The fates seemed propitious on Monday morning. The day dawned fair and balmy, and Constance arose, feeling refreshed and like her own serene self once more.

The events of the two previous days no longer seemed to her imagination a chaotic disturbing mass of tribulations; they had arranged themselves in their proper order, been reviewed sensibly, and assigned their rightful places, as things to be overcome, or overlooked, as the case might be.

Mrs. Aliston, too, at once discreet and talkative, was in fine spirits, and the two, having ascertained the precise time when Private Detective Belknap might be expected to make his report, had breakfasted comfortably, stowed away Mr. Bathurst, according to previous arrangement, and were now calmly awaiting the coming man.

They had not long to wait. Mr. Belknap, ushered in by Nelly, found the ladies seated near the breakfast tray, as if just about completing a repast, which had in reality been finished some time before.

"Good-morning, ladies," said he, laying down his hat, and at once drawing a chair to the table, with the air of a man whose time is money. "Having completed my investigations here,—that is, in this immediate neighborhood,—I am prepared with my written report, which I submit to you, Miss Wardour. Will you please read it, and then give me further instructions?" and he proffered her a neatly-folded paper, of goodly proportions.

Constance glanced at it dubiously, but did not take it from his hand.

"Please read it, Mr. Belknap," she said, appealingly. "I am sure I shall comprehend it better, and my aunt shares my anxiety to hear and understand its contents."

"As you please," assented he, opening the manuscript. "I have made it as brief as possible; of course, it was necessary to be statistical."

The report began with the usual form, day and date, circumstances under which his services were retained, etc., a statement of the case as it was made to him, then came the following:

"Arrived in W—— early on Sunday morning, walking from the first station northward. Found Wardour Place easily from Mr. Lamotte's description. Gained admittance, and was at once permitted to inspect the room where the robbers found an entrance; found that it had been previously examined, and could not feel quite sure that some clue had not been effaced or something disturbed that might have evolved a clue. Miss Wardour assures me that nothing of value was taken from this room, and I am inclined to think that the robbers had hoped to find themselves in the dining room, and gain access to the plate closet.

"Finding themselves instead in the library, a room where, there being no man of the house, it could hardly be supposed valuables were kept, or money or papers of worth locked away; they, after a vigorous search, opened the door of the hall; here they found themselves at once at the foot of the stairs and, naturally, one ascends to explore. The first door that he tries is the door of Miss Wardour's dressing room; and, having examined that door, I am compelled to think that Miss Wardour, for once, forgot to lock it. Had it been locked the explorer would naturally have passed on, trying the other doors and some of these other doors were certainly not locked.

"The burglary was effected with the utmost quiet, and there are no indications that any thing was disturbed on the second floor, save in Miss Wardour's rooms, therefore (I cite this presumptive evidence), Miss Wardour's door was not locked as she supposed it to be; finding this to be the case the man signaled to his confederate to come up, and then, having a dark lantern, they entered, and surveyed the room. The rest is evident; one of them, skilled in his profession, and in the exigencies that must arise in the practice of it, administered to Miss Wardour the chloroform. Now the operation must have been a delicate one, and the length of time necessary to open the safe and get possession of its contents covered some minutes; having heard Miss Wardour's statement in regard to the effect a powerful dose of chloroform has on her physical system, I incline to the opinion that the drug was administered to her in minute doses, not once, but two or three times at least; this accounts for the bottle and the linen being left in the sleeping room. Probably, just at the moment when they had stowed away the last of their booty, some slight sound alarmed them and they made a hurried escape, forgetting the bottle entirely.

"The robbers left behind them no clues beyond the established fact that they were professional burglars. This is proved by the manner in which they did their work, and by the tools they must have carried.

"I see plainly here the work of city-bred burglars, and the remainder of the work of finding them is to be done in the city, where they will eventually try to dispose of some of the jewels, no doubt.

"In order to satisfy myself that there has been no accomplice here, who may have been acquainted with the premises, I have searched most thoroughly. I have examined the servants closely, and I find nothing to indicate that there has been any one concerned in this affair, who is an inhabitant, or habitual visitor in the town.

