and the placing of Dr. Devarges's private papers by me in the cairn. He knows, too, of your knowledge of the existence of the cairn, its locality, and contents. He knows this, because he was in the cabin that night when the Doctor gave me his dying injunctions regarding his property—the night that you—excuse me, Dumphy, but nothing but frankness will save us now—the night that you stood listening at the door and frightened Grace with your wolfish face. Don't speak! she told me all about it! Your presence there that night gained you the information that you have used so profitably; it was your presence that fixed her wavering resolves and sent her away with me."
Both men had become very pale and earnest. Arthur moved toward the door.
"I will see you to-morrow when I will have matured some plan of defense," he said, abstractedly. "We have"—he used the plural of advocacy with a peculiar significance—"we have a clever woman to fight, who may be more than our match. Meantime, remember that Ramirez is our defense; he is our man, Dumphy, hold fast to him as you would your life. Good-day."
In another moment he was gone. As the door closed upon him, a clerk entered hastily from the outer office. "You said not to disturb you, sir, and here is an important dispatch waiting for you from Wingdam." Mr. Dumphy took it mechanically, opened it, read the first line, and then said hurriedly, "Run after that man, quick! Stop! Wait a moment. You needn't go. There, that will do!"
The clerk hurriedly withdrew into the outer office. Mr. Dumphy went back to his desk again, and once more devoured the following lines:
"Wingdam, 7th, 6 A. M.—Victor Ramirez murdered last night on Conroy's Hill. Gabriel Conroy arrested. Mrs. Conroy missing. Great excitement here; strong feeling against Gabriel. Wait instructions. —Fitch."
At first Mr. Dumphy only heard as an echo beating in his brain the parting words of Arthur Poinsett, "Ramirez is our defense; hold fast to him as you would your life." And now he was dead—gone; their only witness; killed by Gabriel the plotter! What more was wanted to justify his worst suspicions? What should they do? He must send after Poinsett again; the plan of defense must be changed at once; to-morrow might be too late. Stop!
One of his accusers in prison charged with a capital crime! The other—the real murderer—for Dumphy made no doubt that Mrs. Conroy was responsible for the deed—a fugitive from justice! What need of any witness now? The blow that crippled these three conspirators had liberated him! For a moment Mr. Dumphy was actually conscious of a paroxysm of gratitude toward some indefinitely Supreme Being—a God of special providence—special to himself! More than this, there was that vague sentiment, common, I fear, to common humanity in such crises, that this Providence was a tacit indorsement of himself. It was the triumph of Virtue (Dumphy) over Vice (Conroy et al.).
But there would be a trial, publicity, and the possible exposure of certain things by a man whom danger might make reckless. And could he count upon Mrs. Conroy's absence or neutrality? He was conscious that her feeling for her husband was stronger than he had supposed, and she might dare everything to save him. What had a woman of that kind to do with such weakness? Why hadn't she managed it so as to kill Gabriel too? There was an evident want of practical completeness in this special providence, that as a business man Mr. Dumphy felt he could have regulated. And then he was seized with an idea—a damnable inspiration!—and set himself briskly to write. I regret to say that despite the popular belief in the dramatic character of all villainy, Mr. Dumphy at this moment presented only the commonplace spectacle of an absorbed man of business; no lurid light gleamed from his pale blue eyes; no Satanic smile played around the corners of his smoothly shaven mouth; no feverish exclamation stirred his moist, cool lips. He wrote methodically and briskly without deliberation or undue haste. When he had written half a dozen letters he folded and sealed them, and, without summoning his clerk, took them himself into the outer office and thence' into the large counting-room. The news of the murder had evidently got abroad; the clerks were congregated together, and the sound of eager, interested voices ceased as the great man entered and stood among them.
"James, you and Judson will take the quickest route to One Horse Gulch to-night. Don't waste any time on the road or spare any expense. When you get there deliver these letters, and take your orders from my correspondents. Pick up all the details you
