of the grate.”
“Still, Miss–”
But she had already withdrawn to the door. “I pray you to excuse me,” said she. “No argument you could advance would make any difference in my determination; therefore it would be but a waste of energy on your part to attempt any.” And, with a flitting glance in my direction, not without its appeal, she quietly left the room.
For a moment Mr. Gryce stood gazing after her with a look of great interest, then, bowing with almost exaggerated homage, he hastily followed her out.
I had scarcely recovered from the surprise occasioned by this unexpected movement when a quick step was heard in the hall, and Mary, flushed and anxious, appeared at my side.
“What is it?” she inquired. “What has Eleanore been saying?”
“Alas!” I answered, “she has not said anything. That is the trouble, Miss Leavenworth. Your cousin preserves a reticence upon certain points very painful to witness. She ought to understand that if she persists in doing this, that–”
“That what?” There was no mistaking the deep anxiety prompting this question.
“That she cannot avoid the trouble that will ensue.”
For a moment she stood gazing at me, with great horror-stricken, incredulous eyes; then sinking back into a chair, flung her hands over her face with the cry:
“Oh, why were we ever born! Why were we allowed to live! Why did we not perish with those who gave us birth!”
In the face of anguish like this, I could not keep still.
“Dear Miss Leavenworth,” I essayed, “there is no cause for such despair as this. The future looks dark, but not impenetrable. Your cousin will listen to reason, and in explaining–”
But she, deaf to my words, had again risen to her feet, and stood before me in an attitude almost appalling.
“Some women in my position would go mad! mad! mad!”
I surveyed her with growing wonder. I thought I knew what she meant. She was conscious of having given the cue which had led to this suspicion of her cousin, and that in this way the trouble which hung over their heads was of her own making. I endeavored to soothe her, but my efforts were all unavailing. Absorbed in her own anguish, she paid but little attention to me. Satisfied at last that I could do nothing more for her, I turned to go. The movement seemed to arouse her.
“I am sorry to leave,” said I, “without having afforded you any comfort. Believe me; I am very anxious to assist you. Is there no one I can send to your side; no woman friend or relative? It is sad to leave you alone in this house at such a time.”
“And do you expect me to remain here? Why, I should die! Here to-night?” and the long shudders shook her very frame.
“It is not at all necessary for you to do so, Miss Leavenworth,” broke in a bland voice over our shoulders.
I turned with a start. Mr. Gryce was not only at our back, but had evidently been there for some moments. Seated near the door, one hand in his pocket, the other caressing the arm of his chair, he met our gaze with a sidelong smile that seemed at once to beg pardon for the intrusion, and to assure us it was made with no unworthy motive. “Everything will be properly looked after, Miss; you can leave with perfect safety.”
I expected to see her resent this interference; but instead of that, she manifested a certain satisfaction in beholding him there.
Drawing me to one side, she whispered, “You think this Mr. Gryce very clever, do you not?”
“Well,” I cautiously replied, “he ought to be to hold the position he does. The authorities evidently repose great confidence in him.”
Stepping from my side as suddenly as she had approached it, she crossed the room and stood before Mr. Gryce.
“Sir,” said she, gazing at him with a glance of entreaty: “I hear you have great talents; that you can ferret out the real criminal from a score of doubtful characters, and that nothing can escape the penetration of your eye. If this is so, have pity on two orphan girls, suddenly bereft of their guardian and protector, and use your acknowledged skill in finding out who has committed this crime. It would be folly in me to endeavor to hide from you that my cousin in her testimony has given cause for suspicion; but I here declare her to be as innocent of wrong as I am; and I am only endeavoring to turn the eye of justice from the guiltless to the guilty when I entreat you to look elsewhere for the culprit who committed this deed.” Pausing, she held her two hands out before him. “It must have been some common burglar or desperado; can you not bring him, then, to justice?”
Her attitude was so touching, her whole appearance so earnest and appealing, that I saw Mr. Gryce’s countenance brim with suppressed emotion, though his eye never left the coffee-urn upon which it had fixed itself at her first approach.
“You must find out—you can!” she went on. “Hannah—the girl who is gone—must know all about it. Search for her, ransack the city, do anything; my property is at your disposal. I will offer a large reward for the detection of the burglar who did this deed!”
Mr. Gryce slowly rose. “Miss Leavenworth,” he began, and stopped; the man was actually agitated. “Miss Leavenworth, I did not need your very touching appeal to incite me to my utmost duty in this case. Personal and professional pride were in themselves sufficient. But, since you have honored me with this expression of your wishes, I will not conceal from you that I shall feel a certain increased interest in the affair from this hour. What mortal man can do, I will do, and if in one month from this day I do not come to you for my reward, Ebenezer Gryce is not the man I have always taken him to be.”
“And Eleanore?”
“We will mention no names,” said he, gently waving his hand to and fro.
A few minutes later, I left the house with Miss Leavenworth, she having expressed a wish to have me accompany her to the home of her friend, Mrs. Gilbert, with whom she had decided to take refuge. As we rolled down the street in the carriage Mr. Gryce had been kind enough to provide for us, I noticed my companion cast a look of regret behind her, as if she could not help feeling some compunctions at this desertion of her cousin.
But this expression was soon changed for the alert look of one who dreads to see a certain face start up from some unknown quarter. Glancing up and down the street, peering furtively into doorways as we passed, starting and trembling if a sudden figure appeared on the curbstone, she did not seem to breathe with perfect ease till we had left the avenue behind us and entered upon Thirty-seventh Street. Then, all at once her natural color returned and, leaning gently toward me, she asked if I had a pencil and piece of paper I could give her. I fortunately possessed both. Handing them to her, I watched her with some little curiosity while she wrote two or three lines, wondering she could choose such a time and place for the purpose.
“A little note I wish to send,” she explained, glancing at the almost illegible scrawl with an expression of doubt. “Couldn’t you stop the carriage a moment while I direct it?”
I did so, and in another instant the leaf which I had torn from my note-book was folded, directed, and sealed with a stamp which she had taken from her own pocket-book.
“That is a crazy-looking epistle,” she muttered, as she laid it, direction downwards, in her lap.
“Why not wait, then, till you arrive at your destination, where you can seal it properly, and direct it at your leisure?”
“Because I am in haste. I wish to mail it now. Look, there is a box on the corner; please ask the driver to stop once more.”
“Shall I not post it for you?” I asked, holding out my hand.
But she shook her head, and, without waiting for my assistance, opened the door on her own side of the carriage and leaped to the ground. Even then she paused to glance up and down the street, before venturing to drop her hastily written letter into the box. But when it had left her hand, she looked brighter and more hopeful than I had yet seen her. And when, a few moments later, she turned to bid me good-by in front of