here who believes in God and prizes woman’s honor, let him stop the issue of that report." And Henry Clavering, dignified as ever, but in a state of extreme agitation, stepped into our midst through an open door at our right.
But at the sight of his face, the man in our arms quivered, shrieked, and gave one bound that would have overturned Mr. Clavering, herculean of frame as he was, had not Mr. Gryce interposed.
"Wait!" he cried; and holding back the secretary with one hand—where was his rheumatism now!—he put the other in his pocket and drew thence a document which he held up before Mr. Clavering. "It has not gone yet," said he; "be easy. And you," he went on, turning towards Trueman Harwell, "be quiet, or"
His sentence was cut short by the man springing from his grasp. "Let me go!" he shrieked. "Let me have my revenge on him who, in face of all I have done for Mary Leavenworth, dares to call her his wife! Let me—" But at this point he paused, his quivering frame stiffening into stone, and his clutching hands, outstretched for his rival’s throat, falling heavily back. "Hark!" said he, glaring over Mr. Clavering’s shoulder: "it is she! I hear her! I feel her! She is on the stairs! she is at the door! she—" a low, shuddering sigh of longing and despair finished the sentence: the door opened, and Mary Leavenworth stood before us!
It was a moment to make young hairs turn gray. To see her face, so pale, so haggard, so wild in its fixed horror, turned towards Henry Clavering, to the utter ignoring of the real actor in this most horrible scene! Trueman Harwell could not stand it.
"Ah, ah!" he cried; "look at her! cold, cold; not
