Several minor circumstances prevented my going in search of the woman who had excited my suspicions on the previous day, until about nine o’clock of the morning, when I engaged an officer, and we two went quietly, without communicating our plans to any one else, to the tenement-house before spoken of.

Although Blankville was not a large village, there was in it, as in nearly every town blessed with a railroad depot, a shabby quarter where the rougher portion of its working people lived. The house stood in this quarter—it was a three-story frame building, occupied by half a dozen families, mostly those of Irish laborers, who found work in the vicinity of the depot. I had seen the strange girl ascend to the second floor, in the dim light of the previous night, so we went up and knocked at the first door we came upon. It was opened by a decent-appearing middle-aged woman, who held the knob in her hand while she waited for us to make known our errand; we both stepped into her apartment, before we spoke. A rapid glance revealed an innocent-looking room with the ordinary furniture of such a place—a cooking-stove, bed, table, etc.; but no other inmate. There was a cupboard, the door of which stood open, showing its humble array of dishes and eatables—there were no pantries, nor other places of concealment. I was certain that I had seen the girl enter this room at the head of the stairs, so I ventured:

“Is your daughter at home, ma’am?”

“Is it my niece you mean?”

I detected an Irish accent, though the woman spoke with but little “brogue,” and was evidently an old resident of our country—in a manner Americanized.

“Oh, she is your niece? I suppose so—a tall girl with dark eyes and hair.”

“That’s Leesy, herself. Was you wanting any work done?”

“Yes,” answered the officer, quickly, taking the matter out of my hands. “I wanted to get a set of shirts made up—six, with fine, stitched bosoms.” He had noticed a cheap sewing-machine standing near the window, and a bundle of coarse muslin in a basket near by.

“It’s sorry I am to disappoint you; but Leesy’s not with me now, and I hardly venture on the fine work. I make the shirts for the hands about the railroad that hasn’t wives of their own to do it—but for the fine bussums”—doubtfully—“though, to be sure, the machine does the stitches up beautiful—if it wasn’t for the button-holes!”

“Where is Leesy? Doesn’t she stop with you?”

“It’s her I have here always when she’s out of a place. She’s an orphan, poor girl, and it’s not in the blood of a Sullivan to turn off their own. I’ve brought her up from a little thing of five years old—given her the education, too. She can read and write like the ladies of the land.”

“You didn’t say where she was, Mrs. Sullivan.”

“She’s making the fine things in a fancy-store in New York—caps and collars and sleeves and the beautiful tucked waists—she’s such taste, and the work is not so hard as plain-sewing—four dollars a week she gets, and boarded for two and a half, in a nice, genteel place. She expects to be illivated to the forewoman’s place, at seven dollars the week, before many months. She was here to stay over the Sunday with me—she often does that; and she’s gone back by the six o’clock train this mornin’—and she’ll be surely late at that by an hour. I tried to coax her to stay the day, she seemed so poorly. She’s not been herself this long time—she seems goin’ in a decline like—it’s the stooping over the needle, I think. She’s so nervous-like, the news of the murder yesterday almost killed her. ’Twas an awful deed that, wasn’t it, gintlemen? I couldn’t sleep a wink last night for thinkin’ of that poor young man and the sweet lady he was to have married. Such a fine, generous, polite young gintleman!”

“Did you know him?”

“Know him! as well as my own son if I had one!—not that ever I spoke to him, but he’s passed here often on his way to his father’s house, and to Mr. Argyll’s; and Leesy sewed in their family these two summers when they’ve been here, and was always twice paid. When she’d go away he’d say, laughing in his beautiful way, ‘And how much have you earned a day, Miss Sullivan, sitting there all these long, hot hours?’ and she’d answer, ‘Fifty cents a day, and thanks to your mother for the good pay;’ and he’d put his hand in his pocket and pull out a ten-dollar gold-piece and say, ‘Women aren’t half paid for their work! it’s a shame! if you hain’t earned a dollar a day, Miss Sullivan, you hain’t earned a cent. So don’t be afraid to take it—it’s your due.’ And that’s what made Leesy think so much of him—he was so thoughtful of the poor—God bless him! How could anybody have the heart to do it!”

