start for Mexico by the first train that goes. These letters will give me all the data for that that I shall require."

"You have them—Mr. Winthrop's letters?"

"Every one, I think."