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Title: The Doctor, his Wife, and the Clock
Author: Green, Anna Katharine, 1846-1935
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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THE AUTONYM LIBRARY.


Small works by representative writers, whose contributions will bear
their signatures.

    32mo, limp cloth, each 50 cents.

    The Autonym Library is published in co-operation with Mr. T.
    Fisher Unwin, of London.

    I. THE UPPER BERTH, by F. Marion Crawford.

    II. FOUND AND LOST, by Mary Putnam-Jacobi.

    III. THE DOCTOR, HIS WIFE, AND THE CLOCK, by Anna Katharine
         Green.

    These will be followed by volumes by other well-known writers.



[Illustration]



              [Handwritten signature: Anna Katharine Green]


                               THE DOCTOR
                                HIS WIFE
                              AND THE CLOCK

                                   BY

                          ANNA KATHARINE GREEN
                          (MRS. CHARLES ROHLFS)

 Author of “The Leavenworth Case,” “Hand and Ring,” “Marked ‘Personal,’”
                               etc., etc.


                             [Illustration]


                           G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

                             NEW YORK LONDON
          27 West Twenty-third Street 24 Bedford Street, Strand

                         The Knickerbocker Press
                                  1895


                             COPYRIGHT, 1895
                        BY ANNA KATHARINE ROHLFS
                           All rights reserved


                   Electrotyped, Printed and Bound by
                    The Knickerbocker Press, New York
                           G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS



                        THE DOCTOR, HIS WIFE, AND
                                THE CLOCK



_The Doctor, his Wife, and the Clock._

I.


On the 17th of July, 1851, a tragedy of no little interest occurred in
one of the residences of the Colonnade in Lafayette Place.

Mr. Hasbrouck, a well-known and highly respected citizen, was attacked
in his room by an unknown assailant, and shot dead before assistance
could reach him. His murderer escaped, and the problem offered to the
police was, how to identify this person who, by some happy chance or by
the exercise of the most remarkable forethought, had left no traces
behind him, or any clue by which he could be followed.

The affair was given to a young man, named Ebenezer Gryce, to
investigate, and the story, as he tells it, is this:

       *       *       *       *       *

When, some time after midnight, I reached Lafayette Place, I found the
block lighted from end to end. Groups of excited men and women peered
from the open doorways, and mingled their shadows with those of the huge
pillars which adorn the front of this picturesque block of dwellings.

The house in which the crime had been committed was near the centre of
the row, and, long before I reached it, I had learned from more than
one source that the alarm was first given to the street by a woman’s
shriek, and secondly by the shouts of an old man-servant who had
appeared, in a half-dressed condition, at the window of Mr. Hasbrouck’s
room, crying “Murder! murder!”

But when I had crossed the threshold, I was astonished at the paucity of
the facts to be gleaned from the inmates themselves. The old servitor,
who was the first to talk, had only this account of the crime to give.

The family, which consisted of Mr. Hasbrouck, his wife, and three
servants, had retired for the night at the usual hour and under the
usual auspices. At eleven o’clock the lights were all extinguished, and
the whole household asleep, with the possible exception of Mr.
Hasbrouck himself, who, being a man of large business responsibilities,
was frequently troubled with insomnia.

Suddenly Mrs. Hasbrouck woke with a start. Had she dreamed the words
that were ringing in her ears, or had they been actually uttered in her
hearing? They were short, sharp words, full of terror and menace, and
she had nearly satisfied herself that she had imagined them, when there
came, from somewhere near the door, a sound she neither understood nor
could interpret, but which filled her with inexplicable terror, and made
her afraid to breathe, or even to stretch forth her hand towards her
husband, whom she supposed to be sleeping at her side. At length another
strange sound, which she was sure was not due to her imagination, drove
her to make an attempt to rouse him, when she was horrified to find that
she was alone in the bed, and her husband nowhere within reach.

Filled now with something more than nervous apprehension, she flung
herself to the floor, and tried to penetrate, with frenzied glances, the
surrounding darkness. But the blinds and shutters both having been
carefully closed by Mr. Hasbrouck before retiring, she found this
impossible, and she was about to sink in terror to the floor, when she
heard a low gasp on the other side of the room, followed by the
suppressed cry:

“God! what have I done!”

The voice was a strange one, but before the fear aroused by this fact
could culminate in a shriek of dismay, she caught the sound of
retreating footsteps, and, eagerly listening, she heard them descend the
stairs and depart by the front door.

Had she known what had occurred—had there been no doubt in her mind as
to what lay in the darkness on the other side of the room—it is likely
that, at the noise caused by the closing front door, she would have made
at once for the balcony that opened out from the window before which she
was standing, and taken one look at the flying figure below. But her
uncertainty as to what lay hidden from her by the darkness chained her
feet to the floor, and there is no knowing when she would have moved, if
a carriage had not at that moment passed down Astor Place, bringing with
it a sense of companionship which broke the spell that held her, and
gave her strength to light the gas, which was in ready reach of her
hand.

As the sudden blaze illuminated the room, revealing in a burst the old
familiar walls and well-known pieces of furniture, she felt for a moment
as if released from some heavy nightmare and restored to the common
experiences of life. But in another instant her former dread returned,
and she found herself quaking at the prospect of passing around the foot
of the bed into that part of the room which was as yet hidden from her
eyes.

But the desperation which comes with great crises finally drove her from
her retreat; and, creeping slowly forward, she cast one glance at the
floor before her, when she found her worst fears realized by the sight
of the dead body of her husband lying prone before the open doorway,
with a bullet-hole in his forehead.

Her first impulse was to shriek, but, by a powerful exercise of will,
she checked herself, and, ringing frantically for the servants who slept
on the top-floor of the house, flew to the nearest window and endeavored
to open it. But the shutters had been bolted so securely by Mr.
Hasbrouck, in his endeavor to shut out light and sound, that by the time
she had succeeded in unfastening them, all trace of the flying murderer
had vanished from the street.

Sick with grief and terror, she stepped back into the room just as the
three frightened servants descended the stairs. As they appeared in the
open doorway, she pointed at her husband’s inanimate form, and then, as
if suddenly realizing in its full force the calamity which had befallen
her, she threw up her arms, and sank forward to the floor in a dead
faint.

The two women rushed to her assistance, but the old butler, bounding
over the bed, sprang to the window, and shrieked his alarm to the
street.

In the interim that followed, Mrs. Hasbrouck was revived, and the
master’s body laid decently on the bed; but no pursuit was made, nor any
inquiries started likely to assist me in establishing the identity of
the assailant.