I looked at the officer and found his eyes reading my face. One thought had evidently flashed over both of us; but it was a suspicion which wronged the immaculate memory of Henry Moreland, and I, for my part, banished it as soon as it entered my mind. It was like him to pay generously the labors of a sickly sewing-girl; it was not like him to take any advantage of her ignorance or gratitude, which might result in her taking such desperate revenge for her wrongs. The thought was an insult to him and to the noble woman who was to have been his wife. I blushed at the intrusive, unwelcome fancy; but the officer, not knowing the deceased as I knew him, and, perhaps, having no such exalted idea of manhood as mine, seemed to feel as if here might be a thread to follow.

“Leesy thought much of him, you think, Mrs. Sullivan,” taking a chair unbidden, and putting on a friendly, gossiping air. “Everybody speaks well of him. So she sewed in the family?”

“Six weeks every summer. They was always satisfied with her sewing—she’s the quickest and neatest hand with the needle! She’d make them shirts of yours beautiful, if she was to home, sir.”

“When did she go to New York to live?”

“Last winter, early. It’s nearly a year now. There was something come across her—she appeared homesick like, and strange. When she said she meant to go to the city and get work, I was minded to let her go, for I thought the change mebbe would do her good. But she’s quite ailing and coughs dreadful o’ nights. I’m afraid she catched cold in that rain-storm night afore last; she came up all the way from the depot in it. She was wet to the skin when she got here and as white as a sheet. She was so weak-like that when the neighbors came in with the news yesterday, she gave a scream and dropped right down. I didn’t wonder she was took aback. I ain’t got done trembling yet myself.”

I remembered the gentleman who had first spoken to me about the girl said that she had come in on the morning train Saturday; I could not reconcile this with her coming up from the depot at dark; yet I wished to put my question in such a way as not to arouse suspicion of my motive.

“If she came in the six o’clock train she must have been on the same train with Mr. Moreland.”

“I believe she was in the seven o’clock cars—yes, she was. ’Twas half-past seven when she got in—the rain was pouring down awful. She didn’t see him, for I asked her yesterday.”

“In whose shop in New York is she employed?” inquired the officer.

“She’s at No 3—Broadway,” naming a store somewhere between Wall street and Canal.

“Are you wanting her for any thing?” she asked, suddenly, looking up sharply as if it just occurred to her that our inquiries were rather pointed.

“Oh, no,” replied my companion, rising; “I was a bit tired, and thought I’d rest my feet before starting out again. I’ll thank you for a glass of water, Mrs. Sullivan. So you won’t undertake the shirts?”

“If I thought I could do the button-holes—”

“Perhaps your niece could do them on her next visit, if you wanted the job,” I suggested.

“Why, so she could! and would be glad to do something for her old aunt. It’s bright you are to put me in mind of it. Shall I come for the work, sir?”

“I’ll send it round when I get it ready. I suppose your niece intends to visit you next Saturday?”

“Well, ra’ly, I can’t say. It’s too expensive her coming every week; but, she’ll sure be here afore the whole six is complate. Good-mornin’, gintlemen—and they’s heard nothin’ of the murderer, I’ll warrant?”

We responded that nothing had been learned, and descending to the street, it was arranged, as we walked along, that the officer should go to New York and put some detective there on the track of Leesy Sullivan. I informed my companion of the discrepancy between her actual arrival in town and her appearance at her aunt’s. Either the woman had purposely deceived us, or her niece had not gone home for a good many hours after landing at Blankville. I went with him to the depot, where we made a few inquiries which convinced us that she had arrived on Saturday morning, and sat an hour or two in the ladies’ room, and then gone away up town.

There was sufficient to justify our looking further. I took from my own pocket means to defray the expenses of the officer as well as to interest the New York detective, adding that liberal rewards were about to be offered, and waited until I saw him depart on his errand.

Then, turning to go to the office, my heart so sickened at the idea of business and the ordinary routine of living in the midst of such misery, that my footsteps shrunk away from their familiar paths! I could do nothing, just then, for the aid or comfort of the afflicted. The body was to be taken that afternoon to the city for interment, the next day, in the family inclosure at Greenwood; until the hour for its removal, there was nothing more that friendship could perform in the service of the mourners. My usual prescription for mental ailments was a long and vigorous walk; to-day I felt as if I could breathe only in the wide sunshine, so cramped and chilled were my spirits.

