one or two more gentlemen, had congregated
there, discussing various plans with Laurence
as to what had better be done, when the clatter
of a horse's hoofs was heard, and Clarke Jones
galloped up to the door.

When Laurence heard his voice, he rose and
left the room hastily. The doctor remarked how
ill he looked, as he went out; and one of the
gentlemen, notorious for his attachment to his
wife, sighed, "Poor fellow!" while another,
who was as notoriously ill-mated, pave a short
laugh as he said, "I should not have thought
Grantley would have taken his wife's death so
much to heart."

Clarke Jones entered, and bowed with clumsy
familiarity to the company. "Fine winter's
morning, gentlemen!" he said, unbuttoning his
coat, and flinging it open at the chest.

"Very fine," says bland Dr. Downs, in his
conciliatory voice. Then there was a pause.

Clarke Jones was not much liked by the
gentry of the place. They thought him vulgar,
pushing, insolent, with a grip like a vice when
once it closed over any one's affairs, and an
offensive manner of shouldering his way into
places where he was not wanted. They looked
coldly at the lawyer, and wondered what business
he could have up here, and wondered, most
of all, how such a proud man as Laurence
Grantley could receive him so much like a
friend. The clergyman himself, representing
charity and social brotherhood as he did, would
not have admitted him into his drawing-room,
and Dr. Downs had never allowed his acquaintance
to overflow the pestle and mortar. Yet
hero he was at the Hall—had been a guest at the
great ball, and was now one of the foremost in
offering sympathy, perhaps advice. Well! there
are strange things in this world!

The pause was becoming awkward; when
Laurence returned. He had lost the deadly pallor
which the doctor had noticed when he left the
room, and was quite himself again; only with
a fixed and strained expression, as if strung up
to do a certain work, for which he had been
gathering strength. He met Clarke Jones with
cordiality, shook hands with him, spoke to him
in a friendly, almost familiar, manner, invited
him to be seated, and presented him to those
of the guests who he thought were unacquainted
with him. After a meaning glance among each
other, the gentlemen imitated their host; the
invisible barrier was broken down; and Clarke
Jones took his seat as one of them.

The conversation was becoming general, when
the lawyer, leaning forward, said, in that peculiar
whisper which is more distinct than the
ordinary voice:

"Forgive me, Mr. Grantley, for troubling you
with a suggestion, but have you tried Black
Tarn? A likely place for an accident, you know
—a very likely place; and, in the state of your
poor lady's mind, nothing was more possible than
an accident, or a suicide, down there." He
looked at Laurence steadily.

Laurence looked at him as steadily. "Thank
you, Mr. Jones, for the hint. I had not thought
of that before. A very likely place indeed. I
shall act on your suggestion."

"I shall be glad to be of any use to you,"
said Clarke Jones, with an unmistakable manner
of equality. "Shall I manage this painful business
for you, Mr. Grantley? You may trust
both my zeal and my discretion," with an
emphasis on the last word.

"You are very good, Mr. Jones. If you would
be so kind as to institute a search there—a man
could be let down with a rope——But my steward
will arrange with you all the necessary details."
He turned pale as his imagination pictured
what would follow. Then, with a quick, sharp
glance upward, "Perhaps I had better be with
you?" he said.

"Let me advise you not," said Mr. Clarke
Jones, slowly. "You may trust me, with
confidence. I will do everything as carefully and
as discreetly as yourself. You may trust me,"
he repeated, in a lower voice, and with a meaning
pressure of the hand as he went off.

"I never gave that vulgar fellow credit for
so much good feeling," said one of the gentlemen.

"Nor I," said another.

"He seems quite a changed man," said the
clergyman, with a ghostly sigh.

"Ah!" cried Dr. Downs, sententiously,
"there are secrets in physiology not yet
discovered!"

That terrible day seemed to Laurence as if it
would never end. He knew what awful secret
they were going to discover in the depths of that
dismal Tarn; he knew the pale features that
lay upward, and the tangled hair with the duck-
weed wreathed about the folds; he knew that
the eyes were wide open, looking at him with
their dull stare as they had looked in life;
and he knew that this ghastly thing would be
brought home here to him, where it would lie
with those hard, unflinching eyes always wide
open, and the pale features bruised and swollen.
He knew all the horror of the present moment,
and what was being done on the cliffs above the
Tarn. He heard the hoarse cries of one to the
other, the trampling of the heavy feet, the
unwinding of the rope; he heard the waters
stirred; he heard the grating of the drag, and the
shuddering groan that ran through the crowd
when IT was lifted to the earth, and men
examined it curiously to see if there had been
foul play. It seemed to him as if only his
body, torpid and inert, remained at the Hall,
while his soul and all his perceptions were up
on the cliffs above that fatal Tarn, crying out to
all the world what fearful crime had been
committed there. So he sat for long, long, terrible
hours, until the short winter day came to its
close, and the black night poured down. But
still he sat, without fire or light; his face, rigid
and white, turned listening to the window. Then
he heard—this time actually and with his living
senses heard—the regular tread of many feet;
he saw the waving of the torches; he heard the
subdued voices of the men, as, tramp, tramp, they
came up the broad gravel walk, bringing the dead