Yes! I had pledged my own heart to devote myself to the discovery of Henry Moreland’s murderer; and if Eleanor herself had put her foot on that heart, and crushed it yet more, I do not know that I should have held my vow absolved.
I should not have gone to the mansion that day, had not a message been sent, late in the afternoon, that Mr. Burton had arrived, and expected me to meet him at tea. I went; and had the pleasure of seeing little Lenore enthroned by the side of James, who attended upon her as if she were a princess, and of being treated with bare civility by all save Mr. Burton. Miss Argyll was ill, and did not come down.
I saw the observant eye of Mr. Burton watching the intimacy between his daughter and her new friend; whether he was pleased or not, I could not decide; the eye which read the secret thoughts of other men did not always betray its own impressions. I was certain, too, that he observed the change in the demeanor of the family toward me, and my own constrained manner.
XII
The Night in Moreland Villa
Mr. Burton’s arrival prevented my fulfilling the intention of sleeping at Moreland villa that night; I immediately resolved to defer my explorations until he could keep me company. The next day he came to my room, and we had, as usual when we met, a long talk over things past, present and to come. I did not introduce the subject of the mystery at the villa until we had discussed many other matters. My companion was preoccupied with important business of his own—the same which had taken him to Boston; but his interest was pledged, almost as earnestly as mine, to unmask the criminal of the Blankville tragedy, and any reference to that sad subject was sure to secure his attention. Baffled we acknowledged ourselves, as we talked together that morning, but not discouraged. Mr. Burton told me that he was on the track of two five-hundred-dollar bills of the Park Bank, which had left the city the week after the murder, taking widely-different flights; there had one come back from St. Louis, whose course his agents were tracing. As for the sewing-girl, she had the power of vanishing utterly, like a light extinguished, leaving no trace behind, and her pursuers literally in the dark. This comparison of the detective reminded me of the curious light which had led me, like a Jack-o’-lantern, into a quagmire of uncertainty; I was about to begin my account of it, when he gave me one of those peculiar piercing looks of his, saying,
“You have not yet entered into the contemplated partnership?”
“No, Mr. Burton; and I hardly think now that I shall.”
There was some bitterness in my tone; he evinced no surprise, asking, simply,
“Why?”
“I think James has been chosen to fill the place.”
“But, he has not been admitted to the bar.”
“He is studying a little recently; probably in order to pass an examination.”
“The wind is changing,” said Mr. Burton, speaking like the old gentleman in Bleak House. “I see how the land lies. The goodly and noble Argyll ship is driving on to the rocks. Mark my words, she will go to pieces soon! you will see her ruins strewing the shore.”
“I pray heaven to avert your prophecy. I hope not to live to see any such sight.”
“How can it be otherwise?” he exclaimed, rising and pacing to and fro through my little room, like a caged elephant. “A spendthrift and a gambler—a man like that—about to have the helm put in his hands! But it’s none of my business—none of my business; nor much yours, either.”
“It is mine!” I cried; “I can not help but make it mine, as if these girls were my sisters, and Mr. Argyll my father. Yet, as you say—it is, indeed, nothing to me. They will not allow it to be!”
I drooped my head on my arms; my own loss and disappointment were receding into the background before the idea of their possible discomfiture. I was startled by the detective bringing his clenched hand down upon the table with a blow which shook it; he was standing, looking not at me, but at the wall, as if he saw someone before him, invisible to me.
“James Argyll is a singular man—a singular man! A person ought to be a panther in cunning and strength to cope with him. By George, if I don’t look out, he’ll overreach me yet—with that will of his. I see everybody about me succumbing. He’s having the game all in his own hands. By the way, Redfield, I was a little surprised to see Lenore so fond of him.”
“Why so, Mr. Burton? James is an attractive, elegant young man; he has never had any lack of admirers. It would rather have been strange if your daughter had not fancied him. He has been very good to her.”
“He has, indeed; I’m sure I ought to be greatly obliged to all of you. Did I ever tell you that I place great confidence in Lenore’s intuitive perception of character? You know that I have a remarkable gift that way myself. When I meet people, I seem to see their minds, and not their bodies—I can’t help it. Well, I’ve remarked the same thing in my child. She is so young and inexperienced that she can not explain her own impressions; she has her instantaneous partialities, and I have noticed that she leans toward true natures like a flower toward the light, and away from the false as if they were shadows. I hardly expected she would be so intimate with young Argyll.”
I remembered the curious effect his first address had made upon her; but I did not repeat it to her father. I was sensitive about appearing in any manner jealous of James; if he could win my friends from me, even that little girl whom I