The summer residence of the Morelands lay about a mile beyond the Argyll mansion, out of the village proper, on a hillside, which sloped down to the river. It was surrounded by fine grounds, and commanded one of the loveliest views of the Hudson.

in the direction of this now vacant and solitary place—solitary, I believed, with the exception of the gardener and his wife, who lived in a cottage back of the gardens, and who remained the year round, he to attend to out-door matters, and she to give housekeeper’s care to the closed mansion.

The place had never looked more beautiful to me, not even in the bloom of its June foliage and flowers, than it did as I approached it on this occasion. The frosts had turned to every gorgeous color the tops of the trees which stood out here and there; back of the house, and extending down toward the southern gate, by which I entered, a grove of maples and elms glowed in the autumn sunshine; the lawn in front sloped down to the water’s edge, which flowed by in a blue and lordly stream, bearing on its broad bosom picturesque white ships. In the garden, through which I was now walking, many brilliant flowers still lingered: asters, gold, pink and purple; chrysanthemums; some dahlias which had been covered from the frost; pansies lurking under their broad leaves. It had been the intention of the young couple to make this their permanent home after their marriage, going to the city only for a couple of the winter months. The very next week, I had heard, Eleanor expected to go down to help Henry in his selection of new furniture.

Here the mansion lay, bathed in the rich sunshine; the garden sparkled with flowers as the river with ripples, so full, as it were, of conscious, joyous life, while the master of all lay in a darkened room awaiting his narrow coffin. Never had the uncertainty of human purposes so impressed me as when I looked abroad over that stately residence and thought of the prosperous future which had come to so awful a standstill. I gathered a handful of pansies—they were Eleanor’s favorites. As I approached the house by the garden, I came nearly upon the portico which extended across its western front before I perceived that it was occupied. Sitting on its outer edge, with one arm half wound around one of its pillars, and her bonnet in the grass at her feet, I beheld the sewing-girl after whom I had dispatched an officer to New York. She did not perceive me, and I had an opportunity of studying the face of the woman who had fallen under my suspicion, when she was unaware that my eye was upon it, and when her soul looked out of it, unvailed, in the security of solitude. The impression which she made upon me was that of despair. It was written on attitude and expression. It was neither grief nor remorse—it was blank despair. It must have been half an hour that I remained quiet, watching her. In all that time she never stirred hand nor eyelid; her glance was upon the greensward at her feet. When I turn to that page of my memory, I see her, photographed, as it were, upon it—every fold of the dark dress, which was some worsted substance, frayed, but neat; the black shawl, bordered, drawn close about the slender shoulders, which had the slight, habitual stoop of those who ply the needle for a living; the jetty hair pushed back from her forehead, the marble whiteness and rigidity of the face and mouth.

It was a face made to express passion. And, although the only passion expressed now was that of despair, so intense that it grew like apathy, I could easily see how the rounded chin and full lips could melt into softer moods. The forehead was rather low, but fair, consorting with the oval of the cheek and chin; the brows dark and rather heavy. I remembered the wild black eyes which I had seen the previous day, and could guess at their hidden fires.

This was a girl to attract interest at any time, and I mutely wondered what had entangled the threads of her fate in the glittering web of a higher fortune, which was now suddenly interwoven with the pall of death. All her movements had been such as to confirm my desire to ascertain her connection, if any, with the tragedy. It seemed to me that if I could see her eyes, before she was conscious of observance, I could tell whether there was guilt, or only sorrow, in her heart; therefore I remained quiet, waiting. But I had mistaken my powers, or the eyes overbore them. When she did lift them, as a steamer came puffing around the base of the mountain which ran down into the river at the east, and they suddenly encountered mine, where I stood not ten feet from her, I saw only black, unfathomable depths, pouring out a trouble so intense, that my own gaze dropped beneath their power.

She did not start, upon observing me, which, as I thought, a guilty person, buried in self-accusing reveries, would have done—it seemed only slowly to penetrate her consciousness that a stranger was confronting her; when I raised my eyes, which had sunk beneath the intensity of hers, she was moving rapidly away toward the western gate.

“Miss Sullivan, you have forgotten your bonnet.”

