Then a hush fell upon the aristocratic gossipers of W——, and mischievous tongues were severely bridled. It was not wise to censure too freely a man whom the heiress of Wardour had marked with her favor.
The lawyers found their client in a mood much more to their liking, and O'Meara scribbled down in his little book long sentences caught from the lips of Clifford Heath, who was now a strong helper, and apt in suggestions for the defense.
He opened for them the sealed up pages of his past life.
He told them in detail, all that he had briefly stated to Constance, concerning Frank Lamotte, and more.
Every day now they were in close consultation, and every day the Wardour carriage drove at a stated hour, first to Mapleton, where it took up Constance, and then to the prison, where, accompanied by her aunt, or her guardian's wife, the heiress passed a half hour in the cell of her lover.
She still clung to the hope that the accumulating evidence against Frank Lamotte might break the chain that bound him, and open his prison doors; but, one day, a week after her first visit to the prison, Mr. O'Meara dashed this hope to atoms.
"We can bring no criminal accusation against Lamotte," he said. "The examination proved that John Burrill was killed as early as eleven o'clock that night, and investigation has proven that Lamotte remained at home all that evening, and was heard moving about in his room until after midnight. I'm terribly sorry, Constance, but the case stands just about as it did at first, and the odds are still against Heath. He will have to stand his trial."
The girl's heart sank like lead, and as days passed on and no new developments could be evolved from a case which began to assume a most gloomy aspect, her position in the Lamotte household became unbearable.
Sybil had changed a very little, but for the better. Her fits of raving were less frequent, and almost always to be anticipated. So, worn in body and tortured in mind, Constance went back to Wardour, and, save for her daily visits to the prison, was invisible to all her friends.
And she did not suffer alone. Knowing her love for Clifford Heath and the terrible secret she carried in her bosom, Mrs. Lamotte lived in an anguish of suspense. Would love outweigh honor? If the worst should come, could she trust Constance Wardour? Could she trust herself?