"Another, Miss Wardour, is—yourself."
"Myself!"
She bows her face upon her hands, and convulsive shudders shake her form. She sits thus so long that O'Meara becomes restless, but Mr. Wedron sits calm, serene, expectant.
By and by she lifts her head, and her eyes shine with the glint of blue steel.
"You are right, sir," she says in a low, steady voice. "I can tell more than is known. It may not benefit Doctor Heath; I do not see how it can. Nevertheless, all that I can tell you shall hear, and I only ask that you will respect such portions of my story as are not needed in evidence. As for Mr. O'Meara, I know I can trust him. And I believe, sir, that I can rely upon you."
Mr. Wedron bows gravely.
"I will begin by saying that Mr. Vandyck, if he has withheld anything concerning Doctor Heath, has acted honorably in so doing. He was bound by a promise, from which I shall at once release him."
In obedience to a sign from Mr. Wedron, O'Meara prepares to write.
"You have said, sir," addressing Mr. Wedron, "that I may be able to say something which, if withheld, would complicate this case. What do you wish to hear?"
"Every thing, Miss Wardour, every thing. All that you can tell concerning your acquaintance with Clifford Heath—all that you have seen and know concerning John Burrill; all that you can recall of the sayings and doings of the Lamottes. And remember, the things that may seem unimportant or irrelevant to you, may be the very items that we lack to complete what may be a chain of strong evidence in favor of the accused. Allow me to question you from time to time, and, if I seem possessed of too much information concerning your private affairs, do not be too greatly astonished, but rest assured that all my researches have been made to serve another, not to gratify myself."
"Where shall I begin, sir?"
"Begin where the first shadow of complication fell; begin at the first word or deed of Doctor Heath's that struck you as being in any way strange or peculiar."
She flushes hotly and begins her story.
She describes her first impression of Doctor Heath, touching lightly upon their acquaintance previous to the time of the robbery at Wardour. Then she describes, very minutely, the first call made by Doctor Heath, after that affair.
"One moment, Miss Wardour, you told Doctor Heath all that you knew concerning the robbery."
"I did, sir;" coloring rosily.
"And you exhibited to him the vial of chloroform and the piece of cambric?"
"I did."
"At this point you were interrupted by callers, and Doctor Heath left rather abruptly?"
"Precisely, sir."
"Who were these callers?"
"Mr. Lamotte and his son."
"Had you any reason for thinking that Doctor Heath purposely avoided a meeting with these gentlemen?"
"Not at that time;" flushing slightly.
"Go on, Miss Wardour."
She resumes her story, telling all that she can remember of the call, of Frank's return, and of Sybil's letter.
"About this letter, I would rather not speak, Mr. Wedron; it can not affect the case."
"It does affect the case," he replies quickly. "Pray omit no details just here."
She resumes: telling the story of that long day, of Clifford Heath's second visit, and of the news of Sybil Lamotte's flight.
She tells how, at sunset, she opened the strange letter, and how, bewildered and startled out of herself, she put it into Clifford Heath's hands, and called upon him to advise her.
Almost word for word she repeats his comments, and then she hesitates.
"Go on," says Mr. Wedron, impatiently; "what happened next?"
Next she tells of the sudden appearance of the strange detective; and here O'Meara seems very much interested, and Mr. Wedron very little.
He does not interrupt her, nor display much interest, until she reaches the point in her narrative when she discovers the loss of Sybil's letter.
"Well!" he cries, as she hesitates once more. "Go on! go on! about that letter."
"Gentlemen," says Constance, contritely, "here, if I could, I would spare myself. When Doctor Heath came, to return the bottle borrowed by the detective, I accused him of taking the letter."
"What!" starting violently; "you suspected him?"
"I insulted him."
"And he—"
"He resented the insult in the only way possible to a gentleman. He accepted it in silence, and turned his back upon me."
"Ah! and since that time?"
"Since that time I have received no intimation that Doctor Heath is aware of my existence."
"Ah-h-h!" ejaculates Mr. Wedron; "and you have not found the letter?"
"No. Its fate remains a mystery."
"Do you still believe that Doctor Heath could account for its disappearance, if he would?"
"On sober second thought, I could see no motive for taking the letter. I was hasty in my accusation. I came to that decision long ago."
