Suddenly—was it at a gesture of the physician, or a look from Imogene?—a thrill of expectation passed through the room, and Dr. Tredwell, Mr. Ferris, and a certain other gentleman who had but just entered at a remote corner of the apartment, came hurriedly forward and stood at the foot of the bed. At the same instant Imogene rose, and motioning them a trifle aside, with an air of mingled entreaty and command, bent slowly down toward the injured man. A look of recognition answered her from the face upon the pillow, but she did not wait to meet it, nor pause for the word that evidently trembled on his momentarily conscious lip. Shutting out with her form the group of anxious watchers behind her, she threw all her soul into the regard with which she held him enchained; then slowly, solemnly, but with unyielding determination, uttered these words, which no one there could know were but a repetition of a question made a few eventful hours ago: “If Craik Mansell is not the man who killed Mrs. Clemmens, do you, Mr. Orcutt, tell us who is!” and, pausing, remained with her gaze fixed demandingly on that of the lawyer, undeterred by the smothered exclamations of those who witnessed this scene and missed its clue or found it only in the supposition that this last great shock had unsettled her mind.
The panting sufferer just trembling on the verge of life thrilled all down his once alert and nervous frame, then searching her face for one sign of relenting, unclosed his rigid lips and said, with emphasis:
“Has not Fate spoken?”
Instantly Imogene sprang erect, and, amid the stifled shrieks of the women and the muttered exclamations of the men, pointed at the recumbent figure before them, saying:
“You hear! Tremont Orcutt declares upon his deathbed that it is the voice of Heaven which has spoken in this dreadful calamity. You who were present when Mrs. Clemmens breathed her imprecations on the head of her murderer, must know what that means.”
Mr. Ferris, who of all present, perhaps, possessed the greatest regard for the lawyer, gave an ejaculation of dismay at this, and bounding forward, lifted her away from the bedside he believed her to have basely desecrated.
“Madwoman,” he cried, “where will your ravings end? He will tell no such tale to me.”
But when he bent above the lawyer with the question forced from him by Miss Dare’s words, he found him already lapsed into that strange insensibility which was every moment showing itself more and more to be the precursor of death.
The sight seemed to rob Mr. Ferris of his last grain of self-command. Rising, he confronted the dazed faces of those about him with a severe look.
“This charge,” said he, “is akin to that which Miss Dare made against herself in the court yesterday morning. When a woman has become crazed she no longer knows what she says.”
But Imogene, strong in the belief that the hand of Heaven had pointed out the culprit for whom they had so long been searching, shook her head in quiet denial, and simply saying, “None of you know this man as I do,” moved quietly aside to a dim corner, where she sat down in calm expectation of another awakening on the part of the dying lawyer.
It came soon—came before Mr. Ferris had recovered himself, or Dr. Tredwell had had a chance to give any utterance to the emotions which this scene was calculated to awaken.
Rousing as the widow had done, but seeming to see no one, not even the physician who bent close at his side, Mr. Orcutt lifted his voice again, this time in the old stentorian tones which he used in court, and clearly, firmly exclaimed:
“Blood will have blood!” Then in lower and more familiar accents, cried: “Ah, Imogene, Imogene, it was all for you!” And with her name on his lips, the great lawyer closed his eyes again, and sank for the last time into a state of insensibility.
Imogene at once rose.
“I must go,” she murmured; “my duty in this place is done.” And she attempted to cross the floor.
But the purpose which had sustained her being at an end, she felt the full weight of her misery, and looking in the faces about her, and seeing nothing there but reprobation, she tottered and would have fallen had not a certain portly gentleman who stood near by put forth his arm to sustain her. Accepting the support with gratitude, but scarcely pausing to note from what source it came, she turned for an instant to Mr. Ferris.
“I realize,” said she, “with what surprise you must have heard the revelation which has just come from Mr. Orcutt’s lips. So unexpected is it that you cannot yet believe it, but the time will come when, of all the words I have spoken, these alone will be found worthy your full credit: that not Craik Mansell, not Gouverneur Hildreth, not even unhappy Imogene Dare herself, could tell you so much of the real cause and manner of Mrs. Clemmens’ death as this man who lies stricken here a victim of Divine justice.”
And merely stopping to cast one final look in the direction of the bed, she stumbled from the room. A few minutes later and she reached the front door; but only to fall against the lintel with the moan:
“My words are true, but who will ever believe them?”
“Pardon me,” exclaimed a bland and fatherly voice over her shoulder, “I am a man who can believe in anything. Put your confidence in me, Miss Dare, and we will see—we will see.”
Startled by her surprise into new life, she gave one glance at the gentleman who had followed her to the door. It was the