Indeed, every one, both in the house and out, seemed dazed by the
unexpected catastrophe, and as no one had any suspicions to offer as to
the probable murderer, I had a difficult task before me.

I began, in the usual way, by inspecting the scene of the murder. I
found nothing in the room, or in the condition of the body itself, which
added an iota to the knowledge already obtained. That Mr. Hasbrouck had
been in bed; that he had risen upon hearing a noise; and that he had
been shot before reaching the door, were self-evident facts. But there
was nothing to guide me further. The very simplicity of the
circumstances caused a dearth of clues, which made the difficulty of
procedure as great as any I ever encountered.

My search through the hall and down the stairs elicited nothing; and an
investigation of the bolts and bars by which the house was secured,
assured me that the assassin had either entered by the front door, or
had already been secreted in the house when it was locked up for the
night.

“I shall have to trouble Mrs. Hasbrouck for a short interview,” I
hereupon announced to the trembling old servitor, who had followed me
like a dog about the house.

He made no demur, and in a few minutes I was ushered into the presence
of the newly made widow, who sat quite alone, in a large chamber in the
rear. As I crossed the threshold she looked up, and I encountered a good
plain face, without the shadow of guile in it.

“Madam,” said I, “I have not come to disturb you. I will ask two or
three questions only, and then leave you to your grief. I am told that
some words came from the assassin before he delivered his fatal shot.
Did you hear these distinctly enough to tell me what they were?”

“I was sound asleep,” said she, “and dreamt, as I thought, that a
fierce, strange voice cried somewhere to some one: ‘Ah! you did not
expect _me_!’ But I dare not say that these words were really uttered to
my husband, for he was not the man to call forth hate, and only a man in
the extremity of passion could address such an exclamation in such a
tone as rings in my memory in connection with the fatal shot which woke
me.”

“But that shot was not the work of a friend,” I argued. “If, as these
words seem to prove, the assassin had some other motive than gain in his
assault, then your husband had an enemy, though you never suspected it.”

“Impossible!” was her steady reply, uttered in the most convincing tone.
“The man who shot him was a common burglar, and, frightened at having
been betrayed into murder, fled without looking for booty. I am sure I
heard him cry out in terror and remorse: ‘God! what have I done!’”

“Was that before you left the side of the bed?”

“Yes; I did not move from my place till I heard the front door close. I
was paralyzed by my fear and dread.”

“Are you in the habit of trusting to the security of a latch-lock only
in the fastening of your front door at night? I am told that the big key
was not in the lock, and that the bolt at the bottom of the door was not
drawn.”

“The bolt at the bottom of the door is never drawn. Mr. Hasbrouck was so
good a man he never mistrusted any one. That is why the big lock was not
fastened. The key, not working well, he took it some days ago to the
locksmith, and when the latter failed to return it, he laughed, and said
he thought no one would ever think of meddling with his front door.”

“Is there more than one night-key to your house?” I now asked.

She shook her head.

“And when did Mr. Hasbrouck last use his?”

“To-night, when he came home from prayer-meeting,” she answered, and
burst into tears.

Her grief was so real and her loss so recent that I hesitated to afflict
her by further questions. So returning to the scene of the tragedy, I
stepped out upon the balcony which ran in front. Soft voices instantly
struck my ears. The neighbors on either side were grouped in front of
their own windows, and were exchanging the remarks natural under the
circumstances. I paused, as in duty bound, and listened. But I heard
nothing worth recording, and would have instantly re-entered the house,
if I had not been impressed by the appearance of a very graceful woman
who stood at my right. She was clinging to her husband, who was gazing
at one of the pillars before him in a strange, fixed way which
astonished me till he attempted to move, and then I saw that he was
blind. Instantly I remembered that there lived in this row a blind
doctor, equally celebrated for his skill and for his uncommon personal
attractions, and, greatly interested not only in his affliction, but in
the sympathy evinced for him by his young and affectionate wife, I stood
still till I heard her say in the soft and appealing tones of love:

“Come in, Constant; you have heavy duties for to-morrow, and you should
get a few hours’ rest, if possible.”

He came from the shadow of the pillar, and for one minute I saw his face
with the lamplight shining full upon it. It was as regular of feature as
a sculptured Adonis, and it was as white.

“Sleep!” he repeated, in the measured tones of deep but suppressed
feeling. “Sleep! with murder on the other side of the wall!” And he
stretched out his arms in a dazed way that insensibly accentuated the
horror I myself felt of the crime which had so lately taken place in the
room behind me.

She, noting the movement, took one of the groping hands in her own and
drew him gently towards her.

“This way,” she urged; and, guiding him into the house, she closed the
window and drew down the shades, making the street seem darker by the
loss of her exquisite presence.

This may seem a digression, but I was at the time a young man of thirty,
and much under the dominion of woman’s beauty. I was therefore slow in
leaving the balcony, and persistent in my wish to learn something of
this remarkable couple before leaving Mr. Hasbrouck’s house.

The story told me was very simple. Dr. Zabriskie had not been born
blind, but had become so after a grievous illness which had stricken him
down soon after he received his diploma. Instead of succumbing to an
affliction which would have daunted most men, he expressed his intention
of practising his profession, and soon became so successful in it that
he found no difficulty in establishing himself in one of the best-paying
quarters of the city. Indeed, his intuition seemed to have developed in
a remarkable degree after his loss of sight, and he seldom, if ever,
made a mistake in diagnosis. Considering this fact, and the personal
attractions which gave him distinction, it was no wonder that he soon
became a popular physician whose presence was a benefaction and whose
word a law.

He had been engaged to be married at the time of his illness, and, when
he learned what was likely to be its results, had offered to release the
young lady from all obligation to him. But she would not be released,
and they were married. This had taken place some five years previous to
Mr. Hasbrouck’s death, three of which had been spent by them in
Lafayette Place.

So much for the beautiful woman next door.

There being absolutely no clue to the assailant of Mr. Hasbrouck, I
naturally looked forward to the inquest for some evidence upon which to
work. But there seemed to be no underlying facts to this tragedy. The
most careful study into the habits and conduct of the deceased brought
nothing to light save his general beneficence and rectitude, nor was
there in his history or in that of his wife any secret or hidden
obligation calculated to provoke any such act of revenge as murder. Mrs.
Hasbrouck’s surmise that the intruder was simply a burglar, and that she
had rather imagined than heard the words that pointed to the shooting as
a deed of vengeance, soon gained general credence. But, though the
police worked long and arduously in this new direction, their efforts
were without fruit, and the case bade fair to remain an unsolvable
mystery.