"You were deeply grieved over the mesalliance of Miss Lamotte?"
"She was my dearest friend."
"Was?" inquiringly.
Constance pales slightly, but does not correct herself.
"Miss Lamotte's strange marriage has been since explained, I believe?"
"No, sir! not to my satisfaction."
"What! Was it not to save a scapegrace brother?"
"Stop, sir! That scapegrace brother is the one of all that family most worthy your respect and mine. You wish me to tell you of the family; let me begin with Evan."
Beginning where she had dropped her story, Constance goes on. She outlines the visits of the two detectives; she tells how Frank Lamotte received the news of his sister's flight.
Then she paints in glowing, enthusiastic language, the interview with Evan in the garden. She pictures his grief, his rage, his plea that she will stand fast as his sister's friend and champion. She repeats his odd language; describes his sudden change of manner; his declaration that he will find a reason for Sybil's conduct, that shall shield Sybil, and be acceptable to all.
Then she tells how the rumor that Sybil had sacrificed herself for Evan's sake grew and spread, and how the boy had sanctioned the report. How he had come to her the second time to claim her promise, and announce the time for its fulfillment.
"To-day," she says, with moist eyes, "Evan Lamotte lies on a drunkard's bed; liquor has been his curse. Morally he is weaker than water; but he has, under all that weakness, the elements that go to make a hero. All that he had, he sacrificed for his sister. Degraded by drink as he was, he could still feel his superiority to the man Burrill; yet, for Sybil's sake, to relieve her of his brutal presence, Evan became his companion, and passed long hours in the society that he loathed."
"Ah!" ejaculates Mr. Wedron; "ah-h-h!" then he closes his lips, and Constance resumes.
She tells next how she became weary of the search for the Wardour diamonds; how she sought to withdraw private detective Belknap; and how that individual had endeavored to implicate Doctor Heath, and had finally accused him; how she had temporized, and sent for officer Bathurst; and how, during the three days of waiting, she had sent Ray Vandyck to watch over Clifford Heath. She finishes her story without interruption, carrying it up to the very day of the murder. Then she pauses, dreading further questioning.
But Mr. Wedron asks no questions, and makes no comment. He fidgets in his chair, and seems anxious to end the interview.
"Thank you, Miss Wardour," he says, rising briskly, "you have been an invaluable witness; and I feel like telling you, that—thanks to you, I hope soon to put my hand upon the guilty party, and open the prison doors for Heath."
She utters a low cry.
"My God! What have I said!" she cries wildly. "Listen, sir; Clifford Heath must, and shall, be free; but—you must never drag to justice the true culprit; you never shall!"
She is on her feet facing Mr. Wedron, a look of startled defiance in her eyes.
He is gazing at her with the look of a man who has discovered a secret. Suddenly he comes close beside her, and says, in low, significant tones:
"Let us understand each other; one of two must suffer for this crime. Shall it be Clifford Heath, the innocent, or—Frank Lamotte?"
She reels and clutches wildly at a chair for support.
"Frank Lamotte!" she gasps, "Frank, Oh! No! No! It must not be him! Oh! You do not understand; you can not."
She pauses, affrighted and gasping. Then her lips close suddenly, and she struggles fiercely to regain her composure. After a little she turns to Mr. O'Meara, saying:
"You have heard me say that Mr. Bathurst, the detective, and friend of Doctor Heath, was, not long since, in W——; he may be here still; I do not know. But he must be found; he is the only man who can do what must be done. For I repeat, Doctor Heath must be saved, and the true criminal must not be punished. My entire fortune is at your command; find this detective, for my hands are tied; and he must, he MUST, find a way to save both guilty and innocent."
"This is getting too deep for me, Wedron," says O'Meara, when the door has closed behind Constance. "What does it lead up to? For I take it your tactics mean something."
Mr. Wedron laughs a low, mellow laugh.
"Things are shaping themselves to my liking," he says, rubbing his hands briskly. "We are almost done floundering, O'Meara. Thanks to Miss Wardour, I know where to put my hand when the right time comes."
"I don't understand."
"You will very soon. Now hear a prophecy: Before to-morrow night, Clifford Heath will send for you, and lay before you a plan for his defence. He will manifest a sudden desire to live."