With a woman’s instinct she put up her hand to smooth her disordered hair, came slowly back and took the bonnet which I extended toward her, without speaking. I hesitated what move to make next. I wished to address her—she was here, in my grasp, and I ought to satisfy myself, as far as possible, about the suspicions which I had conceived. I might do her an irreparable injury by making my feelings public, if she were innocent of any aid or instigation of the crime which had been committed, yet there were circumstances which could hardly pass unchallenged. That unaccountable absence of hers on Saturday, from three o’clock until an hour after the murder was committed; the statement of her aunt that she was in the city, and my finding her in this spot, in connection with the midnight visit to the window, and the other things which I had observed, were sufficient to justify inquiry. Yet, if I alarmed her prematurely I should have the less chance of coming upon proofs, and her accomplices, if she had any, would be led to take steps for greater safety. Anyhow, I would make her speak, and find what there was in her voice.

“Your aunt told me that you had gone to New York,” I said, stepping along beside her, as she turned away.

“She thought so. Did you come here to see me, sir?” stopping short in her walk, and looking at me as if she expected me to tell my business.

This again did not look like the trepidation of guilt.

“No. I came out for a walk. I suppose our thoughts have led us both in the same direction. This place will have an interest to many, hereafter.”

“Interest! the interest of vulgar curiosity! It will give them something to talk about. I hate it!” She spoke more to herself than to me, while a ray of fire darted from those black orbs; the next instant her face subsided into that passionate stillness again.

Her speech was not that of her station; I recalled what her aunt had said about the education she had bestowed on her, and decided that the girl’s mind was one of those which reach out beyond their circumstances—aspiring—ambitious—and that this aspiring nature may have led her into her present unhappiness. That she was unhappy, if not sinful, it took but a glance to assure me.

“So do I hate it. I do not like to have the grief of my friends subjected to cold and curious eyes.”

“Yet, it is a privilege to have the right to mourn. I tell you the sorrow of that beautiful lady he was to have married is light compared with trouble that some feel. There are those who envy her.”

It was not her words, as much as her wild, half-choked voice, which gave effect to them; she spoke, and grew silent, as if conscious that the truth had been wrung from her in the ear of a stranger. We had reached the gate, and she seemed anxious to escape through it; but I held it in my hand, looking hard at her, as I said—“It may have been the hand of envy which dashed the cup of fruition from her lips. Her young life is withered never to bloom again. I can imagine but one wretchedness in this world greater than hers—and that is the wretchedness of the guilty person who has murder written on his or her soul.”

A spasm contracted her face; she pushed at the gate which I still held.

“Ah, don’t,” she said; “let me pass.”

I opened it and she darted through, fleeing along the road which led out around the backward slope of the hill, like Io pursued by the stinging fly. Her path was away from the village, so that I hardly expected to see her again that day.

Within two minutes the gardener’s wife came up the road to the gate. She had been down to visit the corpse of her young master; her eyes were red with weeping.

“How do you do, Mr. Redfield? These be miserable times, ain’t they? My very heart is sore in my breast; but I couldn’t cry a tear in the room where he was, a-lying there like life, for Miss Eleanor sot by him like a statue. It made me cold all over to see her—I couldn’t speak to save me. The father and mother are just broke down, too.”

“How is Miss Eleanor, this morning?”

“The Lord knows! She doesn’t do any thing but sit there, as quiet as can be. It’s a bad symptom, to my thinking. ‘Still waters run deep.’ They’re a-dreading the hour when they’ll have to remove the body from the house—they’re afraid her mind ’ll go.”

“No, no,” I answered, inwardly shuddering; “Eleanor’s reason is too fine and powerful to be unstrung, even by a blow like this.”

“Who was that went out the gate as I came around the bend? Was it that girl, again?”

“Do you mean Leesy Sullivan?”

“Yes, sir. Do you know her? She acts mighty queer, to my thinkin’. She was out here Saturday, sittin’ in the summer-house, all alone, ’till the rain began to fall—I guess she got a good soaking going home. I didn’t think much about her; it was Saturday, and I thought likely she was taking a holiday, and there’s many people like to come here, it’s so pleasant. But what’s brought her here again to-day is more’n I can guess. Do you know, sir?”

“I do not. I found her sitting on the portico looking at the river. Maybe she comes out for a walk and stops here to rest. She probably feels somewhat at home, she has sewed so much in the family. I don’t know her at all, myself; I never spoke to her until just now. Did you get much acquainted with her, when she was in the house?”

“I never spoke to her above a dozen times. I wasn’t at the house much, and she was always at work. She seemed fast with her needle, and a girl who minded her own business. I thought she was rather proud, for a seamstress—she was handsome, and I reckon she knew it. She’s getting thinner; she had red spots on her cheeks, Saturday, that I didn’t like—looked consumptive.”