But the deeper the mystery the more persistently does my mind cling to
it, and some five months after the matter had been delegated to
oblivion, I found myself starting suddenly from sleep, with these words
ringing in my ears:

“_Who uttered the scream that gave the first alarm of Mr. Hasbrouck’s
violent death?_”

I was in such a state of excitement that the perspiration stood out on
my forehead. Mrs. Hasbrouck’s story of the occurrence returned to me,
and I remembered as distinctly as if she were then speaking, that she
had expressly stated that she did not scream when confronted by the
sight of her husband’s dead body. But some one had screamed, and that
very loudly. Who was it, then? One of the maids, startled by the sudden
summons from below, or some one else—some involuntary witness of the
crime, whose testimony had been suppressed at the inquest, by fear or
influence?

The possibility of having come upon a clue even at this late day, so
fired my ambition, that I took the first opportunity of revisiting
Lafayette Place. Choosing such persons as I thought most open to my
questions, I learned that there were many who could testify to having
heard a woman’s shrill scream on that memorable night just prior to the
alarm given by old Cyrus, but no one who could tell from whose lips it
had come. One fact, however, was immediately settled. It had not been
the result of the servant-women’s fears. Both of the girls were positive
that they had uttered no sound, nor had they themselves heard any, till
Cyrus rushed to the window with his wild cries. As the scream, by
whomever given, was uttered before they descended the stairs, I was
convinced by these assurances that it had issued from one of the front
windows, and not from the rear of the house, where their own rooms lay.
Could it be that it had sprung from the adjoining dwelling, and that——
My thoughts went no further, but I made up my mind to visit the Doctor’s
house at once.

It took some courage to do this, for the Doctor’s wife had attended the
inquest, and her beauty, seen in broad daylight, had worn such an aspect
of mingled sweetness and dignity, that I hesitated to encounter it under
any circumstances likely to disturb its pure serenity. But a clue, once
grasped, cannot be lightly set aside by a true detective, and it would
have taken more than a woman’s frown to stop me at this point. So I rang
Dr. Zabriskie’s bell.

I am seventy years old now and am no longer daunted by the charms of a
beautiful woman, but I confess that when I found myself in the fine
reception parlor on the first-floor, I experienced no little trepidation
at the prospect of the interview which awaited me.

But as soon as the fine commanding form of the Doctor’s wife crossed the
threshold, I recovered my senses and surveyed her with as direct a gaze
as my position allowed. For her aspect bespoke a degree of emotion that
astonished me; and even before I spoke I perceived her to be trembling,
though she was a woman of no little natural dignity and self-possession.

“I seem to know your face,” she said, advancing courteously towards me,
“but your name”—and here she glanced at the card she held in her
hand—“is totally unfamiliar to me.”

“I think you saw me some eighteen months ago,” said I. “I am the
detective who gave testimony at the inquest which was held over the
remains of Mr. Hasbrouck.”

I had not meant to startle her, but at this introduction of myself I saw
her naturally pale cheek turn paler, and her fine eyes, which had been
fixed curiously upon me, gradually sink to the floor.

“Great heaven!” thought I, “what is this I have stumbled upon!”

“I do not understand what business you can have with me,” she presently
remarked, with a show of gentle indifference that did not in the least
deceive me.

“I do not wonder,” I rejoined. “The crime which took place next door is
almost forgotten by the community, and even if it were not, I am sure
you would find it difficult to conjecture the nature of the question I
have to put to you.”

“I am surprised,” she began, rising in her involuntary emotion and
thereby compelling me to rise also. “How can you have any question to
ask me on this subject? Yet if you have,” she continued, with a rapid
change of manner that touched my heart in spite of myself, “I shall, of
course, do my best to answer you.”

There are women whose sweetest tones and most charming smiles only serve
to awaken distrust in men of my calling; but Mrs. Zabriskie was not of
this number. Her face was beautiful, but it was also candid in its
expression, and beneath the agitation which palpably disturbed her, I
was sure there lurked nothing either wicked or false. Yet I held fast by
the clue which I had grasped, as it were, in the dark, and without
knowing whither I was tending, much less whither I was leading her, I
proceeded to say:

“The question which I presume to put to you as the next-door neighbor of
Mr. Hasbrouck, is this: Who was the woman who screamed out so loudly
that the whole neighborhood heard her on the night of that gentleman’s
assassination?”

The gasp she gave answered my question in a way she little realized,
and, struck as I was by the impalpable links that had led me to the
threshold of this hitherto unsolvable mystery, I was about to press my
advantage and ask another question, when she quickly started forward and
laid her hand on my lips.

Astonished, I looked at her inquiringly, but her head was turned aside,
and her eyes, fixed upon the door, showed the greatest anxiety.
Instantly I realized what she feared. Her husband was entering the
house, and she dreaded lest his ears should catch a word of our
conversation.

Not knowing what was in her mind, and unable to realize the importance
of the moment to her, I yet listened to the advance of her blind
husband with an almost painful interest. Would he enter the room where
we were, or would he pass immediately to his office in the rear? She
seemed to wonder too, and almost held her breath as he neared the door,
paused, and stood in the open doorway, with his ear turned towards us.

As for myself, I remained perfectly still, gazing at his face in mingled
surprise and apprehension. For besides its beauty, which was of a marked
order, as I have already observed, it had a touching expression which
irresistibly aroused both pity and interest in the spectator. This may
have been the result of his affliction, or it may have sprung from some
deeper cause; but, whatever its source, this look in his face produced a
strong impression upon me and interested me at once in his personality.
Would he enter? Or would he pass on? Her look of silent appeal showed me
in which direction her wishes lay, but while I answered her glance by
complete silence, I was conscious in some indistinct way that the
business I had undertaken would be better furthered by his entrance.

The blind have been often said to possess a sixth sense in place of the
one they have lost. Though I am sure we made no noise, I soon perceived
that he was aware of our presence. Stepping hastily forward he said, in
the high and vibrating tone of restrained passion:

“Helen, are you here?”

For a moment I thought she did not mean to answer, but knowing
doubtless from experience the impossibility of deceiving him, she
answered with a cheerful assent, dropping her hand as she did so from
before my lips.

He heard the slight rustle which accompanied the movement, and a look I
found it hard to comprehend flashed over his features, altering his
expression so completely that he seemed another man.