"In a field to the northward, I have found what may be, I think is, a trace of the robbers. Two or more men have leaped a ditch, running across the field from east to west; and the footmarks in the first instance are coming southward, or toward Wardour. These footmarks are within a few rods of the road, as if the parties had suddenly abandoned that highway, fearing observation from travelers. My supposition is, that they approached Wardour Place, keeping to the field, after having leaped the ditch, until the northern boundary of the orchard was reached; here they must have kept close under the wall, until they came to the roadside fence, which they climbed. The fence bears freshly scraped marks, as if made by boot heels in climbing over, and some tall weeds, growing by the roadside, give evidence of having been hastily and heavily trampled. The thieves probably returned after the robbery, in the same way; for, one crossing of the fence would not have left so many marks visible, either on the boards or among the weeds; and in the darkness they fell a little eastward of their first course; for I find, at the ditch again, but nearer to the river, the same footprints where the ditch has been leaped, this time the footsteps going northward.

"It is probable that the thieves tramped northward under cover of the darkness, until they struck the railroad at some previously selected point, and from thence took the first train cityward."

The reading came thus abruptly to an end, and the reader looked up to note the effect upon his hearers. They both sat in most attentive attitudes, and each face wore an expression of puzzled astonishment. Not being able to reach their "inner consciousness," and read the mental comparisons there being drawn between this report and the very dissimilar summing up of the tramp detective, Mr. Belknap drew his inferences, as do we all, poor mortals that we are, seeing only the outside of the cup and platter. He saw the surprise, the puzzled look, that might denote a partial inability to grasp his thoughts and theories at once, and a feeling of satisfaction took possession of the breast of the astute detective.

Pausing for a comment, and receiving none, he said, with dignified gravity:

"I trust that I have made my report sufficiently plain to you, ladies, and that you find no flaw in it."

Constance, who with her keen sense of the ridiculous, had been fancying the effect this report would have upon the detective in ambush, and struggling hard with her own risibilities, mastered herself finally, and preserving her gravity of expression, replied with a wicked undercurrent of meaning:

"It is quite plain to me, sir; I am a poor critic of such matters, but I should think it a masterpiece for directness and comprehensiveness."

"And you see nothing in the theory to object to? You think that working from these findings, there will be a hope of success?" he queried.

Constance hesitated once more to consider her answer and collect herself generally.

"Why, you know, Mr. Belknap," she said at last, and with charming ingenuousness, "this is not a matter for my judgment; I rely upon you entirely; pray do not hesitate, but continue your investigations in whatever direction your judgment leads you. I wish Mr. Lamotte was here to confer with you; but, if he were here," and her face became sad as she thought of his home coming; "he would hardly be in spirits for such a consultation. Mr. Lamotte has bad news awaiting him. We must venture this matter without his aid for the present."

The detective's face showed grave concern.

"Bad news for Mr. Lamotte," he murmurs; "I deeply deplore that. He seems such a genial, kindly gentleman, so much above the average business man. It is not too serious, I hope."

"It is something you would have heard from the first gossip, if you had mingled with the town people at all," replied Constance sadly. "I may as well tell you what every one knows. Mr. Lamotte's only daughter has eloped during his absence, with a very worthless man."

"His only daughter!" repeated the detective in a hushed sympathetic voice; "what a blow! what a bitter blow to a father's heart. Ah, madam," turning to Mrs. Aliston, "these things are common, especially so to men in my profession, but we can never adjust ourselves to them for all that; each one comes to some one with the shock of a never before experienced horror. Death is common, the commonest thing of all, but, it is the 'king of terrors' still."

His voice, low, splendidly modulated, sadly cadenced, seemed thrilling with sympathy, and he sighed as he lowered his eyes to the floor, and relapsed into meditation, seemingly forgetful of the business in hand.

Suddenly he started, seeming to recover himself with an effort.

"Pardon my abstraction," he said, a shade of pensiveness still lingering in his voice. "In contemplating another's sorrow, I am forgetting your business. I can only hope that this matter is not so bad as it might be, as such things sometimes are."

