So engrossed were we by our plans, which we were laboring to get into shape, that we forgot the passing hours and the demands of appetite. It was long past the lunch hour when a servant appeared to ask if he should not bring in the tray, having waited in vain for the usual summons. With its appearance Lenore came in, the same lovely, sylph-like little creature, but looking rather less fragile than when I saw her last. At the sight of me, her color went and came—one instant she hesitated, then approached and gave me her hand, with a smile and kiss. Her father had already told of her having made two or three visits to the Argyll mansion within the time of my absence; and I attributed her blushes, upon meeting me, to her frank heart accusing her of the disparaging thoughts she had entertained of me. The subtle influence of James had doubtless, without any necessity for putting the idea into words, warned her against me as a bad man; but now as she looked at me, she was sorry for what she had felt, and disposed to renew her old friendship.

Before lunch was concluded, Mr. Burton fell into a reverie, which he ended by saying,

“We must have the assistance of Lenore, if she can give us any.”

I felt reluctant to see the child placed again in that unnatural trance; but other considerations were even weightier than our fears for the shock to her nervous system; and after she had chatted a while with us, and had sung for me, Mr. Burton subjected her to the experiment. It had been so long since he had exercised his power over her, that it required a greater effort than on the former occasion which I witnessed, to place her in the desired condition. He, however, finally succeeded perfectly. The dead-letter was placed in her hands, when we observed her shrink as if a serpent had glided over her lap; but she did not throw it down, as she seemed moved to do.

“What do you see, Lenore?”

“It is too dark to see. A lamp shines across the walk, and I see a man dropping the letter in the box. He is muffled up so that I can not tell about his face; he steals up and goes off again very quickly.”

“Follow him, Lenore.”

“It is too dark, father. I am lost in the streets. Oh! now I have overtaken him again; he walks so fast—he is short and thick—he looks as if he were afraid of something. He will not pass the police-officer, but crosses the street, and keeps in the shadow. Now we are at the ferry—it is the Fulton Ferry—I know it well. Oh, dear! the water rises and the wind blows—it is getting morning, but it rains so—and the water is so wild I can not make my way on to the boat.”

“Don’t be discouraged, my child. I would give much to have you follow him across the river, and tell me at what house he stops.”

“The wind blows so,” continued Lenore, pitifully; “all is dark and uncertain. I have missed him—I do not know him from others.”

“Try again, my darling. Look well at the letter.”

“All is dark and uncertain,” she repeated, in a vague tone.

“It is useless,” exclaimed Mr. Burton, in a burst of disappointment; “it has been too long since the letter was penned. The personality of the writer has departed from it. If she had only been able to pursue him to his haunts, our investigations in that vicinity might have richly repaid us.”

Finding it impossible to get any more information from the child, she was relieved from her trance, stimulated with a glass of cordial, and sent up to take a siesta before the hour for dinner. Scarcely had she left the library before I sprung to my feet, exclaiming,

“Good heavens, how easy!—and here I have never thought of it.”

“What is easy?”

“To ascertain who is the John Owen who calls for these letters at Peekskill. Of course—why, what a fool I am!”

“I am afraid you will not find it so easy. People carrying on a correspondence for such a purpose, do not come forward openly for their letters—and this was a good while ago—and it is quite possible this may be the only missive ever sent, through the mail, to that address—and this, evidently, was never called for.”

“At least, it is worth inquiring into,” I added, less triumphantly.

“Of course it is. We wish, also, to ascertain how the letter came dragging along to Washington two years, nearly, behind its time. I propose that we start for Peekskill by the early morning train.”

To wait, even until morning, seemed too tardy for my mood. But as it was now four o’clock, and I had no right to ask the detective to resign his dinner and evening comfort, I made no objection to the time. And, in truth, the time sped more swiftly than I expected; we had still so much to discuss. Dinner came—and the hour of retiring followed—before we had matured our course of action. We were to go to Peekskill and learn all possible about John Owen. If we gained no important information there, we were to go on, in the evening, to Blankville, to enter, under cover of the darkness, the lawn of the Argyll house, and secure the broken knife or dagger, which, we believed, we should find secreted in a certain oak upon the premises. This we wished to do without the knowledge of the family, for two reasons: the smaller one of which was, that I did not wish my visit to be made known, and the larger, that we both were certain we could prosecute our plans more successfully if the friends knew nothing of our efforts. Then, if we still failed to discover the accomplice, we were to sail for California.

