Like a man in a dream, Frank Lamotte obeys his father's call, never once thinking that the summons is strangely worded. Over and over in his mind the question is repeating itself—What did she mean? Was he going mad? Was he dreaming? Had Constance Wardour really said a word that rendered himself and all that household unsafe? If she knew who should stand in Clifford Heath's stead, would she really spare the culprit? No; it was impossible. Was her talk bravado? was she seeking to deceive him?

"Impossible," he reasons. "If she knew who struck that blow, then I am ruined utterly. But she does not know—she can not."

Jasper Lamotte leads the way to the library. It seems natural that he should move softly, cautiously. A supernatural stillness pervades the lower floor. Frank Lamotte shudders and keeps his eyes turned away from the closed-up drawing room with its silent tenant.

When they are seated face to face, with locked door and closely drawn curtains, Frank looks across at his father, and notes for the first time that day the lines of care settling about the sallow mouth, and underneath the dark, brooding eyes. A moment of silence rests between them, while each reads the signs of disaster in the face of the other. Finally the elder says, with something very like a sneer in his voice:

"One would think you a model mourner, your visage is sufficiently woful." Then leaning across the table, and elevating one long forefinger; "Something more than the simple fact of Burrill's death has shaken you, Frank. What is it?"

Frank Lamotte utters a low mirthless laugh.

"I might say the same of you, sir; your present pallor can scarcely be attributed to grief."

"True;" a darker shadow falling across his countenance. "Nor is it grief. It is bitter disappointment. Have you seen Miss Wardour?"

"Yes;" averting his head.

"And your case in that quarter?"

"Hopeless."

"What!" sharply.

"Hopeless, I tell you, sir; do I look like a prosperous wooer? she will not look at me. She will not touch me. She will not have me at any price."

Jasper Lamotte mutters a curse. "Then you have been playing the poltroon," he says savagely.

The countenance of the younger man grows livid. He starts up from his chair, then sinks weakly back again.

"Drop the subject," he says hoarsely. "That card is played, and lost. Is this all you have to say?"

"All! I wish it were. What took me to the city?"

"What took you, true enough. The need of a few thousands, ready cash."

"Yes. Well! I have not got the cash."

"But—good heavens! you had ample—securities."

"Ample securities, yes," with a low grating laugh. "Look, I don't know who has interposed thus in our favor, but—if John Burrill were alive to-night you and I would be—beggars."

"Impossible, while you hold the valuable—"

"Bah! valuable indeed! you and I have been fooled, duped, deluded. Our treasured securities are—"

"Well, are what?"

"Shams."

"Shams!" incredulously. "But that is impossible."

"Is it?" cynically. "Then the impossible has come to pass. There's nothing genuine in the whole lot."

A long silence falls between them. Frank Lamotte sits staring straight before him; sudden conviction seems to have overtaken his panic-stricken senses. Jasper Lamotte drums upon the table impatiently, looking moody and despondent.

"A variety of queer things may seem plain to you now," he says, finally. "Perhaps you realize the necessity for instant action of some sort."

Frank stirs restlessly, and passes his hand across his brows.

"I can't realize anything fully," he says, slowly. "It's as well that Burrill did not live to know this."

"Well! It's providential! We should not have a chance; as it is, we have one. Do you know where Burrill kept his papers?"

"No."

"Who removed his personal effects? Were you present?"

"Assuredly. There were no papers of value to us upon the body."

"Well, those papers must be found. Once in our hands, we are safe enough for the present; but until we find them, we are not so secure. However, I have no doubt but that they are secreted somewhere about his room. Have you seen Belknap to-day?"

"Only at the inquest. Curse that fellow; I wish we were rid of him entirely."

"I wish we were rid of his claim; but it must be paid somehow."

"Somehow!" echoing the word, mockingly.

"That is the word I used. I must borrow the money."

"Indeed! Of whom?"

"Of Constance Wardour."

"What!"

"Why not, pray? Am I to withdraw because you have been discarded? Why should I not borrow from this tricky young lady? Curse her!"

"Well!" rising slowly, "she is under your roof at this moment. Strike while the iron is hot. Have you anything more to say to-night?"

"No. You are too idiotic. Get some of the cobwebs out of your brain, and that scared look out of your face. One would think that you, and not Heath, were the murderer of Burrill."

A strange look darts from the eyes of Frank Lamotte.

"It won't be so decided by a jury," he says, between his shut teeth. "Curse Heath, he is the man who, all along, has stood in my way."

"Well, there's a strong likelihood that he will be removed from your path. There, go, and don't look so abjectly hopeless. We have nothing to do at present, but to quiet Belknap. Good night."

With lagging steps, Frank Lamotte ascends the stairs, and enters his own room. He locks the door with a nervous hand, and then hurriedly lowers the curtains. He goes to the mirror, and gazes at his reflected self,—hollow, burning eyes, haggard cheeks, blanched lips, that twitch convulsively, a mingled expression of desperation, horror, and despair,—that is what he sees, and the sight does not serve to steady his nerves. He turns away, with a curse upon the white lips.

He flings himself down in a huge easy chair, and dropping his chin upon his breast, tries to think; but thought only deepens the despairing horror and fear upon his countenance. Where his father sees one foe, Francis Lamotte sees ten.

He sees before him Jerry Belknap, private detective, angry, implacable, menacing, not to be quieted. He sees Clifford Heath, pale, stern, accusing. Constance Wardour, scornful, menacing, condemning and consigning him to dreadful punishment. The dead face of John Burrill rises before him, jeering, jibing, odious, seeming to share with him some ugly secret. He passes his hand across his brow, and starts up suddenly.

"Bah!" he mutters, "this is no time to dally; on every side I see a pitfall. Let every man look to himself. If I must play in my last trump, let me be prepared."

He takes from his pocket a bunch of keys, and, selecting one of the smallest, unlocks a drawer of his dressing case. He draws forth a pair of pistols and examines them carefully. Then he withdraws the charges from both weapons, and loads one anew. The latter he conceals about his person, and then takes up the other. He hesitates a moment, and then loads that also, replaces it in its hiding place, closes and locks the drawer. Then he breathes a long sigh of relief.

"It's a deadly anchor to windward," he mutters, turning away. "It's a last resort. Now I have only to wait."