I arose from my sleepless bed to face this, the most memorable day of my life. Whether I ate or drank, I know not; but I noticed that Mr. Burton’s countenance wore a peculiar, illuminated look, as if his soul was inwardly rejoicing over a victory gained. However, there was still preoccupation in it, and some perplexity. Immediately after breakfast, he proposed to go out, saying,

“Richard, remain here a couple of hours with Lenore, until I find out whether Miss Sullivan is dead or alive. I should not have gone to bed last night without knowing, had I not been troubled with a severe headache. This is now the first step in the day’s duties. As soon as possible I will report progress;” and he went out.

The time of his absence seemed very long. Lenore, sweet child, with much of her father’s perception, saw that I was restless and impatient, and made many pretty efforts to entertain me. She sung me some of the finest music, while I roamed about the parlors like an ill-bred tiger. At the end of two hours my friend returned, looking less perplexed than when he went out.

“God is good!” he said, shaking my hand, as if thus congratulating me. “Leesy Sullivan is alive, but very feeble. She is scarcely able to undertake a journey; but, since I have explained the object, she has consented to go. She says she is so near death’s door, that it matters not how soon she passes through; and she is willing, for the sake of others, to endure a trial from which she might naturally shrink. So far, then, all is well.”

Was this trial, of which he spoke, that pang which she must feel in confessing herself implicated in this matter? Did he think, and had he persuaded her, since she was too far gone for the grasp of the law to take hold of her, she might now confess a dangerous and dark secret?

I could not answer the questions my mind persisted in asking. “It will be but a few hours,” I whispered to myself.

“We are to go up to Blankville by the evening train,” he continued. “Leesy will accompany us. Until that time, there is nothing to do.”

I would rather have worked at breaking stones or lifting barrels than to have kept idle; but, as the detective wished me to remain in the house as a matter of caution against meeting any prying acquaintance upon the streets, I was forced to that dreariest of all things—to wait. The hours did finally pass, and Mr. Burton set out first with a carriage, to convey Miss Sullivan to the depot, where I was to meet him in time for the five o’clock train. When I saw her there, I wondered how she had strength to endure the ride, she looked so wasted—such a mere flickering spark of life, which a breath might extinguish. Mr. Burton had almost to carry her into the car, where he placed her on a seat, with his overcoat for a pillow. We took our seats opposite to her, and as those large, unfathomable eyes met mine, still blazing with their old luster, beneath the pallid brow, I can not describe the sensations which rushed over me. All those strange scenes through which I had passed at Moreland villa floated up and shut me in a strange spell, until I forgot what place we were in, or that any other persons surrounded us. When the cars moved rapidly out of the city, increasing their speed as they got beyond the precincts, Leesy asked to have the window open.

The air was cold and fresh; her feverish lips swallowed it as a reviving draught. I gazed alternately at her and the landscape, already flushed with the red of early sunset. It was a December day, chill but bright; the ground was frozen, and the river sparkled with the keen blueness of splintered steel. The red banner of twilight hung over the Palisades. I lived really three years in that short ride—the three years just past—and when we reached our destination, I walked like one in a dream. It was quite evening when we got out at Blankville, though the moon was shining. A fussy little woman passed out before us, lugging a large band-box; she handed it to the town express, telling the driver to be very careful of it, and take it round at once to Esquire Argyll’s.

“I suppose it contains the wedding-bonnet,” he said, with a laugh.

“That it does, and the dress, too, all of my own selection,” said the little woman, with an air of importance. “Just you carry it in your hand, sir, and don’t you allow nothing to come near it.”

When I heard these words, a hot flush came to my face. That Mary Argyll was already married, or expected to be very soon, I knew; but I could not hear this reference to the wedding, nor see this article of preparation, without keen pain. Yet what business was it of mine?

Mr. Burton had also heard the brief colloquy, and I noticed his lips pressed together with a fierce expression as we passed under the lamp which lighted the crossing. He took us into the hotel by the depot. Oh, how suffocating, how close, became memory! Into this building poor Henry had been carried on that wretched morning. It seemed to be but yesterday. I think Leesy was recalling it all, for when a cup of tea was brought in for her, at Mr. Burton’s bidding, she turned from it with loathing.

“Leesy,” he said, looking at her firmly, and speaking in a tone of high command, “I don’t want you to fail me now. The trial will soon be over. Brace yourself for it with all the strength you have. Now, I am going out a few moments—perhaps for half an hour. When I return, you will both be ready to go with me to Mr. Argyll’s house.”