“You have some one with you,” he declared, advancing another step but
with none of the uncertainty which usually accompanies the movements of
the blind. “Some dear friend,” he went on, with an almost sarcastic
emphasis and a forced smile that had little of gaiety in it.

The agitated and distressed blush which answered him could have but one
interpretation. He suspected that her hand had been clasped in mine, and
she perceived his thought and knew that I perceived it also.

Drawing herself up, she moved towards him, saying in a sweet womanly
tone that to me spoke volumes:

“It is no friend, Constant, not even an acquaintance. The person whom I
now present to you is an agent from the police. He is here upon a
trivial errand which will be soon finished, when I will join you in your
office.”

I knew she was but taking a choice between two evils. That she would
have saved her husband the knowledge of a detective’s presence in the
house, if her self-respect would have allowed it, but neither she nor I
anticipated the effect which this presentation produced upon him.

“A police officer,” he repeated, staring with his sightless eyes, as if,
in his eagerness to see, he half hoped his lost sense would return. “He
can have no trivial errand here; he has been sent by God Himself to——”

“Let me speak for you,” hastily interposed his wife, springing to his
side and clasping his arm with a fervor that was equally expressive of
appeal and command. Then turning to me, she explained: “Since Mr.
Hasbrouck’s unaccountable death, my husband has been laboring under an
hallucination which I have only to mention for you to recognize its
perfect absurdity. He thinks—oh! do not look like that, Constant; you
know it is an hallucination which must vanish the moment we drag it
into broad daylight—that he—_he_, the best man in all the world, was
himself the assailant of Mr. Hasbrouck.”

Good God!

“I say nothing of the impossibility of this being so,” she went on in a
fever of expostulation. “He is blind, and could not have delivered such
a shot even if he had desired to; besides, he had no weapon. But the
inconsistency of the thing speaks for itself, and should assure him that
his mind is unbalanced and that he is merely suffering from a shock that
was greater than we realized. He is a physician and has had many such
instances in his own practice. Why, he was very much attached to Mr.
Hasbrouck! They were the best of friends, and though he insists that he
killed him, he cannot give any reason for the deed.”

At these words the Doctor’s face grew stern, and he spoke like an
automaton repeating some fearful lesson.

“I killed him. I went to his room and deliberately shot him. I had
nothing against him, and my remorse is extreme. Arrest me, and let me
pay the penalty of my crime. It is the only way in which I can obtain
peace.”

Shocked beyond all power of self-control by this repetition of what she
evidently considered the unhappy ravings of a madman, she let go his arm
and turned upon me in frenzy.

“Convince him!” she cried. “Convince him by your questions that he never
could have done this fearful thing.”

I was laboring under great excitement myself, for I felt my youth
against me in a matter of such tragic consequence. Besides, I agreed
with her that he was in a distempered state of mind, and I hardly knew
how to deal with one so fixed in his hallucination and with so much
intelligence to support it. But the emergency was great, for he was
holding out his wrists in the evident expectation of my taking him into
instant custody; and the sight was killing his wife, who had sunk on the
floor between us, in terror and anguish.

“You say you killed Mr. Hasbrouck,” I began. “Where did you get your
pistol, and what did you do with it after you left his house?”

“My husband had no pistol; never had any pistol,” put in Mrs.
Zabriskie, with vehement assertion. “If I had seen him with such a
weapon——”

“I threw it away. When I left the house, I cast it as far from me as
possible, for I was frightened at what I had done, horribly frightened.”

“No pistol was ever found,” I answered, with a smile, forgetting for the
moment that he could not see. “If such an instrument had been found in
the street after a murder of such consequence it certainly would have
been brought to the police.”

“You forget that a good pistol is valuable property,” he went on
stolidly. “Some one came along before the general alarm was given; and
seeing such a treasure lying on the sidewalk, picked it up and carried
it off. Not being an honest man, he preferred to keep it to drawing the
attention of the police upon himself.”

“Hum, perhaps,” said I; “but where did _you_ get it. Surely you can tell
where you procured such a weapon, if, as your wife intimates, you did
not own one.”

“I bought it that self-same night of a friend; a friend whom I will not
name, since he resides no longer in this country. I——” He paused;
intense passion was in his face; he turned towards his wife, and a low
cry escaped him, which made her look up in fear.

“I do not wish to go into any particulars,” said he. “God forsook me and
I committed a horrible crime. When I am punished, perhaps peace will
return to me and happiness to her. I would not wish her to suffer too
long or too bitterly for my sin.”

“Constant!” What love was in the cry! and what despair! It seemed to
move him and turn his thoughts for a moment into a different channel.

“Poor child!” he murmured, stretching out his hands by an irresistible
impulse towards her. But the change was but momentary, and he was soon
again the stern and determined self-accuser. “Are you going to take me
before a magistrate?” he asked. “If so, I have a few duties to perform
which you are welcome to witness.”

“I have no warrant,” I said; “besides, I am scarcely the one to take
such a responsibility upon myself. If, however, you persist in your
declaration, I will communicate with my superiors, who will take such
action as they think best.”

“That will be still more satisfactory to me,” said he; “for though I
have many times contemplated giving myself up to the authorities, I have
still much to do before I can leave my home and practice without injury
to others. Good-day; when you want me, you will find me here.”

He was gone, and the poor young wife was left crouching on the floor
alone. Pitying her shame and terror, I ventured to remark that it was
not an uncommon thing for a man to confess to a crime he had never
committed, and assured her that the matter would be inquired into very
carefully before any attempt was made upon his liberty.

She thanked me, and, slowly rising, tried to regain her equanimity; but
the manner as well as the matter of her husband’s self-condemnation was
too overwhelming in its nature for her to recover readily from her
emotions.

“I have long dreaded this,” she acknowledged. “For months I have
foreseen that he would make some rash communication or insane avowal. If
I had dared, I would have consulted some physician about this
hallucination of his; but he was so sane on other points that I
hesitated to give my dreadful secret to the world. I kept hoping that
time and his daily pursuits would have their effect and restore him to
himself. But his illusion grows, and now I fear that nothing will ever
convince him that he did not commit the deed of which he accuses
himself. If he were not blind I would have more hope, but the blind have
so much time for brooding.”

“I think he had better be indulged in his fancies for the present,” I
ventured. “If he is laboring under an illusion it might be dangerous to
cross him.”

