"Poor Frank, don't let this overcome you."
One hand reached up and clasped the soft hand that rested on his arm, but he did not lift his head, as he said brokenly:
"Tell me the worst, Constance."
"Why, Frank! the worst is told."
"But," his hand tightened its clasp, "you know more than she has told me."
"No, Frank, nothing more."
He lifted his pale face again.
"Constance—that letter."
She started and flushed.
"What letter, Frank?"
"You know," his eyes scanning her face hungrily. "Her letter. The one I brought you two days ago. What was it?"
She drew away her hand.
"It was a note of farewell, Frank. Nothing more."
"Then she told you?" he gasped,—caught his lips between his teeth, and waited for her to finish the sentence.
"She told me nothing, Frank. Oh, I wish she had."
He sprang up, overturning his chair in his hasty excitement.
"Nothing!" he cried "she told you nothing?"
"Absolutely nothing. The letter was an enigma. How strangely you act, Frank. I can't understand you."
Slowly the life color returned to his cheeks and lips, as he answered, or stammered:
"Pardon me, Constance. I thought—I feared—I hoped there might be some explanation. I thought she must have given you some reason for so horrible a step. Are you sure there is no hint, no clue to help us?"
"Frank, listen: Sybil's note explained nothing. It only implored me not to think harshly of her, when I should know what she had done, and bade me farewell. I could not comprehend its meaning until the news reached me that she had fled."
"And you can not guess why she did this thing?"
"No."
He turned away, putting his hand up before his face, and uttering a groan. Then he moved toward one of the French windows, pushed it open, and leaned out.
"I feel as if I were going mad," he muttered. "Constance, pardon me; I must have the air. I must be alone to think, and to face this—this disgrace that has come upon us."
And he stepped through the open window, and reeled rather than walked down the steps, and out among the trees.
Constance watched him until the shrubbery hid him from view, and then, with a quick, nervous glance about the room, and out at the windows, she went to the door which shut our tramp detective from view, but not from hearing.
"Come out," she whispered, hurriedly. "Now is your time to escape."
He came out, shaking himself like a water dog.
"Ugh!" he exclaimed. "I have been in one position too long."
"I am sorry," began Constance.
"Not for me," he interrupted. "Like most listeners, I heard what I did not bargain for; but—I have not heard too much. Miss Wardour, don't reproach yourself, or Fate; that little extra hearing was a godsend. And now, let me out, quickly, before some one else claims your time."
She looked cautiously out into the hall, then closed the door again.
"I wish I could know your opinion regarding this business—all of it," she said, wistfully. "I begin to feel helpless, like a rudderless mariner."
"It's a hard knot," he said, going toward the door; "a very hard knot. But we will untie it, Miss Wardour, and then you will understand all these things. Now tell me, where is your detective going next?"
"I do not know."
"You must find out," imperatively.
"I think I can."
"And come to me in the garden."
"Very well," looking out once more. "Your way is clear, sir; go straight to the kitchen entrance."
He passed out, and went his way, swiftly, quietly, and unobserved; and Constance returned to Mr. Belknap, and the completion of her jewel list.
"The combat deepens," mused the tramp detective, as he paced slowly down the garden walk. "The plot, thickens. I come for a catfish,—I may catch a whale. Oh, what a knot; what a beautiful, delightful, horribly hard knot; and how my fingers itch to begin at it. But soft—easy; there is more to be tied in. Let us pay out the rope, and wait."