I was nearly as much shaken by this prospect as the frail woman who sat trembling in a corner of the sofa. To go into that house from which I had departed with such ignominy—to see Eleanor face to face—to meet them all who had once been my friends—to greet them as strangers, for such they were—they must be, to me!—to appear in their midst under such strange circumstances—to hear, I knew not what—to learn that mystery—my heart grew as if walled in with ice; it could not half beat, and felt cold in my breast.

Both Leesy and myself started when Mr. Burton again appeared in the room.

“All is right thus far,” he said, in a clear, cheery voice, which, nevertheless, had the high ring of excitement. “Come, now, let us not waste the golden moments, for now the hour is ripe.”

We had each of us to give an arm to Miss Sullivan, who could scarcely put one foot before the other. We walked slowly along over that path which I never had trodden since the night of the murder without a shudder. A low moan came from Leesy’s lips, as we passed the spot where the body of Henry Moreland had been discovered. Presently we came to the gate of the Argyll place, and here Mr. Burton again left us. “Follow me,” he said, “in five minutes. Come to the library-door, and knock; and, Richard, I particularly desire you to take a seat by the bay-window.”

He went up the walk and entered the house, without seeming to ring the hall door-bell, leaving the door open as he passed in. I looked at my watch by the moonlight, forcing myself to count the minutes, by way of steadying my head, which was all in a whirl. When the time expired, I helped Leesy forward into the dim hall, on to the library-door, where I knocked, according to directions, and was admitted by Mr. Argyll himself.

There was a bright light shining from the chandelier, fully illuminating the room. In the midst of a flood of recollections, I stepped within; but my brain, which had been hot and dizzy before, grew suddenly calm and cool. When Mr. Argyll saw that it was me, he slightly recoiled, and gave me no greeting whatever. A glance assured me that every member of the family was present. Eleanor sat in an arm-chair near the center-table; Mary and James occupied the same sofa. Eleanor looked at me with a kind of white amazement; James nodded as my eye met his, his face expressing surprise and displeasure. Mary rose, hesitated, and finally came forward, saying,

“How do you do, Richard?”

I bowed to her, but did not take her outstretched hand, and she returned to her place near James. In the mean time, Mr. Burton himself placed Leesy Sullivan in an easy-chair. I walked forward and took a seat near the window. I had time to observe the appearance of my whilom friends, and was calm enough to do it. Mr. Argyll had grown old much faster than the time warranted; his form was somewhat bent, and his whole appearance feeble; I grieved, as I noticed this, as though he was my own father, for I once had loved him as much. Mary looked the same as when I had seen her, three months since, in that surreptitious visit to the oak, blooming and beautiful, the image of what Eleanor once was. Eleanor, doubtless, was whiter than her wont, for my appearance had startled her; but there was the same rapt, far-away, spiritual look upon her features which they had worn since that day when she had wedded herself to the spirit of her lover.

Mr. Burton turned the key in the lock of the door which opened into the hall; then crossed over and closed the parlor-door, and sat down by it, saying as he did so,

“Mr. Argyll, I told you a few moments ago, that I had news of importance to communicate, and I take the liberty of closing these doors, for it would be very unpleasant for us to be intruded upon, or for any of the servants to hear any thing of what I have to say. You will perhaps guess the nature of my communication, from my having brought with me these two persons. I would not agitate any of you by the introduction of the painful subject, if I did not believe that you would rather know the truth, even if it is sad to revive the past. But I must beg of you to be calm, and to listen quietly to what I have to say.”

“I will be very calm; do not be afraid,” murmured Eleanor, growing yet feebler, for it was to her he now particularly addressed the injunction.

I was so occupied with her that I did not notice the effect upon the others.

“Mr. Argyll,” continued the detective, “I have never yet abandoned a case of this kind until I have unraveled its mystery to the last thread. Nearly two years have passed since you supposed that I ceased to exert myself to discover the murderer of Henry Moreland. But I have never, for a day, allowed the case to lie idle in my mind. Whenever I have had leisure, I have partially followed every clue which was put in my hands at the time when we first had the matter under discussion. It was not alone the sad circumstances of the tragedy which gave it unusual interest to me. I became warmly attached to your family, and as, from the first—yes, from the very first hour when I heard of the murder—I believed I had discovered the perpetrator, I could not allow the matter to sink into silence. You remember, of course, our last interview. Some ideas were there presented which I then opposed. You know how the discussion of all the facts then known ended. Your suspicions fell upon one who had been an honored and favored member of your family—you feared, although you were not certain, that Richard Redfield committed the deed. You gave me all the reasons you had for your opinions—good reasons, too, some of them were; but I then combated the idea. However, I was more or less affected by what you said, and I told you, before parting, that, if you had such feelings toward the young man, you ought not to allow him to be, any longer, a member of your family. I believe he came to understand the light in which you regarded him, and shortly after left the place, and since has been most of the time, in Washington, employed there as a clerk in the dead-letter office. I believe now, Mr. Argyll, that you were not far wrong in your conjectures. I have discovered the murderer of Henry Moreland, and can give you positive proof of it!”

