A STRANGE INTERVIEW.
While Frank Lamotte, in his own chamber, is preparing himself for emergencies, Constance Wardour stands by the bedside of her unconscious friend, struggling for self control; shutting her lips firmly together, clenching her teeth; mastering her outward self, by the force of her strong will; and striving to bring the chaos of her mind into like subjection. Three facts stare her in the face; three ideas dance through her brain and mingle themselves in a confused mass. Clifford Heath is in peril. She can save him by betraying a friend and a trust. She loves him.
Yes, stronger than all, greater than all, this fact stands out; in this hour of peril the truth will not be frowned down. She loves this man who stands accused of murder; she loves him, and, great heavens! he is innocent, and yet, must suffer for the guilty.
What can she do? What must she do? She can not go to him; she, by her own act, has cut off all friendly intercourse between them. But, something must be done, shall be done.
Suddenly, she bends down, and looks long and earnestly into the face of the sleeper. The dark lashes rest upon cheeks that are pale as ivory; the face looks torture-stricken; the beautiful lips quiver with the pain of some dismal dream.
Involuntarily, this cry escapes the lips of the watcher:
"My God! To think that two noble lives must be blasted, because of that pitiful, worthless thing, that lies below."
The moments drag on heavily, her thoughts gradually shaping themselves into a resolve, while she watches by the bedside and waits the return of Mrs. Lamotte. At last, she comes, and there is an added shade of sorrow in her dark eyes; Evan is very ill, she fears for his reason, too.
"What has come upon my children, Constance?" she asks, brokenly; "even Frank has changed for the worse."
"Poor Evan," sighs Constance, thinking of his loyal love for Sybil; and thus with her new resolve strong in her mind, she says, briefly:
"I must go to town at once, Mrs. Lamotte, and will return as soon as possible. Can you spare me without too much weight upon yourself."
Without a question, Mrs. Lamotte bids her go; and very soon she is driving swiftly toward W——, behind the splendid Lamotte horses.
Straight to Lawyer O'Meara she is whirled, and by the time she reaches the gate, she is as calm as an iceberg.
Coming down the steps is a familiar form, that of her aunt, Mrs. Aliston. Each lady seems a trifle disconcerted by this unexpected meeting; neither is inclined to explain her presence there.
Mrs. Aliston appears the more disturbed and startled of the two; she starts and flushes, guiltily, at sight of her niece.
But, Constance is intent upon her errand; she pauses long enough to inquire after her aunt's health, to report that Sybil is much the same, and Evan ill, and then she says:
"Is Mr. O'Meara at home, Aunt Honor?"
"Yes. That is, I believe so," stammers Mrs. Aliston.
"Then I must not detain you, or delay myself; good morning, auntie;" and she enters the house, leaving Mrs. Aliston looking perplexed and troubled.
Ushered into the presence of Mr. O'Meara, Constance wastes no words.
"Mr. O'Meara," she begins, in her most straightforward manner, "I have just come from Mapleton, where I have been with Sybil since last night. This morning, Doctor Benoit horrified me by telling me that Doctor Heath has been arrested for the murder of John Burrill."
Just here the study door opens softly, and a portly, pleasant faced gentleman enters. He bows with easy self-possession, and turns expectantly toward O'Meara. That gentleman performed the ceremony of introduction.
"Miss Wardour, permit me: Mr. a—Wedron, of the New York Bar. Mr. Wedron, my dear, is here in the interest of Doctor Heath."
A pair of searching gray eyes are turned full upon the stranger, who bears the scrutiny with infinite composure. She bows gravely, and then seats herself opposite the two gentleman.
"Mr. O'Meara," she says, imperiously, "I want to hear the full particulars of this affair, from the very first, up to the present moment."
The two professional men exchange glances. Then Mr. Wedron interposes: "Miss Wardour," he says, slowly, "we are acting for Clifford Heath, in this matter, therefore, I must ask, do you come as a friend of the accused, or—to offer testimony?"
Again the gray eyes flash upon him. "I come as a friend of Doctor Heath," she says, haughtily; "and I ask only what is known to all W——, I suppose."
Mr. Wedron conceals a smile of satisfaction behind a smooth white hand; then he draws a bundle of papers from his pocket.
"O'Meara," he says, passing them to his colleague; "here are the items of the case, as we summed them up last evening; please read them to Miss Wardour." And he favors the little lawyer, with a swift, but significant glance.
Drawing his chair a little nearer that of his visitor, O'Meara begins, while the portly gentleman sits in the background and notes, lynx-like, every expression that flits across the face of the listening girl.
O'Meara reads on and on. The summing up is very comprehensive. From the first discovery of the body, to the last item of testimony before the coroner's jury; and after that, the strangeness, the apathy, the obstinacy of the accused, and his utter refusal to add his testimony, or to accuse any other. Utter silence falls upon them as the reading ceases.
Constance sits mute and pale as a statue; Mr. Wedron seems quite self-absorbed, and Mr. O'Meara, glances around nervously, as if waiting for a cue.
Constance turns her head slowly, and looks from one to the other.
"Mr. O'Meara, Mr. Wedron, you are to defend Doctor Heath, you tell me?" They both nod assent.
"And—have you, as his counsel, gathered no palliating proof? Nothing to set against this mass of blighting circumstantial evidence?"
Mr. Wedron leans forward, fastens his eyes upon her face, and says gravely: "Miss Wardour, all that can be done for Clifford Heath will be done. But—the case as it stands is against him. For some reason he has lost courage. He seems to place small value upon his life I believe that he knows who is the guilty one, and that he is sacrificing himself. Furthermore, I believe that there are those who can tell, if they will, far more than has been told concerning this case; those who may withhold just the evidence that in a lawyer's hands will clear Clifford Heath."
The pallid misery of her face is pitiful, but it does not move Mr. Wedron.
"Last night," he goes on mercilessly, "Mr. Raymond Vandyck sat where you sit now, and I said to him what I now say to you. Miss Wardour, Raymond Vandyck knows more than he has told." His keen eyes search her face, her own orbs fall before his gaze. Then she lifts them suddenly, and asks abruptly:
"Who are the other parties who are withholding their testimony?"
Again Mr. Wedron suppresses a smile. "Another who knows more than he chooses to tell is Mr. Frank Lamotte."
She starts perceptibly.
"And—are there others?"
"Another, Miss Wardour, is—yourself."
