The remainder of that night and for several days thereafter the city was wild with excitement over the story of the sudden disappearance of the man for whom five thousand dollars reward was offered.

The policeman was not mortally hurt, but the wound he had received was destined to lay him up for a long time.

A thorough search of the city failed to discover the assassin. His bold return had evidently been to see his betrothed, and it was surmised by many that Rose Alstine could tell, if she would, the exact whereabouts of the murderer.

Ransom Vane went to see her on the subject, but gained no satisfaction. Rose solemnly assured him that she had no more knowledge of her lover's whereabouts than he.

"I do not care to talk on a subject so painful," concluded the girl.

"However painful, you may be compelled to talk," retorted the young man in a tone of exceeding vexation. "I cannot consider it just for a woman to screen her lover, when he has several murdered victims to answer for."

"Your insinuations are wholly unjust, Mr. Vane."

"I hope they are. That a girl should defend a lover, even when he has stained his hands with blood, seems incredible."

"It would seem incredible if such a thing occurred. I have no lover and consequently cannot come under your condemnation."

"Do you deny that August Bordine is your lover?"

"Certainly I do."

"Then I have been misinformed."

"Doubtless you have. Busybodies are ready to make any assertions, however false," said Rose calmly.

There certainly was nothing to be gained here, so the eager young man took his departure.

In the meantime where was August Bordine?

Safe under the care of the eccentric Hiram Shanks, and not once had he ventured into Grandon. He followed implicitly the instructions of the peddler, who evinced intelligence beyond his appearance.

When the young man learned that his mother was under arrest, he insisted on visiting her at once, although he was yet ill in bed, for the fever clung to him for many days, and weakened his strong frame so that he had scarcely more strength than a child.

It was at a farm-house that the sick engineer had found shelter, and in order to effectually disguise him the indefatigable Shanks had shaved his beard, and cut his hair close, over which he fitted a wig of wool, and stained his face and arms.

Thus young Bordine represented a sick mulatto to perfection. The farmer and his wife were in the secret, but being feed heavily by Shanks, they refused to betray the young man.

Officers had been at the house on several occasions, but the sick farm hand excited no suspicions, since he in no way resembled the photographs of the fugitive from justice.

Of course the reader will understand that the man who personated Bordine in his interview with Rose Alstine was the young man's double, who yet hovered in the city, and moved about among the people in many disguises. On the night in question he had boldly thrown off his disguise for the purpose of appealing to Rose as the fugitive, hoping to excite her sympathy.

It proved a dear game, and come near landing him in prison. He did not scruple at shooting the officer who assailed him. Once he could get his fingers on the Alstine bank account, he would be able to defy the world.

It was a bold and heartless scheme he was working, and hardly promised success. While the real Bordine was a fugitive from justice, the schemer felt that he had nothing to fear from him; but how long was this to be?

The young engineer might be captured at any time, when it would be impossible for him to deceive Rose longer. It was this fear that troubled Barkswell more than aught else.

He thought sometimes of the grave in the cellar of the lone shanty in the woods, and remembered the pair of gleaming eyes that peered down upon him from above. He was in disguise then, however, and even were that murder discovered, it could not be laid at his door.

On the night in question, Barkswell, after shooting the policeman from his path, darted swiftly down the street a few rods, then turned into a dark alley.

Here he resumed the disguise he had discarded, in order to meet Rose.

Passing out at the other end of the alley, he met several members of the police force who were looking for him.

"I seed a feller makin' tracks toward the river," said the seeming countryman in answer to a query from a blue-coat.

"He's going to one of the low dives down near the dock," declared the sergeant of police, and then he quickly hastened on his way.

The man for whom all this excitement was occasioned pursued his way leisurely to the suburbs of the city, and entered a small house that stood some rods back from the street.

It was not the cottage that he had occupied at the time Rose Alstine mistook it for the Bordine residence. Soon after that untoward event, the scheming Barkswell had changed his residence to a less respectable neighborhood, against the protest of his wife, who was constantly urging him to lead a better life.

All this time Barkswell was exceedingly anxious that Iris should leave him for a better world, where she would be less troublesome.

He entered her presence to-night not in the best of humor.

Iris was reclining in a rocker, looking very pale and ill. She had been suffering of late even more than usual, and to-night a deathly sickness seemed stealing through her veins, rendering her weak and helpless.

"You are looking very pale, Iris. What is the trouble?"

"I am feeling very miserable, Andrew."

"You are always talking that way, my dear."

"But I feel that this is something different. I—I am fearful that I shan't live long."

"Nonsense," with a cheery laugh he knew so well how to assume when the occasion demanded.

His cheerfulness was contagious, and she smiled faintly.

"If you would only reform—"

"Not a word on that threadbare question, Iris," he interrupted quickly. "I am tired of it, and you know it. I've something here that'll be good for your nerves."

He drew a bottle from his pocket and poured a few drops into a glass that stood near. Then, mixing with water, he offered it to his wife.

She drank it without a word.

"You will soon feel better, dear," he assured her in the kindest tone imaginable.

"Oh, dear, I hope so."

She closed her eyes, and was soon in a profound sleep. Barkswell sat watching her, the thin face and hollow eyes, and muttered to himself:

"She suffers, poor girl, but I will be merciful. She shall not suffer long."

Then he came to his feet and began pacing the room with measured tread in front of his calmly sleeping wife.

There were many contending emotions in the breast of Andrew Barkswell as he paced the floor in front of his sleeping wife.

If he ever possessed a spark of human sympathy, the past few weeks of his life in Grandon had obliterated the feeling.

One more life stood between him and his goal; that life was even now on the verge of the unknown.

"I might throttle her," he muttered in a half audible tone, as his glittering eyes peered into the quiet face of the slumberer. "No one would be the wiser, and then I would be free to pursue my wooing of the heiress."

He moved a step nearer the sleeping woman. His fingers twitched and turned about, as though itching diabolical work. His breath came hot and hard above the false gray beard that adorned his chin.

He lifted his hands, made a forward movement, as if to carry into execution the dastard work his heart had conjured up. One step, and he came to a sudden pause.

A strange sound greeted his ears and held his steps. The sound seemed to proceed from the window.

Glancing toward it, the would-be homicide saw on the pane, written in letters of blood:

"Murderer, beware! The hounds of justice are on your trail, and will strike when you least expect it!"

Slowly the words faded out, yet Andrew Barkswell stood there, riveted to the floor, staring as though petrified into a marble image.

"Heavens!"

With this one exclamation Barkswell sprang forward and gazed out into the night. He thought he saw a form moving away in the gloom. He threw up the sash and called after the form, but no answer came back, and then he dropped the sash, waking his wife.

"Delusion!" he muttered under his breath; and yet he trembled and was very pale.