“The fellow who married Leesy’s cousin, and ran away from her, was a doctor—Miss Sullivan has told me that. Richard, I begin to see light!—day is breaking!”
I hardly knew whether his speech was figurative or literal, as day was really breaking upon us two men, plotting there in the night, as if we were the criminals instead of their relentless pursuers.
“Three months! There will be time, Richard!” and Mr. Burton actually flung his arms about me, in a burst of exultation.
III
The Confession
In the afternoon we paid Miss Sullivan a visit. It was the first time I had met her since that strange night of watching at Moreland villa; and I confess that I could not meet her without an inward shudder of abhorrence. Unbounded as was my respect and confidence for Mr. Burton, I did think that he had erred in his conclusions as to the character of this woman; or else that he concealed from me his real opinions, for some purpose to be explained at the proper time. If he still had suspicions, it was evident that he had kept them from their object as skillfully as from me, for I saw, by her manner of receiving him, that she regarded him as a friend.
Notwithstanding I had been informed of her rapidly-failing health, I was shocked at the change in Miss Sullivan since I had seen her. It was with an effort that she rose from her easy-chair at our approach; the fullness had all wasted from her naturally queenly figure; her cheeks were hollow, and aflame with the fire of fever; while those black eyes, which had ever seemed to smolder above unfathomable depths of volcanic passion, now almost blazed with light. Something like a smile flitted across her face when she saw my companion, but smiles were too strange there to feel at home, and it vanished as soon as seen. I do not think she liked me any better than I did her; each recoiled from the other instinctively; she would not have spoken to me had I come alone; but out of concession to the presence of her friend, she bowed to me and asked me to be seated. A little child in the room ran to Mr. Burton, as if expecting the package of bonbons which he took from his pocket; but, as he became engaged in conversation with Leesy, I coaxed her over to me, where she was soon sitting on my knee. She was a pretty little girl, about three years old, in whose chubby little features I could no longer trace any resemblance to her “aunt.” She prattled after the fashion of children, and in listening to her, I lost a remark or two of Mr. Barton’s; but soon had my attention aroused by hearing Miss Sullivan exclaim,
“Going away! For how long?”
“Three months, at least.”
Her hands sunk in her lap, and she became pale and agitated.
“It is presumptuous in me to dare to be sorry; I am nothing to you; but you are much to me. I don’t know how we shall get along without you.”
“Don’t be uneasy about that, my child. I shall make arrangements with this same person who boards you now to keep you until my return, and, if you should fall sick, to take good care of you.”
“You are far too good,” she responded, tremulously. “You will have the blessing of the friendless. I only wish it had the power to bring you good luck on your journey.”
“Perhaps it will,” he said, with a smile. “I have a great deal of faith in such blessings. But, Leesy, I think you can assist my journey in even a more tangible way than that.”
She looked at him inquiringly.
“I want you to tell me all and everything you know about the father of little Nora.”
“Why, sir?” she quickly asked. “I hope you have not heard from him,” looking over toward the child, as if afraid it might be snatched from her.
“Your health is very far gone, Leesy; I suppose you hardly hope ever to recover it. Would you not be glad to see Nora under her father’s protection before you were taken away?”
She stretched out her arms for the child, who slid off my knee, ran and climbed into her lap, where she held the curly head close to her bosom for a moment; her attitude was as if she sheltered the little one from threatened danger.
“I know, much more surely than anyone else, that my days are numbered. I believe I shall never see your face again, Mr. Burton; and that was what grieved me when you spoke of going away—it was not that I thought of my comfort so much. The winter snow will hide me before you come back from your journey; and my darling will be left friendless. I know it—it is my only care. But I would rather, far rather, leave her to the cold charity of an orphan asylum—yes, I would rather turn her upon the street, with her innocent face only for a protector—than that her father should have aught to do with Nora.”
“Why?”
“Because he is a bad man.”
“I understand that he is in California; and as I am going to San Francisco, and perhaps shall visit the mining regions before my return, I thought you might wish to send him a message, telling him the child’s condition. He may have laid up money by this time, and be able to send you a sum sufficient to provide for little Nora until she is old enough to take care of herself.”
She only shook her head, drawing the child closer, with a shudder.
“I have forgotten his name,” said Mr. Burton.
“I will not tell you,” answered Miss Sullivan, with a return of the old fierceness, like that of a hunted panther. “Why can I never, never, never be let alone?”
“Do you think I would do anything for your injury or disadvantage?” asked the detective in that gentle yet