“_If?_” she echoed in an indescribable tone of amazement and dread. “Can
you for a moment harbor the idea that he has spoken the truth?”

“Madam,” I returned, with something of the cynicism of my later years,
“what caused you to give such an unearthly scream just before this
murder was made known to the neighborhood?”

She stared, paled, and finally began to tremble, not, as I now believe,
at the insinuation latent in my words, but at the doubts which my
question aroused in her own breast.

“Did I?” she asked; then with a great burst of candor, which seemed
inseparable from her nature, she continued: “Why do I try to mislead you
or deceive myself? I did give a shriek just before the alarm was raised
next door; but it was not from any knowledge I had of a crime having
been committed, but because I unexpectedly saw before me my husband whom
I supposed to be on his way to Poughkeepsie. He was looking very pale
and strange, and for a moment I thought I was beholding his ghost. But
he soon explained his appearance by saying that he had fallen from the
train and had been only saved by a miracle from being dismembered; and
I was just bemoaning his mishap and trying to calm him and myself, when
that terrible shout was heard next door of ‘Murder! murder!’ Coming so
soon after the shock he had himself experienced, it quite unnerved him,
and I think we can date his mental disturbance from that moment. For he
began almost immediately to take a morbid interest in the affair next
door, though it was weeks, if not months, before he let a word fall of
the nature of those you have just heard. Indeed it was not till I
repeated to him some of the expressions he was continually letting fall
in his sleep, that he commenced to accuse himself of crime and talk of
retribution.”

“You say that your husband frightened you on that night by appearing
suddenly at the door when you thought him on his way to Poughkeepsie. Is
Dr. Zabriskie in the habit of thus going and coming alone at an hour so
late as this must have been?”

“You forget that to the blind, night is less full of perils than the
day. Often and often has my husband found his way to his patients’
houses alone after midnight; but on this especial evening he had Harry
with him. Harry was his driver, and always accompanied him when he went
any distance.”

“Well, then,” said I, “all we have to do is to summon Harry and hear
what he has to say concerning this affair. He surely will know whether
or not his master went into the house next door.”

“Harry has left us,” she said. “Dr. Zabriskie has another driver now.
Besides—(I have nothing to conceal from you)—Harry was not with him when
he returned to the house that evening, or the Doctor would not have been
without his portmanteau till the next day. Something—I have never known
what—caused them to separate, and that is why I have no answer to give
the Doctor when he accuses himself of committing a deed on that night
which is wholly out of keeping with every other act of his life.”

“And have you never questioned Harry why they separated and why he
allowed his master to come home alone after the shock he had received at
the station?”

“I did not know there was any reason for doing so till long after he
left us.”

“And when did he leave?”

“That I do not remember. A few weeks or possibly a few days after that
dreadful night.”

“And where is he now?”

“Ah, that I have not the least means of knowing. But,” she suddenly
cried, “what do you want of Harry? If he did not follow Dr. Zabriskie to
his own door, he could tell us nothing that would convince my husband
that he is laboring under an illusion.”

“But he might tell us something which would convince us that Dr.
Zabriskie was not himself after the accident, that he——”

“Hush!” came from her lips in imperious tones. “I will not believe that
he shot Mr. Hasbrouck even if you prove him to have been insane at the
time. How could he? My husband is blind. It would take a man of very
keen sight to force himself into a house that was closed for the night,
and kill a man in the dark at one shot.”

“Rather,” cried a voice from the doorway, “it is only a blind man who
could do this. Those who trust to eyesight must be able to catch some
glimpse of the mark they aim at, and this room, as I have been told, was
without a glimmer of light. But the blind trust to sound, and as Mr.
Hasbrouck spoke——”

“Oh!” burst from the horrified wife, “is there no one to stop him when
he speaks like that?”



II.


When I related to my superiors the details of the foregoing interview,
two of them coincided with the wife in thinking that Dr. Zabriskie was
in an irresponsible condition of mind which made any statement of his
questionable. But the third seemed disposed to argue the matter, and,
casting me an inquiring look, seemed to ask what my opinion was on the
subject. Answering him as if he had spoken, I gave my conclusion as
follows: That whether insane or not, Dr. Zabriskie had fired the shot
which terminated Mr. Hasbrouck’s life.

It was the Inspector’s own idea, but it was not shared in by the others,
one of whom had known the Doctor for years. Accordingly they compromised
by postponing all opinion till they had themselves interrogated the
Doctor, and I was detailed to bring him before them the next afternoon.

He came without reluctance, his wife accompanying him. In the short time
which elapsed between their leaving Lafayette Place and entering
Headquarters, I embraced the opportunity of observing them, and I found
the study equally exciting and interesting. His face was calm but
hopeless, and his eye, which should have shown a wild glimmer if there
was truth in his wife’s hypothesis, was dark and unfathomable, but
neither frenzied nor uncertain. He spake but once and listened to
nothing, though now and then his wife moved as if to attract his
attention, and once even stole her hand toward his, in the tender hope
that he would feel its approach and accept her sympathy. But he was deaf
as well as blind; and sat wrapped up in thoughts which she, I know,
would have given worlds to penetrate.

Her countenance was not without its mystery also. She showed in every
lineament passionate concern and misery, and a deep tenderness from
which the element of fear was not absent. But she, as well as he,
betrayed that some misunderstanding, deeper than any I had previously
suspected, drew its intangible veil between them and made the near
proximity in which they sat, at once a heart-piercing delight and an
unspeakable pain. What was this misunderstanding? and what was the
character of the fear that modified her every look of love in his
direction? Her perfect indifference to my presence proved that it was
not connected with the position in which he had put himself towards the
police by his voluntary confession of crime, nor could I thus interpret
the expression of frantic question which now and then contracted her
features, as she raised her eyes towards his sightless orbs, and strove
to read, in his firm-set lips, the meaning of those assertions she could
only ascribe to a loss of reason.

The stopping of the carriage seemed to awaken both from thoughts that
separated rather than united them. He turned his face in her direction,
and she, stretching forth her hand, prepared to lead him from the
carriage, without any of that display of timidity which had been
previously evident in her manner.

As his guide she seemed to fear nothing; as his lover, everything.

“There is another and a deeper tragedy underlying the outward and
obvious one,” was my inward conclusion, as I followed them into the
presence of the gentlemen awaiting them.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dr. Zabriskie’s appearance was a shock to those who knew him; so was his
manner, which was calm, straightforward, and quietly determined.