The reader may see that we were set upon the accomplishment of our purposes by the willingness with which we gave time, money and mind to our object. I had first proposed the visit to California, avowing my intention to make it, when Mr. Burton had surprised me by offering to be my companion. This was a sacrifice which I could not have asked or expected of him; but he would not allow me to view it in that light, saying, with pleasant peremptoriness, that Lenore needed a sea-voyage; and he had been thinking of taking one on her account. He would make it a pleasure-tour, as well as one of business, “and then,” with a laugh which would have been satirical if it had not been so frank—“he was afraid my mission would not be so successful, if undertaken alone.” And I had answered him that I realized my own inefficiency, as compared with his talent and experience—all I had to encourage me was the devotion with which I undertook my work—to that, alone, I trusted to insure me some reward. But if he really were willing to go with me, I should feel almost elated.

We were at Peekskill the next day in good season. We found the same postmaster in service who had been in the office at the time the dead-letter arrived there. When Mr. Burton—I lounging carelessly in the background—showed the envelope and inquired how it had occurred that it had been forwarded to the Department at this late hour, the official showed a little embarrassment, as inferring that he was about to be taken to task for a neglect of duty by some indignant individual.

“I will tell you how it happened, Mr. Owen,” said he, “if you’re the person addressed on that envelope. You never came for the letter, and before the expiration of the time required by law for forwarding it to Washington, it got slipped into a crack, and was never discovered till about a fortnight ago. You see, our place here wasn’t just the thing for an office; it never did suit, and this month, I finally had new boxes and shelves put in, and the room fixed up. In tearing down the old fixings, several letters were discovered which had slipped into a crack between the shelf and wall. This was one of them. I thought, ‘better late than never,’ though at first I had a mind to throw them into the stove. I hope, sir, the loss of the letter hasn’t put you to any very great inconvenience?”

“It was of some importance,” answered my companion, in a commonplace tone, “and I’m not sorry, even yet, to have recovered it, as it settles a matter I had been in doubt about. My man must have been very negligent; I certainly sent him for the letter. Don’t you remember a young man, a coachman, coming for my letters?”

“He never came but twice, to my knowledge,” answered the postmaster, giving a glance of curiosity at the speaker. “I wondered who it was they were for—not being any one that I knew—and I know mostly everybody in the district. Traveling through our town, perhaps?”

“Yes, I was a stranger, who merely passed two or three times through your village, stopping on business. My usual address is New York. That coachman was hired at the next village to drive me about the country a few days. I have nearly forgotten him. I would like to call him to an account for some of his conduct which was not satisfactory. Can you describe his personal appearance?—though, I suppose, you could not have taken any particular notice of him.”

“It was evening on both occasions of his calling. He was muffled up about the lower part of the face, and his cap pulled down. I couldn’t tell you a thing about him, indeed, except that he had black eyes. If I’m not mistaken, he had black or dark eyes. I think I remember of their looking at me very sharp through the window here. But it was evening, and I shouldn’t mind the circumstance at all if I had not wondered, at the time, who John Owen was. It’s likely the fellow was a rogue—he looked kind of slippery.”

I, listening apart to the conversation, longed to ask if this muffled driver was small and slender, for I was thinking of a woman. While I was studying how to propose the question to Mr. Burton, he continued,

“A smallish fellow, if I remember rightly? I really wish I had his name.”

“Can’t say any thing more about it,” was the reply of the postmaster. “I couldn’t answer if he were large or small, white or black, except as to his eyes, which were about all I saw of him. If you want to find out about him, why don’t you go to the livery-keeper who furnished your team to you? Of course, his employer could tell you all you want to know.”

“That would be the most sensible course,” answered the detective, with a laugh. “But, my good friend, it is considerably out of my way to go to S—; and I must leave on the train up, in half an hour. After all, the matter is not of so much importance. I had a curiosity to learn what had kept the letter so long on its travels. Good-day, sir.”

It never entered the official’s thoughts to inquire how we came in possession of a document which had not been returned from the Dead-Letter Department—at least, not while we remained with him—though he may afterward have puzzled his brains over the affair.

As we did not wish to arrive in Blankville until after dark, we had to leave the cars once again, and to get off at a little intermediate station, with half a dozen houses clustered about it; and here we whiled away, as we best could, several tedious hours, whose dreariness was only partially soothed by the influences of such a supper as could be obtained in the small public-house attached to the depot.

