which fixed me for an instant where I was in breathless astonishment, and then caused me to rush down to his side, catch him by the arm, and cry:
"What is it? what is the matter?"
But, thrusting out his hand, he pushed me upwards. "Go back!" he whispered, in a voice shaking with intensest emotion, "go back." And catching me by the arm, he literally pulled me up the stairs. Arrived at the top, he loosened his grasp, and leaning, quivering from head to foot, over the banisters, glared below.
"Who is that?" he cried. "Who is that man? What is his name?"
Startled in my turn, I bent beside him, and saw Henry Clavering come out of the reception room and cross the hall.
"That is Mr. Clavering," I whispered, with all the self-possession I could muster; "do you know him?"
Mr. Harwell fell back against the opposite wall. "Clavering, Clavering," he murmured with quaking lips; then, suddenly bounding forward, clutched the railing before him, and fixing me with his eyes, from which all the stoic calmness had gone down forever in flame and frenzy, gurgled into my ear: "You want to know who the assassin of Mr. Leavenworth is, do you? Look there, then: that is the man, Clavering!" And with a leap, he bounded from my side, and, swaying like a drunken man, disappeared from my gaze in the hall above.
My first impulse was to follow him. Rushing upstairs, I knocked at the door of his room, but no response came to my summons. I then called his name in the hall, but without avail; he was determined not to show himself. Resolved that he should not thus escape me, I returned to the library, and wrote him a