“I shot Mr. Hasbrouck,” was his steady affirmation, given without any
show of frenzy or desperation. “If you ask me why I did it, I cannot
answer; if you ask me how, I am ready to state all that I know
concerning the matter.”

“But, Dr. Zabriskie,” interposed his friend, “the why is the most
important thing for us to consider just now. If you really desire to
convince us that you committed the dreadful crime of killing a totally
inoffensive man, you should give us some reason for an act so opposed to
all your instincts and general conduct.”

But the Doctor continued unmoved:

“I had no reason for murdering Mr. Hasbrouck. A hundred questions can
elicit no other reply; you had better keep to the how.”

A deep-drawn breath from the wife answered the looks of the three
gentlemen to whom this suggestion was offered. “You see,” that breath
seemed to protest, “that he is not in his right mind.”

I began to waver in my own opinion, and yet the intuition which has
served me in cases as seemingly impenetrable as this, bade me beware of
following the general judgment.

“Ask him to inform you how he got into the house,” I whispered to
Inspector D——, who sat nearest me.

Immediately the Inspector put the question I had suggested:

“By what means did you enter Mr. Hasbrouck’s house at so late an hour as
this murder occurred?”

The blind doctor’s head fell forward on his breast, and he hesitated for
the first and only time.

“You will not believe me,” said he; “but the door was ajar when I came
to it. Such things make crime easy; it is the only excuse I have to
offer for this dreadful deed.”

The front door of a respectable citizen’s house ajar at half-past eleven
at night. It was a statement that fixed in all minds the conviction of
the speaker’s irresponsibility. Mrs. Zabriskie’s brow cleared, and her
beauty became for a moment dazzling as she held out her hands in
irrepressible relief towards those who were interrogating her husband. I
alone kept my impassibility. A possible explanation of this crime had
flashed like lightning across my mind; an explanation from which I
inwardly recoiled, even while I was forced to consider it.

“Dr. Zabriskie,” remarked the Inspector who was most friendly to him,
“such old servants as those kept by Mr. Hasbrouck do not leave the front
door ajar at twelve o’clock at night.”

“Yet ajar it was,” repeated the blind doctor, with quiet emphasis; “and
finding it so, I went in. When I came out again, I closed it. Do you
wish me to swear to what I say? If so, I am ready.”

What could we reply? To see this splendid-looking man, hallowed by an
affliction so great that in itself it called forth the compassion of the
most indifferent, accusing himself of a cold-blooded crime, in tones
that sounded dispassionate because of the will that forced their
utterance, was too painful in itself for us to indulge in any
unnecessary words. Compassion took the place of curiosity, and each and
all of us turned involuntary looks of pity upon the young wife pressing
so eagerly to his side.

“For a blind man,” ventured one, “the assault was both deft and certain.
Are you accustomed to Mr. Hasbrouck’s house, that you found your way
with so little difficulty to his bedroom?”

“I am accustomed——” he began.

But here his wife broke in with irrepressible passion:

“He is not accustomed to that house. He has never been beyond the
first-floor. Why, why do you question him? Do you not see——”

His hand was on her lips.

“Hush!” he commanded. “You know my skill in moving about a house; how I
sometimes deceive those who do not know me into believing that I can
see, by the readiness with which I avoid obstacles and find my way even
in strange and untried scenes. Do not try to make them think I am not in
my right mind, or you will drive me into the very condition you
deprecate.”

His face, rigid, cold, and set, looked like that of a mask. Hers, drawn
with horror and filled with question that was fast taking the form of
doubt, bespoke an awful tragedy from which more that one of us recoiled.

“Can you shoot a man dead without seeing him?” asked the Superintendent,
with painful effort.

“Give me a pistol and I will show you,” was the quick reply.

A low cry came from the wife. In a drawer near to every one of us there
lay a pistol, but no one moved to take it out. There was a look in the
Doctor’s eye which made us fear to trust him with a pistol just then.

“We will accept your assurance that you possess a skill beyond that of
most men,” returned the Superintendent. And beckoning me forward, he
whispered: “This is a case for the doctors and not for the police.
Remove him quietly, and notify Dr. Southyard of what I say.”

But Dr. Zabriskie, who seemed to have an almost supernatural acuteness
of hearing, gave a violent start at this and spoke up for the first time
with real passion in his voice:

“No, no, I pray you. I can bear anything but that. Remember, gentlemen,
that I am blind; that I cannot see who is about me; that my life would
be a torture if I felt myself surrounded by spies watching to catch some
evidence of madness in me. Rather conviction at once, death, dishonor,
and obloquy. These I have incurred. These I have brought upon myself by
crime, but not this worse fate—oh! not this worse fate.”

His passion was so intense and yet so confined within the bounds of
decorum, that we felt strangely impressed by it. Only the wife stood
transfixed, with the dread growing in her heart, till her white, waxen
visage seemed even more terrible to contemplate than his
passion-distorted one.

“It is not strange that my wife thinks me demented,” the Doctor
continued, as if afraid of the silence that answered him. “But it is
your business to discriminate, and you should know a sane man when you
see him.”

Inspector D—— no longer hesitated.

“Very well,” said he, “give us the least proof that your assertions are
true, and we will lay your case before the prosecuting attorney.”

“Proof? Is not a man’s word——”

“No man’s confession is worth much without some evidence to support it.
In your case there is none. You cannot even produce the pistol with
which you assert yourself to have committed the deed.”

“True, true. I was frightened by what I had done, and the instinct of
self-preservation led me to rid myself of the weapon in any way I could.
But some one found this pistol; some one picked it up from the sidewalk
of Lafayette Place on that fatal night. Advertise for it. Offer a
reward. I will give you the money.” Suddenly he appeared to realize how
all this sounded. “Alas!” cried he, “I know the story seems improbable;
all I say seems improbable; but it is not the probable things that
happen in this life, but the improbable, as you should know, who every
day dig deep into the heart of human affairs.”

Were these the ravings of insanity? I began to understand the wife’s
terror.

“I bought the pistol,” he went on, “of—alas! I cannot tell you his name.
Everything is against me. I cannot adduce one proof; yet she, even she,
is beginning to fear that my story is true. I know it by her silence, a
silence that yawns between us like a deep and unfathomable gulf.”

But at these words her voice rang out with passionate vehemence.

“No, no, it is false! I will never believe that your hands have been
plunged in blood. You are my own pure-hearted Constant, cold, perhaps,
and stern, but with no guilt upon your conscience, save in your own wild
imagination.”