As the sun drew toward setting and the night approached, a fierce restlessness thrilled along my nerves. That peace—if the dullness and sluggishness of my chilled feelings could be called peace—into which I had forced myself for many months, was broken up. The mere fact of my nearness to the spot which had once been so dear to me, overpowered me with strong attractions; the force of habit and of memory was at work; and when, at twilight, the train stopped and took us up, my mind ran on before the iron-horse, and was at the end of the little journey before the commencement. Upon arriving at Blankville, we descended the rear car and walked up toward the village, without approaching the depot, as I was afraid the lamps might betray me to some former acquaintance. It was a mild evening, early in September, and I had no excuse for muffling up; so I pulled my hat down over my eyes, quite sure that I should escape recognition, in the dim moonlight, which, overblown by light, thin clouds, transfused the western sky. We walked about, in quiet parts of the village, until ten o’clock; and then, the moon having set, we approached the Argyll mansion, along the well-remembered street. I know not if my companion guessed my disturbance, as I passed the office and came up in front of the lawn, black beneath the starlight, with the shadows of its fine old trees. The past was not half so dead as I had got in the habit of believing it—life is sweet and strong in the heart of youth, which will endure many blows before it will cease to beat with the tremulous thrill of hope and passion.

A bright light was shining from the windows of the parlor and several of the other rooms, but the hall-door was closed, and every thing was so quiet about the premises that I did not believe I ran any risk in entering the gate and seeking out the monarch oak—a mighty tree, the pride of the lawn, which stood quite to one side from the central avenue which led up to the front portico, and only some thirty feet from the left corner of the mansion, which was, at times, almost touched by the reach of its outermost branches. We advanced together through the darkness, it being the understanding that, should any accident betray our visit, before its purpose was accomplished, I was to retreat, while Mr. Burton would boldly approach and make the excuse of a call upon Mr. Argyll. My familiarity with the premises and my superiority in the art of climbing, made the duty of ascending the tree devolve upon me. While my companion stood on guard beneath, I drew myself up, carefully making my way through the night, out along to the “second branch to the left,” feeling for the hollow which I knew existed—for, in my more boyish days, I had left no possible point of the grand old tree unvisited. Not five minutes had elapsed since I began my search, before my fingers, pressing into the ragged cavity of the slowly-decaying limb, touched a cold object which I knew to be steel. My hand recoiled with an instinctive shudder, but returned immediately to its duty, cautiously drawing forth a slender instrument of which I could not make out the precise character. Upon raising my head, after securing the object of our anxiety, my eyes fell upon a scene which held them fascinated for so long a time that the patience of my friend at the foot of the tree must have been sorely tried.

The windows on the side of the parlor looking on the left were both open, the chandeliers lighted, and from my airy eyrie in the tree, I commanded a full view of the interior. For a time I saw but one person. Sitting by a center-table, directly under the flood of light from the chandelier, was one of the sisters, reading a book. At first—yes, for a full minute—I thought it was Eleanor!—Eleanor as she was, when the homage of my soul first went out toward her, like the exhalation of a flower to the sun—as young, as blooming and radiant as she was before the destroyer came—the dew upon the lip, the light on the brow, the glory of health, youth and joy upon every feature and in every flow of her garments, from the luster of her hair to the glimmer of her silken slipper.

“Can it be?” I murmured. “Is there such power of resuscitation in human vitality as this?”

While I asked myself the question, I was undecided. I saw (and wondered how I could have been mistaken for an instant), that this beautiful woman was Mary, grown so like her older sister, during the months of my absence, as to be almost the counterpart of what Eleanor had been. When I left her she was a girl, half-child, half-woman, bright with the promise of rare sweetness; and now, in this brief summer-time of fifteen months—so rapid had the magic culmination been—she had expanded into the perfection of all that is loveliest in her sex. A thoughtfulness, caused, probably, by the misfortune which had befallen the house—a shadow from the cloud which wrapped her sister—toned down the frolicsome gayety which had once characterized her, and added the grace of sentiment to her demeanor. I could not gaze upon the fair, meditative brow without perceiving that Mary had gained in depth of feeling as well as in womanly beauty. She wore a dress of some lustrous fabric, which gleamed slumberously in the yellow light, like water shining about a lily; as she bent above her book, her hair clustered about her throat, softening its exquisite outlines; so near, so vivid, was the unconscious tableau-vivant, seen through the open frame of the window, that I imagined I heard her breathe, and inhaled the fragrance lingering in her curls and handkerchief.

While I gazed, another figure glided within range of my vision. Eleanor, as I beheld her in my dreams, colorless, robed in black, young still, beautiful still, but crowned, like a queen, with the majesty of her desolation, which kept her apart from sympathy, though not from adoration. Gliding behind her sister’s chair, she bent a moment to see what volume had such attractions, kissed the fair face turned instantly with a smile to hers, and passed away, going out into the hall. I had heard her low “good-night.”

