His countenance fell.
"And Mary—"
"Followed her father to the grave."
He fell back upon the sofa like a wounded man. It was some moments before he recovered the appearance of calmness.
"How knew you this?"
"A year ago, an artist reduced to poverty, through the agency of Israel Yorke, came to my home to paint my portrait. It was Cornelius Berman. Yorke had employed Buggles as his agent in the affair of the transfer of the property of Cornelius; Buggles the agent was dead indeed, but Yorke appeared upon the scene, as the principal, and sold Cornelius out of house and home. The papers which you took from the dead body of Buggles were only copies; the originals were in the possession of Israel Yorke."
Nameless hid his face in his hands. He did not speak again until many minutes had elapsed.
"And you thought that Cornelius had put Buggles to death?"
"I gathered it from a rumor which has crept through New York for the last two years. The haggard face and wandering eye of the dying artist, who painted my picture, confirmed this impression."
"And Cornelius came to this house?"'