in the affair—if he had but foreseen that she
would have stained her whiteness by a falsehood
he could have saved her by a word; for
the question, of inquest or no inquest, had
hung trembling in the balance only the night
before. Miss Hale might love another—was
indifferent and contemptuous to him—but he
would yet do her faithful acts of service of
which she should never know. He might
despise her, but the woman whom he had
once loved should be kept from shame;
and shame it would be to pledge herself to
a lie in a public court, or otherwise to stand
and acknowledge her reason for desiring darkness
rather than light.

Very gray and stern did Mr. Thornton
look as he passed out through his wondering
clerks. He was away about half an hour;
and scarcely less stern did he look when he
returned, although his errand had been successful.

He wrote two lines on a slip of paper,
put it in an envelope, and sealed it up.
This he gave to one of the clerks, saying:—

"I appointed Watson—he who was a
packer in the warehouse, and who went into
the police—to call on me at four o'clock. I
have just met with a gentleman from Liverpool
who wishes to see me before he leaves
town. Take care to give this note to Watson
when he calls."

The note contained these words:

"There will be no inquest. Medical evidence
not sufficient to justify it. Take no further
steps. I have not seen the coroner; but
I will take the responsibility."

"Well," thought Watson, " it relieves me
from an awkward job. None of my witnesses
seemed certain of anything except the young
woman. She was clear and distinct enough;
the porter at the railroad had seen a scuffle;
or when he found it was likely to bring him
in as a witness, then it might not have been a
scuffle, only a little larking, and Leonards
might have jumped off the platform himself;
—he would not stick firm to anything. And
Jennings, the grocer's shopman,—well, he
was not quite so bad, but I doubt if I could
have got him up to an oath after he heard
that Miss Hale flatly denied it. It would
have been a troublesome job and no satisfaction.
And now I must go and tell them
they won't be wanted."

He accordingly presented himself again at
Mr. Hale's that evening. Her father and
Dixon would fain have persuaded Margaret
to go to bed; but they, neither of them, knew
the reason for her low continued refusals to
do so. Dixon had learnt part of the truth—
but only part. Margaret would not tell any
human being of what she had said, and she
did not reveal the fatal termination to Leonards'
fall from the platform. So Dixon's
curiosity combined with her allegiance to
urge Margaret to go to rest, which her
appearance, as she lay on the sofa, showed
but too clearly that she required. She did
not speak except when spoken to; she tried
to smile back in reply to her father's anxious
looks and words of tender enquiry; but, instead
of a smile, the wan lips resolved themselves
into a sigh. He was so miserably
uneasy that, at last, she consented to go into
her own room, and prepare for going to bed.
She was indeed inclined to give up the
idea that the inspector would call again
that night, as it was already past nine
o'clock.

She stood by her father, holding on to the
back of his chair.

"You will go to bed soon, papa, won't you?
Don't sit up alone!"

What his answer was she did not hear; the
words were lost in the far smaller point of
sound that magnified itself to her fears, and
filled her brain. There was a low ring at the
door-bell.

She kissed her father and glided down
stairs, with a rapidity of motion of which no
one would have thought her capable, who
had seen her the minute before. She put
aside Dixon.

"Don't come. I will open the door. I
know it is him—I can—I must manage it all
myself."

"As you please, miss! " said Dixon testily;
but in a moment afterwards, she added,
"But you're not fit for it. You are more
dead than alive."

"Am I?" said Margaret, turning round
and showing her eyes all aglow with strange
fire, her cheeks flushed, though her lips were
baked and livid still.

She opened the door to the Inspector, and
preceded him into the study. She placed the
candle on the table, and snuffed it carefully,
before she turned round and faced him.

"You are late! " said she. "Well?" She
held her breath for the answer.

"I'm sorry to have given any unnecessary
trouble, ma'am; for, after all they've given
up all thoughts of holding an inquest. I
have had other work to do and other
people to see, or I should have been here
before now."

"Then it is ended," said Margaret. "There
is to be no further enquiry."

"I believe I've got Mr. Thornton's note
about me," said the Inspector, fumbling in
his pocket-book.

"Mr. Thornton's!" said Margaret.

"Yes! he's a magistrate—ah! here it is."
She could not see to read it—no, not although
she was close to the candle. The words
swam before her. But she held it in her
hand, and looked at it as if she were intently
studying it.

"I'm sure, ma'am, it's a great weight off my
mind; for the evidence was so uncertain,
you see, that the man had received any blow at
all,—and if any question of identity came
in, it so complicated the case, as I told Mr.
Thornton—"