This assertion, deliberately uttered, caused the sensation which might be expected. Eleanor, with all her long habit of self-control, gave a slight shriek, and began to tremble like a leaf. Exclamations came from the lips of all—I believe James uttered an oath, but I am not certain; for I, perhaps more than any other in the room, was at that moment confounded. As the idea rushed over me that Mr. Burton had been acting a part toward me, and had taken these precautions to get me utterly in his power, where I could not defend myself, I started to my feet.

“Sit still, Mr. Redfield,” said the detective to me, sternly. “There is no avenue of escape for the guilty,” and rising, he took the key of the door and put it in his pocket, giving me a look difficult to understand.

I did sit down again, not so much because he told me, as that I was powerless from amazement; as I did so, I met the eyes of James, which laughed silently with a triumph so hateful that, at the moment, they seemed to me the eyes of a devil. All the feelings which, at various times, had been called up by this terrible affair, were nothing to those which overwhelmed me during the few moments which followed. My thought tracked many avenues with lightning rapidity; but I could find no light at the end of any of them. I began to believe that George Thorley, in his confession, had criminated me—who knew him not—who never had spoken with him—and that this was the reason why Mr. Burton had withheld that document from me—falsely professing friendship, while leading me into the pit! If so, what secret enemy had I who could instruct him to lay the murder at my door? If he had accused me, I was well aware that many little circumstances might be turned so as to strengthen the accusation.

I sat there dumb. But there is always strength in innocence—even when betrayed by its friends! So I remained quiet and listened.

“When a crime like this is committed,” proceeded the detective, quite calm in the midst of our excitement, “we usually look for the motive. Next to avarice come the passions of revenge and jealousy in frequency. We know that money had nothing to do with Henry Moreland’s death—revenge and jealousy had. There lived in Blankville three or four years ago, a young fellow, a druggist, by the name of George Thorley; you remember him, Mr. Argyll?”

Mr. Argyll nodded his head.