"It's as bad as it can be," responded Constance, gloomily. "It won't bear discussion; I mentioned it to you, Mr. Belknap, in order to show you how entirely absorbed Mr. Lamotte will of necessity be in his own affairs when he reaches home, and that we will be obliged to move in this matter without him."

"Perhaps there is some one else you may desire to consult, in Mr. Lamotte's absence?" hazarded the private detective.

"No," replied Constance; "my lawyer is out of town, and there is no one else upon whom I can rely. You must act alone, Mr. Belknap."

"Authorized by you I shall not hesitate to do so," he replied, bowing courteously. "The case looks very clear to me. It will be a matter of time of course, these old birds are sly; but eventually they will try to market their wares, and then we shall have them. You can give me an accurate description of all the stolen jewels, Miss Wardour?"

"Oh, certainly."

"Then the sooner that is done the better."

At this moment a soft rap sounded on the door. Constance crossed the room and admitted Nelly, who said in a low tone:

"Mr. Francis Lamotte wishes to see you, Miss. I told him you were particular engaged, just as you told me; but he said to tell you he had just come from his search, and would only detain you for a moment."

Constance paled slightly, and after a moment's thought, said:

"Wait a moment, Nelly." Then she went back and addressed the detective and her aunt.

"It is Francis Lamotte," she said, adding, by way of explanation, to the detective, "the eldest son of Mr. Lamotte, and brother of the young lady who has brought trouble to herself and family. He, Francis, went on Saturday, on a self-imposed search through the surrounding country, in the hopes of finding some trace of these robbers. If he is but now returned he cannot yet have heard of his sister's flight. We cannot let him go away in ignorance, and yet," turning a look of swift appeal upon her aunt, "Aunt Honor, will you lay aside old prejudices and tell him of this sad misfortune?"

Mrs. Aliston looked doubtful for a moment, then a look of satisfied commiseration came into her face as she thought:

"She can't be very much infatuated with him or she would herself undertake this delicate task, and I can afford to pity the poor fellow, since she does not pity him overmuch," hence the strange mingling of pleasure and pity in her face as she said aloud:

"Certainly I will break the news to him, my dear, and as gently as is in my power."

Constance was turning to give her answer to Nelly when the voice of the detective interposed.

"Pardon me," he said, "you tell me this young man has been scouring the country in search of information. Would it not be well to hear what report he brings? To allow me to see him here in your presence, and then let Mrs. Aliston tell him her story. Ill news you know," smiling slightly, "come soon enough, at latest."

"Your suggestion is good," replied Constance, whose face continued to look anxious and troubled. "We will receive him here, then, and after hearing his story, you and I can withdraw."

In the hurry and embarrassment of the moment, and the situation, Constance had entirely forgotten the proximity of the concealed detective, as also had Mrs. Aliston; and that invisible gentleman began to scent the prospect of a long imprisonment.

Obedient to a nod from Constance, Nelly vanished, and soon re-appeared, ushering in Francis Lamotte, looking somewhat jaded and travel-worn, but quite confident and smiling.

In a few words, Constance made him acquainted with the detective, and gave him an outline of the doings at Wardour, including Mr. Belknap's discoveries, since he was last there; and the subdued kindness of her manner, caused him to wonder not a little and rejoice greatly, within himself.

"And so you have been bringing things down to a fine point," said Francis, after the greetings were over, and he had listened to Constance's explanation of the present state of affairs.

"It appears then that I come just in time; and perhaps you sir," bowing to Mr. Belknap, "may conclude that my amateur work has not been quite thrown away, or misapplied."

"Pray give me details," said the detective, consulting his watch, which was a huge silver affair, quite in keeping with the disguise he still wore. "I must economize my time, as much as may be, and shall be glad to hear all you have to tell—at once. Miss Wardour instructs me to act in this matter, according to my best judgment, and that tells me to shorten my stay here, and commence a search in the city."

