Dermoyne raised his hand to his forehead,—somewhat after the manner of Herman,—and surveyed the clergyman with a keen, searching gaze. Gradually a smile, so faint as to be scarcely perceptible, stole over his features.
Herman felt the force of that gaze and his smooth complexion turned from deathly white to scarlet, and from scarlet to deathly white again.
"What next?" he muttered to himself, "does he know? Had I better call for assistance?"
Dermoyne, quietly left his seat, and advancing until he confronted Herman, placed a small piece of paper on the table, and held it firmly under his thumb, so that the words written upon it, were legible in the lamp-light.
"Read that," he said, and his flashing eye was fixed on Barnhurst's face.
Half wondering, half stupefied, Barnhurst bent forward and read:—
Dec. 24, 1844.
Madam:—Your patient will come to-night.
Herman Barnhurst.
As he read, Herman looked like a man who has received his death-warrant. The very effort,—and it was a mortal one,—which he made to control himself, only gave a stronger agitation to his quivering lineaments.
"Can you tell where I found this?" whispered Dermoyne. "Near the mangled body of the father of Alice,—at sunset, but a few hours ago, and at the house half-way between New York and Philadelphia,—there among the ashes, and half consumed by fire, I discovered this precious document. Did you drop this paper from your pocket, my friend, when you sought shelter in the house, after the accident on the railroad, last night?"
Herman had not the power to reply. His eyes were riveted by the half-burned fragment.