“He was an adventurer, self-instructed in medicine, without principle. Shortly after setting up in your village, he fell in love with this woman here—Miss Sullivan. She rejected him; both because she had a dim perception of his true character, and because she was interested in another. She allows me to say, here, what she once before confessed to us, that she loved Henry Moreland—loved him purely and unselfishly, with no wish but for his happiness, and no hope of ever being any thing more to him than his mother’s sewing-girl, to whom he extended some acts of kindness. But George Thorley, with the sharpness of jealousy, discovered her passion, which she supposed was hidden from mortal eyes, and conceived the brutal hate of a low nature against the young gentleman, who was ignorant alike of him and his sentiments. So far, no harm was done, and evil might never have come of it, for Henry Moreland moved in a sphere different from his, and they might never have come in contact. But another bosom was also possessed of the fiend of jealousy. An inmate of your family had learned to love your daughter Eleanor—not only to love her, but to look forward to the fortune and position which would be conferred by a marriage with her as something extremely desirable. He would not reconcile himself to the engagement which was formed between Miss Argyll and Mr. Moreland. He cherished bad thoughts, which grew more bitter as their happiness became more apparent. Once, he was standing at the gate of this lawn, when the young couple passed him, going out for a walk together. He looked after them with a dark look, speaking aloud, unconsciously, the thought of his heart; he said, ‘I hate him! I wish he were dead!’ Instantly, to his surprise and dismay, a voice replied, ‘I’m with you there—you don’t wish it so much as I do!’ The speaker was Thorley, who, passing, had been arrested by the young couple going out of the gate, and who had remained, also, gazing after them. It was an unfortunate coincidence. The first speaker looked at the second with anger and chagrin; but he had betrayed himself, and the other knew it. He laughed impudently, as he sauntered on; but, presently, he returned and whispered, ‘I wouldn’t object to putting him out of the way, if I was well paid for it.’ ‘What do you mean?’ inquired the other, angrily, and the response was, ‘Just what I say. I hate him as bad as you do; you’ve got money, or can get it, and I can’t. Pay me well for the job, and I’ll put him out of your way so securely that he won’t interfere with your plans any more.’ The young gentleman affected to be, and perhaps was, indignant. The fellow went off, smirking; but his words left, as he thought they would, their poison behind. In less than a month from that time, the person had sought Thorley out, in his lurking-place in the city—for he had, you recollect, been driven from Blankville by the voice of public opinion—and had conferred with him upon the possibility of young Moreland being put out of the way, without risk of discovery of those who had a hand in it. Thorley agreed to manage every thing without risk to any one. He wanted three thousand dollars, but his accomplice, who was aware that you were about to draw two thousand from a bank in New York, promised him that sum, with which he agreed to be satisfied. It was expected and planned that the murder should be committed in the city; but, as the time drew nigh for accomplishing it, opportunity did not present. Finally, as the steamer upon which Thorley wished to flee to California was about to sail, and no better thing offered, he concluded to follow Mr. Moreland out in the evening train, and stab him, under cover of the rain and darkness, somewhere between the depot and the house. This he did; then, afraid to take the cars, for fear of being suspected, he went down along the docks, took possession of a small boat which lay moored by a chain, broke the chain, and rowed down the river, completely protected by the storm from human observation. The next morning found him in New York, dress, complexion and hair changed, with nothing about him to excite the least suspicion that he was connected with the tragedy that was just becoming known. However, he wrote a letter, directed to John Owen, Peekskill, in which he stated in obscure terms, that the instrument with which the murder was committed would be found secreted in a certain oak tree on these premises, and that it had better be taken care of. I have the letter and the broken instrument. The way it came to be concealed in the tree was this: After the murder, being so well sheltered by the storm, he was bold enough to approach the house, in hopes of communicating with his accomplice, and receiving the money directly from his hands, which would prevent the latter from the necessity of making a trip to Brooklyn to pay it. He saw nothing of him, however; perceiving that he could look into the parlor through the open upper half of the shutter by climbing the large oak at the corner, he did so; and was looking at you all for some minutes on that evening. Perceiving by the light which shone from the window that the instrument was broken at the point, he at once comprehended how important it was to get rid of it, and chancing to discover a hollow spot in the limb he stood on, he worked it well into the rotten heart of the wood. He it was whom Miss Sullivan detected descending from the tree, on that awful night when she, alas! led by a hopeless, though a pure love, passing the house on her way to her aunt’s, could not deny herself a stolen look at the happiness of the two beings so soon, she thought, to be made one. She never expected to see them again until after their marriage, and a wild, foolish impulse, if I must call it so, urged her into the garden, to look through the open bay-window—a folly which came near having serious consequences for her. George Thorley escaped, and fulfilled the programme so far as to sail for San Francisco; but the boat stopping at Acapulco, he received an offer there, from a Spanish gentleman, of the position of doctor on his immense estates. It was just the country for a character like that of Thorley to prosper in; he accepted the proposition, wormed himself into the esteem of the Spaniard, married his daughter, and was flourishing to his heart’s content, when I came suddenly upon him and disturbed his serenity. Yes! Mr. Argyll, I started for California after the villain, for I had traces of him which led me to take the journey, and it was by a providential accident that I ascertained he was near Acapulco, where I, also, landed, sought him out, and wrung a confession from him, which I have here in writing. He has told the story plainly, and I have every other evidence to confirm it which a court of law could possibly require. I could hang his accomplice, without doubt.”

At the first mention of the name of George Thorley I chanced to be looking at James, over whose countenance passed an indescribable change; he moved uneasily, looked at the closed doors, and again riveted his gaze on Mr. Burton, who did not look at him at all during the narrative, but kept steadily on, to the end, in a firm, clear tone, low, so as not to be overheard outside, but assured and distinct. Having once observed James, I could no longer see any one else. I seemed to see the story reflected in his countenance, instead of hearing it. Flushes of heat passed over it, succeeded by an ashy paleness, which deepened into a sickly blue hue, curious to behold; dark passions swept like shadows over it; and gradually, as the speaker neared the climax of his story, I felt like one who gazes into an open window of the bottomless pit.

“Have I told you who it was that hired George Thorley to murder Henry Moreland?” asked Mr. Burton, in the pause which followed.

It had been taken for granted who the person was, and as he asked the question the eyes of all turned to me—of all except James, who suddenly sprung with a bound against the door opening into the parlor, which was not locked. But another was too quick for him; the powerful hand of the detective was on his shoulder, and as he turned the attempted fugitive full to the light, he said, in words which fell like fire,

“It was your nephew—James Argyll.”

For a moment you might have heard a leaf drop on the carpet; no one spoke or stirred. Then Eleanor arose from her chair, and, lifting up her hand, looked with awful eyes at the cowering murderer. Her look blasted him. He had been writhing under Mr. Burton’s grasp; but now, as if in answer to her gaze, he said,

“Yes—I did it, Eleanor,” and dropped to the floor in a swoon.