Then, almost before she had vanished, came the third figure into the picture. James, approaching as if from some sofa where he had been lounging, took the book from Mary’s hand, which he held a little, saying something which brought blushes to her cheeks. Presently she withdrew her hand; but he caught it again, and kissed it, and I heard him say,

“Oh! Mary, you are cruel with me—you know it.”

Not until I heard him speak, did it rush upon me that I had no business to be there, spying and eavesdropping. I had looked at first, unconscious of the circumstances, like a wandering spirit lingering by the walls of Eden, gazing upon the beauty which is not within its sphere. No sooner did I realize my position than I began to descend from my eyrie; but James had drawn his cousin from her chair, and the pair approached the window, and stood there, their eyes fixed, apparently, upon that very point in the giant oak where I crouched, suddenly fear-blasted, with the square of light from the window illuminating the limb where I lay concealed. I had crawled from my first resting-place, and was about jumping to the ground, when their presence transfixed me, in the most dangerous possible predicament. I dared not move for fear of being discovered. I was paralyzed by a lightning consciousness that should I then and there be betrayed, I would be the victim of a singular combination of circumstantial evidence. Found lingering at night, like a thief, upon the premises of those I had injured; stealthily seeking to remove the evidence of my guilt—the weapon with which the murder was committed, hidden by me, at the time, in this tree, and now sought for in order to remove it from possible discovery—why, I tell you, reader, had James Argyll sprung upon me there, seized the knife, accused me, nothing would have saved me from condemnation. The probabilities are, that the case would have been so very conclusive, and the guilt so horribly aggravated, that the populace would have taken the matter in their own hands, and torn me to pieces, to show their love of justice. Even the testimony of Mr. Burton would not have availed to turn the tide in my favor; he would have been accused of seeking to hide my sin, and his reputation would not have saved him from the ban of public opinion. A cold sweat broke over me as I thought of it. Not the fear of death, nor of the horror of the world—but dread of the judgment of the two sisters took possession of me. If this statement of my critical position, when the trembling of a bough might convict an innocent man, should make my reader more thoughtful in the matter of circumstantial evidence, I shall be repaid for the pangs which I then endured.

The young couple stepped out upon the sward. I did not trouble myself about what had become of Mr. Burton, for I knew that he was in the shadow, and could retreat with safety; he, doubtless, felt more anxiety about me.

“Draw your scarf up over your head, Mary,” said James, in that soft, pleasant voice of his, which made me burn with dislike as I heard it—“the night is so warm, it will not harm you to be out a few moments. Do not deny me a little interval of happiness to-night.”

As if drawn forward more by his subtle will than by her own wish, she took his arm, and they walked back and forth, twice or thrice, in the light of the window, and paused directly under the limb of the tree, which seemed to shake with the throbbing of my heart. A beam of light fell athwart the face of James, so that I could see its expression, as he talked to the young creature on his arm—a handsome face, dark, glowing with passion and determination, but sinister. I prayed, in my heart, for Mary to have eyes to read it as I read it.

“Mary, you promised me an answer this week. Give it to me to-night. You have said that you would be my wife—now, tell me how soon I may claim you. I do not believe in long engagements; I want to make you mine before any disaster comes between us.”

“Did I promise you, James? I really did not know that you considered what I said in the light of a promise. Indeed, I am so young, and we have always been such friends—cousins, you know—that I hardly understand my own feelings. I do wish you would not overpersuade me; we might both be sorry. I never believed in the marriage of cousins; so I do not think you ought to feel hurt, cousin James.”

He interrupted the tremulous voice with one a little sharper than his first persuasive tone:

“I am surprised that you do not feel that I regard you as already betrothed to me. I did not think you were a coquette, Mary. And, as for cousinship, I have already told you what I think of it. I know the secret of your reluctance—shall I betray it to you?”

She was silent.

“Your heart is still set on that scoundrel. One might suppose that dread and loathing would be the only sentiment you could entertain toward a traitor and—I will not speak the word, Mary. You took up swords in his defense, and persisted in accusing us of wronging him, against the judgment of your own father and friends. I suspected, then, by the warmth of your avowed friendship for him, that he had, among his other honorable deeds, gained my little cousin’s heart, for the pleasure of flattering his self-love. And I shall suspect, if you persist in putting me off, when you know that your father desires our union, and that my whole existence is wrapped up in you, that he still holds it, despite of what has passed.”

