XXXVII.
UNDER THE GREAT TREE.
We but teach
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return
To plague the inventor. This even-handed justice
Commends the ingredients of our poisoned chalice
To our own lips. —Macbeth.
IMOGENE went to her home. Confused, disordered, the prey of a thousand hopes and a thousand fears, she sought for solitude and found it within the four walls of the small room which was now her only refuge.
The two detectives who had followed her to the house—the one in the carriage, the other on foot—met, as the street-door closed upon her retreating form, and consulted together as to their future course.
"Mr. Ferris thinks we ought to keep watch over the house, to make sure she does not leave it again," announced Mr. Byrd.
"Does he? Well, then, I am the man for that job," quoth Hickory. "I was on this very same beat last night."
"Good reason why you should rest and give me a turn at the business," declared the other.
"Do you want it?"
"I am willing to take it," said Byrd.