prevailed respecting the reported discovery of
the mystery which nad perplexed the police and
the public in the spring. The arrest of two
persons at different places, and the reports,
garbled, exaggerated, ami distorted as they
were, of the circumstances which had led to
the discovery which directed suspicion towards
the second of the two accused persons, had
keenly excited the public curiosity. The
proceedings of the coroner's inquest upon the body
of the unknown man had been raked up and
read with avidity; and the oozing out of even
the smallest particulars relative to the two
prisoners was eagerly watched for by the greedy
crowd. Curiosity and expectation were obliged
to satisfy themselves for the nonce with the
proceedings in the case of Stewart Routh.
George Dallas was unable to appear; since the
previous day his illness had materially increased,
and the official medical report pronounced it
to be brain fever. Unconscious of the tremendous
danger in which he stood, oblivious even
of the frightful discovery which had struck him
so heavy a blow, George Dallas lay, under
suspicion of a dreadful crime, in prison-ward, and
under prison watch and care. So attention and
curiosity centred themselves in Stewart Routh,
and the wildest stories were propagated, the
wildest conjectures ran riot.

The prisoner had been brought up, with the
customary formalities, at an early hour, and the
examination, which was likely to last some time,
had begun, when Mr. Felton, who was in the
court with Mr. Carruthers, pressed that
gentleman's arm, and whispered:

"Look there! To the left, just under the
window. Do you see her?"

"I see a woman yes," replied Mr. Carruthers.

"His wife," said Mr. Felton, in a tone of
compassionate amazement. It was his wife.
Thus Routh and Harriet found themselves face
to face again. As the prisoner's eye, shifting
restlessly around him, seeing curious faces, full
of avidity, but not one ray of compassion, fell
upon her, every trace of colour faded out of his
cheek, and he drew one deep, gasping breath.
Had she betrayed him? He should soon know;
the story about to be told would soon enlighten
him. Did he really think she had done so?
Did he really believe it for one minute? No.
He had tried, in the blind fury of his rage, when
he found himself trapped, balked, hopelessly in
the power of the law, and the game utterly up
—- when, in the loneliness of the night, he had
brooded savagely over he hopes he had entertained,
over the dazzling pictures his fancy had
painted, then, he had tried to accuse her, he had
hated and execrated her, and tried to accuse
her. But in vain; villain as he was, he was not a
fool, and his common sense forbade the success
of the attempt. And now, when he saw her,
her from whom he had last parted with a cruel
blow, and a word that was more cruel, it was as
though all his past life looked out at him through
her woeful blue eyes. Awfully it looked at him,
and held him fascinated, even to a brief oblivion
of the scene around him. She had raised her
veil, not quite off her face, but so that he could
see her distinctly, and when he looked at her,
her lips parted, in a vain heroic attempt to
smile. But they only quivered and closed
again, and she knew it, and drew the veil closely
round her face, and sat thenceforth, her head
falling forward upon her breast, her figure quite
motionless.

The ordinary business of the place and the
occasion went on, intensified in interest to the
spectators by the presence of the murdered
man's lather, in the sensational character of a
witness. Harriet's relation to the prisoner was
not divined by the public, and so she passed
unnoticed.

Jim Swain was, of course, the chief witness,
and he told his story with clearness and directness,
though he was evidently and deeply
affected by the sight of Harriet, whom his quick
eye instantly recognised. She took no notice;
she did not change her position, or raise her
veil as the examination of the boy proceeded, as
minute by minute she heard and felt the last
chance, the last faint hope of escape, slip away,
and the terrible certainty of doom become
clearer and more imminent. She heard and saw
the boy —- whose story contained the destruction
of hope and life, showed her the utter futility
of all the plans they had concocted, of all the
precautions they had taken; showed her that
while they had fenced themselves from the
danger without, the unsuspected ruin was close
beside them, always near—- wholly unmoved. It
had come, it had happened; all was over, it did
not matter how. There was no room for anger,
no power of surprise or curiosity left in her
mind. As the golden locket was produced, and
the identity of the portrait with that of the
murdered man was sworn to, a kind of vision
came to her. She saw the bright spring morning
once more, and the lonely bridge; she saw
the river with the early sunlight upon it; she
saw herself leaning over the parapet and looking
into the water, as the parcel she had carried
thither with careful haste sank into the depth
and was hidden. She saw herself returning
homeward, the dangerous link in the evidence
destroyed, passing by the archway, where a boy
lay, whom she had pitied, even then, in her own
great and terrible anguish. If anything could
be strange now, it would be strange to remember
what he then had in his possession, to render
all her precaution vain. But she could not feel
it so, or think about it; all things were alike to
her henceforth, there was no strangeness or
familiarity in them for evermore. Occasionally,
for a minute,' the place she was in seemed to
grow unreal to her, and to fade; the next, she
took up the full sense of the words which
were being spoken, and every face in the crowd,
every detail of the building, every accident of
the scene, seemed to strike upon her brain
through her eyes. She never looked at Jim,
but she saw him distinctly; she saw also the
look with which Routh regarded him.

That look was murderous. As the boy's story