“Helen, you are no friend to me,” he declared, pushing her gently aside.
“Believe me innocent, but say nothing to lead these others to doubt my
word.”

And she said no more, but her looks spoke volumes.

The result was that he was not detained, though he prayed for instant
commitment. He seemed to dread his own home, and the surveillance to
which he instinctively knew he would henceforth be subjected. To see him
shrink from his wife’s hand as she strove to lead him from the room was
sufficiently painful; but the feeling thus aroused was nothing to that
with which we observed the keen and agonized expectancy of his look as
he turned and listened for the steps of the officer who followed him.

“I shall never again know whether or not I am alone,” was his final
observation as he left our presence.

       *       *       *       *       *

I said nothing to my superiors of the thoughts I had had while listening
to the above interrogatories. A theory had presented itself to my mind
which explained in some measure the mysteries of the Doctor’s conduct,
but I wished for time and opportunity to test its reasonableness before
submitting it to their higher judgment. And these seemed likely to be
given me, for the Inspectors continued divided in their opinion of the
blind physician’s guilt, and the District-Attorney, when told of the
affair, pooh-poohed it without mercy, and declined to stir in the matter
unless some tangible evidence were forthcoming to substantiate the poor
Doctor’s self-accusations.

“If guilty, why does he shrink from giving his motives,” said he, “and
if so anxious to go to the gallows, why does he suppress the very facts
calculated to send him there? He is as mad as a March hare, and it is to
an asylum he should go and not to a jail.”

In this conclusion I failed to agree with him, and as time wore on my
suspicions took shape and finally ended in a fixed conviction. Dr.
Zabriskie had committed the crime he avowed, but—let me proceed a little
further with my story before I reveal what lies beyond that “but.”

Notwithstanding Dr. Zabriskie’s almost frenzied appeal for solitude, a
man had been placed in surveillance over him in the shape of a young
doctor skilled in diseases of the brain. This man communicated more or
less with the police, and one morning I received from him the following
extracts from the diary he had been ordered to keep.

     “The Doctor is settling into a deep melancholy from which he
     tries to rise at times, but with only indifferent success.
     Yesterday he rode around to all his patients for the purpose
     of withdrawing his services on the plea of illness. But he
     still keeps his office open, and to-day I had the opportunity
     of witnessing his reception and treatment of the many
     sufferers who came to him for aid. I think he was conscious of
     my presence, though an attempt had been made to conceal it.
     For the listening look never left his face from the moment he
     entered the room, and once he rose and passed quickly from
     wall to wall, groping with outstretched hands into every nook
     and corner, and barely escaping contact with the curtain
     behind which I was hidden. But if he suspected my presence, he
     showed no displeasure at it, wishing perhaps for a witness to
     his skill in the treatment of disease.

     “And truly I never beheld a finer manifestation of practical
     insight in cases of a more or less baffling nature than I
     beheld in him to-day. He is certainly a most wonderful
     physician, and I feel bound to record that his mind is as
     clear for business as if no shadow had fallen upon it.

            *       *       *       *       *

     “Dr. Zabriskie loves his wife, but in a way that tortures both
     himself and her. If she is gone from the house he is wretched,
     and yet when she returns he often forbears to speak to her, or
     if he does speak, it is with a constraint that hurts her more
     than his silence. I was present when she came in to-day. Her
     step, which had been eager on the stairway, flagged as she
     approached the room, and he naturally noted the change and
     gave his own interpretation to it. His face, which had been
     very pale, flushed suddenly, and a nervous trembling seized
     him which he sought in vain to hide. But by the time her tall
     and beautiful figure stood in the doorway he was his usual
     self again in all but the expression of his eyes, which stared
     straight before him in an agony of longing only to be observed
     in those who have once seen.

     “‘Where have you been, Helen?’ he asked, as, contrary to his
     wont, he moved to meet her.

     “‘To my mother’s, to Arnold & Constable’s, and to the
     hospital, as you requested,’ was her quick answer, made
     without faltering or embarrassment.

     “He stepped still nearer and took her hand, and as he did so
     my physician’s eye noted how his finger lay over her pulse in
     seeming unconsciousness.

     “‘Nowhere else?’ he queried.

     “She smiled the saddest kind of smile and shook her head;
     then, remembering that he could not see this movement, she
     cried in a wistful tone:

     “‘Nowhere else, Constant; I was too anxious to get back.’

     “I expected him to drop her hand at this, but he did not; and
     his finger still rested on her pulse.

     “‘And whom did you see while you were gone?’ he continued.

     “She told him, naming over several names.

     “‘You must have enjoyed yourself,’ was his cold comment, as he
     let go her hand and turned away. But his manner showed
     relief, and I could not but sympathize with the pitiable
     situation of a man who found himself forced to means like
     these for probing the heart of his young wife.

     “Yet when I turned towards her I realized that her position
     was but little happier than his. Tears are no strangers to her
     eyes, but those that welled up at this moment seemed to
     possess a bitterness that promised but little peace for her
     future. Yet she quickly dried them and busied herself with
     ministrations for his comfort.

            *       *       *       *       *

     “If I am any judge of woman, Helen Zabriskie is superior to
     most of her sex. That her husband mistrusts her is evident,
     but whether this is the result of the stand she has taken in
     his regard, or only a manifestation of dementia, I have as
     yet been unable to determine. I dread to leave them alone
     together, and yet when I presume to suggest that she should be
     on her guard in her interviews with him, she smiles very
     placidly and tells me that nothing would give her greater joy
     than to see him lift his hand against her, for that would
     argue that he is not accountable for his deeds or for his
     assertions.

     “Yet it would be a grief to see her injured by this passionate
     and unhappy man.

            *       *       *       *       *

     “You have said that you wanted all details I could give; so I
     feel bound to say, that Dr. Zabriskie tries to be considerate
     of his wife, though he often fails in the attempt. When she
     offers herself as his guide, or assists him with his mail, or
     performs any of the many acts of kindness by which she
     continually manifests her sense of his affliction, he thanks
     her with courtesy and often with kindness, yet I know she
     would willingly exchange all his set phrases for one fond
     embrace or impulsive smile of affection. That he is not in the
     full possession of his faculties would be too much to say, and
     yet upon what other hypothesis can we account for the
     inconsistencies of his conduct.