"All I know is soon told," said young Lamotte, with a light laugh. "I rode a great many miles, and asked a great many useless questions. Yesterday, however, I learned that two men had boarded a freight train bound cityward, at daybreak, Sunday morning, at Blair, a little watering station, some fifteen miles from here. I could not get a very accurate description of them. They were below the medium size, I should judge, wearing loose-fitting dark gray garments, and soft hats, pulled well down over their faces. The man at the tank tells me, he noticed distinctly that one of them wore very large and heavy boots, and that they were daubed here and there with red clay. Acting upon this hint, I rode some four miles south-east from Blair, knowing that there is a piece of marsh field, which the highway crosses, that has a reddish, clayey soil. Here, after asking a good many wrong persons, I found at last the right one, in the person of a farmer who, hearing some unusual noise among his cattle, arose before daybreak, and, going toward his barn, noticed two shadowy forms crossing the field just beyond. They were coming from the south, he said, and he watched them until they climbed the fence and struck into the road leading toward Blair. It was too dark for him to see them distinctly, but as they were then crossing a red loam field, we are safe to conclude that they were the two who, a little later, took to the freight cars at the water station."

Mr. Belknap had been for some moments writing rapidly in a small memorandum book, and as Francis ceased speaking, Constance, after a moment's silence, said, more to relieve the stillness than with a desire for any further intelligence:

"And is that all, Frank?"

"That is enough," interposed the detective, before the young man could reply. "Mr. Lamotte, let me congratulate you; you have done well. This confirms my theory, and gives me something to start from when I reach the city. I shall go now with a light heart, and a more than moderate hope of success."

"Then your business here is about accomplished?" asked Francis.

"It is accomplished, thanks to you. I would like," glancing as he spoke, into his note book, "to talk this matter over with you further. It is possible I might see you again before leaving for the city. At present," he broke off abruptly, and glanced at Constance.

"I understand," laughed she nervously; "at present you require my assistance about that list of jewels. Frank, you will remain here with Aunt Honor for a short time; she has, I think, something to say to you. We will go to the library, Mr. Belknap," and she turned toward the door.

"Don't hurry matters so, please," expostulated Francis. "Let me say a little word to Mr. Belknap before you carry him off. His business here being so nearly done, the necessity for extra caution ceases, does it not? At least, it would not injure the cause if I carry him over to Mapleton to luncheon; will it, think you? You won't leave for the city before night, Mr. Belknap, I hope?"

"You are very good," said the detective, with some hesitation. "But, if you please, we will renew this subject a little later; now, just excuse me," and before the bewildered young man could raise his voice to intercept them, Constance and Mr. Belknap had passed from the room, and he found himself alone with Mrs. Aliston. Turning toward that lady, he was surprised at the look of intent pity she was bending on him, and, remembering the words of Constance, he came close beside her, saying:

"You had something to say to me, madam?"

"Yes Frank," he almost started upon hearing his name falling so gently from her lips. She was not used to familiarity in addressing him. "Prepare yourself to receive a shock, a terrible shock." A look of uneasiness, but not of alarm, came over his countenance.

"What is it?" he asked hastily. "Has Evan—done something worse than usual?"

"Not to my knowledge. It is not Evan."

"Not Evan, what then; tell me Mrs. Aliston," his face becoming paler and paler.

"Frank, your sister has eloped!"

He fell into the nearest chair, white and limp.

"Go on," he whispered hoarsely, lifting a haggard face towards her; "tell me—the worst, Mrs. Aliston."

"She has eloped with John Burrill," went on Mrs. Aliston, a shade of coldness in her voice. "They ran away on Saturday afternoon."

His head dropped forward and fell upon the table before him. Thus for a moment he remained motionless, then his voice broke the stillness, sounding faint and hollow.

"Is that—all—you can tell me?"

"All! Yes!" exclaimed Mrs. Aliston in a burst of nervousness. "I wish I had not told you so much. Frank don't take it so hard."

He lifted his head, showing her a ghastly face and pale trembling lips.

"Did Constance see Sybil? Does she know—" he broke off abruptly and half rising from his chair, stretched out to her an imploring hand.

"Mrs. Aliston," he said hoarsely. "I must see Constance. I must. For God's sake send her to me, just for one moment."

"But—" began Mrs. Aliston.

"I tell you I must see her," he cried, with sudden fierceness. "I shall go to her if there is no other way."

Great drops of sweat stood out on his forehead; once more he looked as he had two days before, when he stood alone under the trees of Wardour Place, after his parting with Constance.

