artist. Might he not have bought the coat from
an acquaintance? Men of his class, she knew,
often had queer acquaintances; the possession
was one of the drawbacks of the otherwise
glorious career of art and literature—people who
might require to sell their coats, and be equal
to doing it.

Yes, there was a hope, a possibility that it
might be so, and the girl seized on it with
avidity. But, in a moment, the terrible recollection
struck her, that she was considering the matter
at the wrong end. Who had bought the coat
made by Evans, of Amherst, and what had been
its intermediate history, were things of no
import. The question was, in whose possession
was it, when the unknown man was murdered?
Had Paul Ward dined with him at the Strand
tavern? Was Paul Ward the man whom the
waiter could undertake to identify, in London?
If so—and the terrible pang of the conviction
that so, indeed, it was returned to her with
redoubled force from the momentary relief of the
doubt—the danger was in London, not there at
Amherst; from the waiter, not from Evans.
Distracted between the horror, overwhelming to
the innocent mind of the young girl, to whom
sin and crime had been hitherto dim and
distant phantoms, of such guilt attaching itself to
the image which she had set up for the romantic
worship of her girlish heart, and the urgent
terrified desire which she felt that, however
guilty, he might escape—nay, the more firmly
she felt convinced that he must be guilty, the
more ardently she desired it;—Clare Carruthers's
gentle breast was rent with such unendurable
torture as hardly any after-happiness could
compensate for or efface. All this time Mr. Carruthers
was reading the newspaper, and at length
he laid it down, and was about to address
Clare, when the footman entered the room,
and informed him that Mr. Evans, the tailor,
from Amherst, wished to be permitted to
speak to him as soon as convenient. With
much more alacrity than he usually displayed,
Mr. Carruthers desired that Evans should be
shown into the library, and declared his
intention of going to speak to him immediately.

"I have no doubt, Clare, that he has come
about this business," said Mr. Carruthers, when
the servant had left the room. With this
consolatory assurance, he left her to herself. She
snatched up the newspaper, and read a brief
account of the proceedings of the previous day—
the close of the inquest, and some indignant
remarks upon the impunity with which so
atrocious a crime had, to all appearance, been
committed, which wound up with a supposition
that this murder was destined to be included in
the number of those mysteries whose impenetrability
strengthened the hand of the assassin, and
made our police system the standing jest of
continental nations. How ardently she hoped,
how nearly she dared to pray, that it might
indeed be so!

She lingered in the breakfast-room waiting
for uncle's return. The restlessness, the
uncertainty of misery, were upon her; she dreaded
the sight of every one, and yet she feared solitude,
because of the thoughts, the convictions, the
terrors, which peopled it. Three letters lay on
the table still unopened, and when Clare looked
at them, she found they were addressed to
Mrs. Carruthers, and that two of the three were
from America. The postmark on each was
New York, and on one were stamped the words,
"Too late."

"She is too ill to read any letters now, or
even to be told there are any," thought Clare.
"I had better put them away, or ask my uncle
to do so."

She was looking at the third letter, which
was from George Dallas; but she had never
seen his writing, to her knowledge, and the two
words, which he had written on the slip of
paper she had seen, being a christian and
surname, afforded her no opportunity of
recognising it as that of Paul Ward; when Mr.
Carruthers returned, looking very pompous and
fussy.

"I shall communicate with the Home Office
immediately," he began. "This is very
important. Evans has been here to tell me he
has read all the proceedings at the inquest, and
the waiter's description of the suspected
individual tallies precisely with his own recollection
of the purchaser of the coat."

"But, uncle," said Clare, with quick intelligence,
"you told me the man's evidence and
Evans's description were as vague as possible.
Indeed, I was quite struck by what you said.
'A description that describes nothing,' were
your words. And don't you remember telling
me how frequently you had observed in your
magisterial capacity, that these people never
could be depended on to give an accurate
account of an impression or a circumstance?
and how you have told me that it was one of the
chief distinctions between the educated and
uneducated mind, that only the former could
comprehend the real value and meaning of
evidence? Depend on it, Evans has no new
ground for his conviction. He has been reading
the papers, and thinking over the importance of
being mixed up in the matter, until he has
persuaded himself into this notion. Don't you
recollect that is just what you said you were
sure he would do?"

Mr. Carruthers did not remember anything
of the kind, nor did Clare. But the girl was
progressing rapidly in the lessons which strong
emotion teaches, and which add years of
experience to hours of life. Instinctively she took
advantage of the weakness of her uncle's
character, which she comprehended without
acknowledging. Mr. Carruthers had no objection
to the imputation of superior sagacity conveyed
in Clare's remark, and accepted the suggestion
graciously; he was particularly pleased to learn
that he had drawn that acute distinction
between the educated and uneducated mind. It
was like him, he thought: he was not a man on
whom experience was wasted.

"Yes, yes, I remember, of course, my dear,"
replied Mr. Carruthers, graciously; "but then,