“He never ‘gained’ my heart by unfair means,” said the girl, speaking proudly. “I gave him what he had of it—and he never knew how large a part that was. I wish he had known, poor Richard! for I still believe that you are all wronging him cruelly. I am his friend, James, and it hurts me to hear you speak so of him. But that would not prevent my being your friend, too, cousin—”

“You must not say ‘cousin,’ again, Mary. I’m worn out, now, and half mad with my feelings—and it makes me desperate. One thing is certain: I can not stay any longer where you are, if you continue so undecided. I want a final answer to-night. If it is unpropitious, I shall go away to-morrow, and seek for such poor fortune as may be mine, in some other part of the world.”

“But what will father do without you, James?”

There was distress and a half-yielding cadence in Mary’s voice.

“That is for you to think of.”

“His health is failing so rapidly of late; and he leans so much upon you—trusts every thing to you. I am afraid it would kill him to have all his hopes and plans again frustrated. He has never recovered from the shock of Henry’s death, and Richard’s—going away.”

“If you think so, Mary, why do you any longer hesitate? You acknowledge that you love me as a cousin—let me teach you to love me as a lover. My sweetest, it will make us all so happy.”

But why should I try to repeat here the arguments which I heard?—the main burden of which was the welfare and wishes of her father and sister—mingled with bursts of tender entreaty—and, what was more powerful than all, the exercise of that soft yet terrible will which had worked its way, thus far, against all obstacles. Suffice it, that when the cousins at last—after what seemed to me an age, though it could not have been twenty minutes—returned through the window, I had heard the promise of Mary to become the wife of James before the beginning of another year.

Never was a man more glad to release himself from an unpleasant predicament than I was to descend from my perch when the two figures had passed within the house. My fear of discovery had become absorbed in my keen shame and regret at being compelled to play the eavesdropper to a conversation like that which I had overheard. Moving a few paces in the shadow of the trees, I whispered—“Burton.”

“Got yourself into a pretty scrape,” was instantly answered, in a low tone, as my friend took my arm and we moved forward to the gate. “I didn’t know but we should have a tragico-comedy upon the spot, impromptu and highly interesting.”

“I almost wonder that you are not too greatly out of patience with waiting to jest about the matter.”

“I’ve told you my motto—‘learn to wait,’ Richard. The gods will not be hurried; but have you the knife?”

“Ay!” was my grim answer; I felt grim, as I grasped the treacherous, murderous thing which had wrought such deadly mischief. The sound of shutters drawn together startled us into a quicker pace; we looked back and saw the lower part of the house dark—hurried forward, and without any molestation, or our presence in Blankville being known to a single acquaintance, took the night-train back to New York, which we reached about two, A. M. and were at Mr. Burton’s house, ringing up the surprised servants, shortly after.

It was not until we were in the library, with the doors closed, and the full blaze of a gas-burner turned on, that I took from my pocket the weapon, and handed it to my companion.

Both of us bent curiously forward to examine it.

“This,” said the detective, in a surprised and somewhat agitated tone, “is a surgical instrument. You see, it is quite unlike a common knife. It corroborates one of my conclusions. I told you the blow was dealt by a practiced hand—it has been dealt by one skilled in anatomy. There’s another link in my chain. I hope I shall have patience until I shall have forged it together about the guilty.”

“There is no longer any doubt about the dead-letter referring to the murder. You see the instrument is broken,” I remarked.

“No doubt, indeed,” and Mr. Burton went to a drawer of a secretary standing in the room, and took out the little piece of steel which had been found in Henry Moreland’s body.

“You see it is the very fragment. I obtained this important bit of evidence, and laid it away, after others had given up all efforts to make it available. How fortunate that I preserved it! So, the wedding is to take place within three months, is it? Richard, we must not rest now. A great deal can be done in three months, and I would give all the gold I have in bank to clear this matter up before that marriage takes place. Should that once be consummated before we are satisfied with our investigations, I shall drop them for ever. A doctor—a doctor”—he continued, musingly—“I knew the fellow had half-studied some profession—he was a surgeon—yes! By George!” he exclaimed, presently, leaping from his chair as if he had been shot, and walking rapidly across the room and back.

I knew he was very much excited, for it was the first time I had heard him use any expression like the above. I waited for him to tell me what had flashed into his mind so suddenly.

“The fellow who married Leesy’s cousin, and ran away from her, was a doctor—Miss Sullivan has told me that. Richard, I begin to see light!—day is breaking!”

I hardly knew whether his speech was figurative or literal, as day was really breaking upon us two men, plotting there in the night, as if we were the criminals instead of their relentless pursuers.

“Three months! There will be time, Richard!” and Mr. Burton actually flung his arms about me, in a burst of exultation.