Seeing that look upon his face, Mrs. Aliston went slowly towards the door.

"I will send Constance to you," she said gently and went out, closing the door softly.

When he was alone the look upon Francis Lamotte's face became fierce and set. Springing to his feet he paced the floor like a mad man.

"That letter," he hissed, "that accursed letter, what has it told? I must know! I must know the worst! blind fool that I was to let my own hand bring this about. Oh! this is horrible! Am I lost or—"

Suddenly he seemed to recollect himself and dropping into a chair he buried his passion-distorted face in his arms and so awaited the coming of Constance.

He had not long to wait; soon his listening ear caught the gentle opening and closing of the door, and then he felt a light hand upon his arm, and a sweet pitying voice said: "Poor Frank, poor boy, don't let this overcome you so."

One hand reached up and clasped the soft hand that rested on his arm, but he did not lift his head, as he said brokenly:

"Tell me the worst, Constance."

"Why, Frank! the worst is told."

"But," his hand tightened its clasp, "you know more than she has told me."

"No, Frank, nothing more."

He lifted his pale face again.

"Constance—that letter."

She started and flushed.

"What letter, Frank?"

"You know," his eyes scanning her face hungrily. "Her letter. The one I brought you two days ago. What was it?"

She drew away her hand.

"It was a note of farewell, Frank. Nothing more."

"Then she told you?" he gasped,—caught his lips between his teeth, and waited for her to finish the sentence.

"She told me nothing, Frank. Oh, I wish she had."

He sprang up, overturning his chair in his hasty excitement.

"Nothing!" he cried "she told you nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing. The letter was an enigma. How strangely you act, Frank. I can't understand you."

Slowly the life color returned to his cheeks and lips, as he answered, or stammered:

"Pardon me, Constance. I thought—I feared—I hoped there might be some explanation. I thought she must have given you some reason for so horrible a step. Are you sure there is no hint, no clue to help us?"

"Frank, listen: Sybil's note explained nothing. It only implored me not to think harshly of her, when I should know what she had done, and bade me farewell. I could not comprehend its meaning until the news reached me that she had fled."

"And you can not guess why she did this thing?"

"No."

He turned away, putting his hand up before his face, and uttering a groan. Then he moved toward one of the French windows, pushed it open, and leaned out.

"I feel as if I were going mad," he muttered. "Constance, pardon me; I must have the air. I must be alone to think, and to face this—this disgrace that has come upon us."

And he stepped through the open window, and reeled rather than walked down the steps, and out among the trees.

Constance watched him until the shrubbery hid him from view, and then, with a quick, nervous glance about the room, and out at the windows, she went to the door which shut our tramp detective from view, but not from hearing.

"Come out," she whispered, hurriedly. "Now is your time to escape."

He came out, shaking himself like a water dog.

"Ugh!" he exclaimed. "I have been in one position too long."

"I am sorry," began Constance.

"Not for me," he interrupted. "Like most listeners, I heard what I did not bargain for; but—I have not heard too much. Miss Wardour, don't reproach yourself, or Fate; that little extra hearing was a godsend. And now, let me out, quickly, before some one else claims your time."

She looked cautiously out into the hall, then closed the door again.

"I wish I could know your opinion regarding this business—all of it," she said, wistfully. "I begin to feel helpless, like a rudderless mariner."

"It's a hard knot," he said, going toward the door; "a very hard knot. But we will untie it, Miss Wardour, and then you will understand all these things. Now tell me, where is your detective going next?"

"I do not know."

"You must find out," imperatively.

"I think I can."

"And come to me in the garden."

"Very well," looking out once more. "Your way is clear, sir; go straight to the kitchen entrance."

He passed out, and went his way, swiftly, quietly, and unobserved; and Constance returned to Mr. Belknap, and the completion of her jewel list.

"The combat deepens," mused the tramp detective, as he paced slowly down the garden walk. "The plot, thickens. I come for a catfish,—I may catch a whale. Oh, what a knot; what a beautiful, delightful, horribly hard knot; and how my fingers itch to begin at it. But soft—easy; there is more to be tied in. Let us pay out the rope, and wait."