have attempted murder, and you have committed
forgery and theft. We have the evidence ready
against you in both cases. If you are convicted
as a felon, you know as well as I do what
becomes of your authority over your niece.
Personally, I should have preferred taking that way
out of it. But considerations are pressed on me
which I am not able to resist, and this interview
must end, as I have told you already, in a
compromise. Sign those lines, resigning all authority
over Miss Obenreizer, and pledging
yourself never to be seen in England or in
Switzerland again; and I will sign an indemnity
which secures you against further proceedings
on our part."

Obenreizer took the pen, in silence, and signed
his niece's release. On receiving the indemnity
in return, he rose, but made no movement to
leave the room. He stood looking at Maître
Voigt with a strange smile gathering at his
lips, and a strange light flashing in his filmy
eyes.

"What are you waiting for?" asked
Bintrey.

Obenreizer pointed to the brown door. "Call
them back," he answered. "I have something
to say in their presence before I go."

"Say it in my presence," retorted Bintrey.
"I decline to call them back."

Obenreizer turned to Maître Voigt. "Do
you remember telling me that you once
had an English client named Vendale?" he
asked.

"Well," answered the notary. "And what
of that?"

"Maître Voigt, your clock-lock has betrayed
you."

"What do you mean?"

"I have read the letters and certificates in
your client's box. I have taken copies of
them. I have got the copies here. Is there,
or is there not, a reason for calling them
back?"

For a moment the notary looked to and fro,
between Obenreizer and Bintrey, in helpless
astonishment. Recovering himself, he drew his
brother-lawyer aside, and hurriedly spoke a few
words close at his ear. The face of Bintrey—
after first faithfully reflecting the astonishment
on the face of Maître Voigt—suddenly altered
its expression. He sprang, with the activity of
a young man, to the door of the inner room,
altered it, remained inside for a minute, and
returned followed by Marguerite and Vendale.
"Now, Mr. Obenreizer," said Bintrey, "the
last move in the game is yours. Play it."

"Before I resign my position as that young
lady's guardian," said Obenreizer, "I have a
secret to reveal in which she is interested. In
making my disclosure, I am not claiming her
attention for a narrative which she, or any other
person present, is expected to take on trust. I am
possessed of written proofs, copies of originals,
the authenticity of which Maître Voigt himself
can attest. Bear that in mind, and permit me
to refer you, at starting, to a date long past—
the month of February, in the year one thousand
eight hundred and thirty-six."

"Mark the date, Mr. Vendale," said
Bintrey.

"My first proof," said Obenreizer, taking a
paper from his pocket-book. "Copy of a letter,
written by an English lady (married) to her
sister, a widow. The name of the person
writing the letter I shall keep suppressed until
I have done. The name of the person to whom
the letter is written I am willing to reveal. It
is addressed to 'Mrs. Jane Ann Miller, of
Groombridge-wells, England."

Vendale started, and opened his lips to speak.
Bintrey instantly stopped him, as he had stopped
Maître Voigt. "No," said the pertinacious
lawyer. "Leave it to me."

Obenreizer went on:

"It is needless to trouble you with the first
half of the letter," he said. "I can give the
substance of it in two words. The writer's
position at the time is this. She has been long
living in Switzerland with her husband—obliged
to live there for the sake of her husband's
health. They are about to move to a new
residence on the Lake of Neuchâtel in a week, and
they will be ready to receive Mrs. Miller as visitor
in a fortnight from that time. This said, the
writer next enters into an important domestic
detail. She has been childless for years—she
and her husband have now no hope of children;
they are lonely; they want an interest in life;
they have decided on adopting a child. Here
the important part of the letter begins;
and here, therefore, I read it to you word for
word."

He folded back the first page of the letter
and read as follows:

"* * * Will you help us, my dear sister, to
realise our new project? As English people, we
wish to adopt an English child. This may be done, I
believe, at the Foundling: my husband's lawyers in
London will tell you how. I leave the choice to
you, with only these conditions attached to it—that
the child is to be an infant under a year old, and is
to be a boy. "Will you pardon the trouble I am
giving you, for my sake; and will you bring our
adopted child to us, with your own children, when
you come to Neuchâtel?

"I must add a word as to my husband's
wishes in this matter. He is resolved to spare the
child whom we make our own, any future mortification
and loss of self-respect which might be caused
by a discovery of his true origin. He will bear my
husband's name, and he will be brought up in the
belief that he is really our son. His inheritance of
what we have to leave will be secured to him—not
only according to the laws of England in such cases,
but according to the laws of Switzerland also; for
we have lived so long in this country, that there is
a doubt whether we may not be considered as
'domiciled' in Switzerland. The one precaution left to
take is to prevent any after-discovery at the Foundling.
Now, our name is a very uncommon one;
and if we appear on the Register of the Institution,
as the persons adopting the child, there is just a
chance that something might result from it. Your
name, my dear, is the name of thousands of other
people; and if you will consent to appear on the
Register, there need be no fear of any discoveries in
that quarter. We are moving, by the doctor's orders,
to a part of Switzerland in which our circumstances