“Did the family treat her with particular kindness?” It was as near as I cared to put into words what I was thinking of.

“You know it’s in the whole Moreland race to be generous and kind to those under them. I’ve known Henry more than once, when the family was going out for a drive, to insist upon Miss Sullivan’s taking a seat in the carriage—but never when he was going alone. I heard him tell his mother that the poor girl looked tired, as if she needed a breath of air and a bit of freedom, and the kind-hearted lady would laugh at her son, but do as he said. It was just like him. But I’d stake my everlasting futur’ that he never took any advantage of her feelings, if it’s that you’re thinking of, Mr. Redfield.”

“So would I, Mrs. Scott. There is no one can have a higher respect for the character of that noble young gentleman, than I. I would resent an insult to his memory more quickly than if he had been my brother. But, as you say, there is something queer in the actions of Miss Sullivan. I know that I can trust your discretion, Mrs. Scott, for I have heard it well spoken of; do not say any thing to others, not even to your husband, but keep a watch on that person if she should come here any more. Report to me what she does, and what spot she frequents.”

“I will do so, sir. But I don’t think any harm of her. She may have been unfortunate enough to think too much of the kindness with which he treated her. If so, I pity her—she could hardly help it, poor thing. Henry Moreland was a young gentleman a good many people loved.”

She put her handkerchief to her eyes in a fresh burst of tears. Wishing her good-morning, I turned toward the village, hardly caring what I should do next. Mrs. Scott was an American woman, and one to be trusted; I felt that she would be the best detective I could place at that spot.

When I reached the office, on my homeward route, I went in. Mr. Argyll was there alone, his head leaning on his hand, his face anxious and worn, his brow contracted in deep thought. As soon as I came in, he sprung up, closed the outer door, and said to me, in a low voice,

“Richard, another strange thing has occurred.”

I stared at him, afraid to ask what.

“I have been robbed of two thousand dollars.”

“When and how?”

“That is what I do not know. Four days ago I drew that amount in bills from the Park Bank. I placed it, in a roll, just as I received it, in my library desk, at home. I locked the desk, and have carried the key in my pocket. The desk has been locked, as usual, every time that I have gone to it. How long the money has been gone, I can not say; I never looked after it, since placing it there, until about an hour ago. I wanted some cash for expenses this afternoon, and going for it, the roll was gone.”

“Haven’t you mislaid it?”

“No. I have one drawer for my cash, and I placed it there. I remember it plainly enough. It has been stolen”—and he sat down in his chair with a heavy sigh. “That money was for my poor Eleanor. She was to complete her wedding outfit this week, and the two thousand dollars was for refurnishing the place out at the Grove. I don’t care for the loss so much—she doesn’t need it now—but it’s singular—at this time!”

He looked up at me, vague suspicions which he could not shape floating in his brain.

“Who knew of your having the money?”

“No one, that I am aware of, except my nephew. He drew it for me when he went down to the city last Wednesday.”

“Could you identify the money?”

“Not all of it. I only remember that there was one five hundred dollar bill in the package, a fresh issue of the Park Bank, of which, possibly, they may have the number. The rest was city money of various denominations and banks. I can think of but one thing which seems probable. James must have been followed from the city by some professional thief, who saw him obtain the money, and kept an eye upon it, waiting for a suitable opportunity, until it was deposited in the desk. The key is a common one, which could be easily duplicated, and we are so careless in this quiet community that a thief might enter at almost any hour of the night. Perhaps the same villain dogged poor Henry in hopes of another harvest.”

“You forget that there was no attempt to rob Henry.”

“True—true. Yet the murderer may have been frightened away before he had secured his prize.”

“In which case, he would have returned, as the body remained undiscovered all night.”

“It may be so. I am dizzy with thinking it over and over.”

“Try and not think any more, dear sir,” I said, gently. “You are feverish and ill now. I am going, this afternoon, with the friends to the city, and I will put the police on the watch for the money. We will get the number of the large bill, if possible, from the bank, and I will have investigations made as to the passengers of Wednesday on the train with James. Have you said any thing to him about your loss?”

“I have not seen him since I made the discovery. You may tell him if you see him first; and do what you can, Richard, for I feel as weak as a child.”