Lastly, Mr. Burton assured me that he had tidings of the five-hundred-dollar bill which had been stolen from Mr. Argyll’s desk. This was, indeed, important, and I showed by my looks how deeply I was absorbed in the particulars. That bill had come into the hands of Wells, Fargo & Co., about six months after the robbery, having been sold for specie to their agent in California, and forwarded to them along with the other sums which they were constantly receiving. At least, he had taken it for granted that it was the same bill, it being one of the two which left the city of New York the week of the robbery; the other he had traced to St. Louis, and ascertained that no possible suspicious circumstances attached to it.
Wells, Fargo & Co. had given him every assistance in their power to discover who had sold that bill to the California branch of their house; but an answer had been returned from there that the person who disposed of it was a stranger, on his way to the mining regions, whom they had never seen before or since, and whose name they had not taken. The clerk who transacted the brief business with him, had no distinct recollection of him, except that he was rather a thick-set man, with an unpleasant expression—doubtless one of the “hard cases” so frequent in the precincts of San Francisco.
Of course, it was clear to us two, who sat in company with the dead-letter, that the five-hundred-dollar bill was a part of the sum referred to by the writer; that it had come out of Mr. Argyll’s desk, and that it was blood-money paid for a murder; and the receiver was this person who, in the letter, so explicitly declared his intention of fleeing to California. We were much excited in the presence of these bold facts. In our enthusiasm, then, it seemed easy to stretch a hand across the continent and lay it upon the guilty. We scarcely realized the long and wearisome pursuit to which we were doomed—the slight clue which we had to the individual whose deeds were yet so patent to us.
At this revelation of conspiracy, my mind eagerly searched about for the accessory, and again settled itself upon Miss Sullivan. It did seem to me that she had thrown a glamour over the usually clear sight of Mr. Burton; so that I resolved to keep a separate watch which should not be influenced by his decisions. While I was thinking of this, Mr. Burton was walking about the floor. Suddenly he stopped before me and looked into mine with those vivid eyes, so full of power, and said, as confidently as if a vision had revealed it to him,
“I have now made out all the meaning of the letter. In the first place, it is written ‘by contraries’—that is, it means just the contrary of what it says. The contract was fulfilled. The price was expected, the emigration decided upon. The bright day was a rainy night; the picture taken was a human life. And, don’t you see it, Richard?—the old friend was the hiding-place of the instrument of death, after which the accomplice is directed to look. That instrument is the broken tooth-pick. It was secreted in the pocket of the old friend. Now, who or what is this old friend? Richard, didn’t Leesy affirm she saw a man descending from the old oak tree at the right of the Argyll mansion, on the evening of the murder?”
“She did.”
“Then that is it. I want to know no more. The arms are the arms of that old oak. Unless it has been removed, which is not probable, since this letter was never received, the broken knife or dagger (of which I have the point which was taken from the wound), will be found in some hollow on the left side of that oak.”
I gazed at him in astonishment; but he, unconscious of my wonder, sat down, with a relieved, almost happy, expression.
CHAPTER II.
OUR VISITS.
So engrossed were we by our plans, which we were laboring to get into shape, that we forgot the passing hours and the demands of appetite. It was long past the lunch hour when a servant appeared to ask if he should not bring in the tray, having waited in vain for the usual summons. With its appearance Lenore came in, the same lovely, sylph-like little creature, but looking rather less fragile than when I saw her last. At the sight of me, her color went and came—one instant she hesitated, then approached and gave me her hand, with a smile and kiss. Her father had already told of her having made two or three visits to the Argyll mansion within the time of my absence; and I attributed her blushes, upon meeting me, to her frank heart accusing her of the disparaging thoughts she had entertained of me. The subtle influence of James had doubtless, without any necessity for putting the idea into words, warned her against me as a bad man; but now as she looked at me, she was sorry for what she had felt, and disposed to renew her old friendship.