            *       *       *       *       *

     “I have before me two visions of mental suffering. At noon I
     passed the office door, and looking within, saw the figure of
     Dr. Zabriskie seated in his great chair, lost in thought or
     deep in those memories which make an abyss in one’s
     consciousness. His hands, which were clenched, rested upon the
     arms of his chair, and in one of them I detected a woman’s
     glove, which I had no difficulty in recognizing as one of the
     pair worn by his wife this morning. He held it as a tiger
     might hold his prey or a miser his gold, but his set features
     and sightless eyes betrayed that a conflict of emotions was
     waging within him, among which tenderness had but little
     share.

     “Though alive, as he usually is, to every sound, he was too
     absorbed at this moment to notice my presence though I had
     taken no pains to approach quietly. I therefore stood for a
     full minute watching him, till an irresistible sense of the
     shame of thus spying upon a blind man in his moments of
     secret anguish seized upon me and I turned away. But not
     before I saw his features relax in a storm of passionate
     feeling, as he rained kisses after kisses on the senseless kid
     he had so long held in his motionless grasp. Yet when an hour
     later he entered the dining-room on his wife’s arm, there was
     nothing in his manner to show that he had in any way changed
     in his attitude towards her.

            *       *       *       *       *

     “The other picture was more tragic still. I have no business
     with Mrs. Zabriskie’s affairs; but as I passed upstairs to my
     room an hour ago, I caught a fleeting vision of her tall form,
     with the arms thrown up over her head in a paroxysm of feeling
     which made her as oblivious to my presence as her husband had
     been several hours before. Were the words that escaped her
     lips ‘Thank God we have no children!’ or was this exclamation
     suggested to me by the passion and unrestrained impulse of her
     action?”

Side by side with these lines, I, Ebenezer Gryce, placed the following
extracts from my own diary:

     “Watched the Zabriskie mansion for five hours this morning,
     from the second story window of an adjoining hotel. Saw the
     Doctor when he drove away on his round of visits, and saw him
     when he returned. A colored man accompanied him.

     “To-day I followed Mrs. Zabriskie. I had a motive for this,
     the nature of which I think it wisest not to divulge. She
     went first to a house in Washington Place where I am told her
     mother lives. Here she stayed some time, after which she drove
     down to Canal Street, where she did some shopping, and later
     stopped at the hospital, into which I took the liberty of
     following her. She seemed to know many there, and passed from
     cot to cot with a smile in which I alone discerned the sadness
     of a broken heart. When she left, I left also, without having
     learned anything beyond the fact that Mrs. Zabriskie is one
     who does her duty in sorrow as in happiness. A rare and
     trustworthy woman I should say, and yet her husband does not
     trust her. Why?

            *       *       *       *       *

     “I have spent this day in accumulating details in regard to
     Dr. and Mrs. Zabriskie’s life previous to the death of Mr.
     Hasbrouck. I learned from sources it would be unwise to quote
     just here, that Mrs. Zabriskie had not lacked enemies ready to
     charge her with coquetry; that while she had never sacrificed
     her dignity in public, more than one person had been heard to
     declare, that Dr. Zabriskie was fortunate in being blind,
     since the sight of his wife’s beauty would have but poorly
     compensated him for the pain he would have suffered in seeing
     how that beauty was admired.

     “That all gossip is more or less tinged with exaggeration I
     have no doubt, yet when a name is mentioned in connection with
     such stories, there is usually some truth at the bottom of
     them. And a name is mentioned in this case, though I do not
     think it worth my while to repeat it here; and loth as I am to
     recognize the fact, it is a name that carries with it doubts
     that might easily account for the husband’s jealousy. True, I
     have found no one who dares to hint that she still continues
     to attract attention or to bestow smiles in any direction save
     where they legally belong. For since a certain memorable night
     which we all know, neither Dr. Zabriskie nor his wife have
     been seen save in their own domestic circle, and it is not
     into such scenes that this serpent, of which I have spoken,
     ever intrudes, nor is it in places of sorrow or suffering that
     his smile shines, or his fascinations flourish.

     “And so one portion of my theory is proved to be sound. Dr.
     Zabriskie is jealous of his wife: whether with good cause or
     bad I am not prepared to decide; for her present attitude,
     clouded as it is by the tragedy in which she and her husband
     are both involved, must differ very much from that which she
     held when her life was unshadowed by doubt, and her admirers
     could be counted by the score.

            *       *       *       *       *

     “I have just found out where Harry is. As he is in service
     some miles up the river, I shall have to be absent from my
     post for several hours, but I consider the game well worth the
     candle.

            *       *       *       *       *

     “Light at last. I have seen Harry, and, by means known only to
     the police, have succeeded in making him talk. His story is
     substantially this: That on the night so often mentioned, he
     packed his master’s portmanteau at eight o’clock and at ten
     called a carriage and rode with the Doctor to the Twenty-ninth
     Street station. He was told to buy tickets for Poughkeepsie
     where his master had been called in consultation, and having
     done this, hurried back to join his master on the platform.
     They had walked together as far as the cars, and Dr. Zabriskie
     was just stepping on to the train when a man pushed himself
     hurriedly between them and whispered something into his
     master’s ear, which caused him to fall back and lose his
     footing. Dr. Zabriskie’s body slid half under the car, but he
     was withdrawn before any harm was done, though the cars gave
     a lurch at that moment which must have frightened him
     exceedingly, for his face was white when he rose to his feet,
     and when Harry offered to assist him again on to the train, he
     refused to go and said he would return home and not attempt to
     ride to Poughkeepsie that night.

     “The gentleman, whom Harry now saw to be Mr. Stanton, an
     intimate friend of Dr. Zabriskie, smiled very queerly at this,
     and taking the Doctor’s arm led him away to a carriage. Harry
     naturally followed them, but the Doctor, hearing his steps,
     turned and bade him, in a very peremptory tone, to take the
     omnibus home, and then, as if on second thought, told him to
     go to Poughkeepsie in his stead and explain to the people
     there that he was too shaken up by his mis-step to do his
     duty, and that he would be with them next morning. This seemed
     strange to Harry, but he had no reasons for disobeying his
     master’s orders, and so rode to Poughkeepsie. But the Doctor
     did not follow him the next day; on the contrary he
     telegraphed for him to return, and when he got back dismissed
     him with a month’s wages. This ended Harry’s connection with
     the Zabriskie family.

     “A simple story bearing out what the wife has already told us;
     but it furnishes a link which may prove invaluable. Mr.
     Stanton, whose first name is Theodore, knows the real reason
     why Dr. Zabriskie returned home on the night of the
     seventeenth of July, 1851. Mr. Stanton, consequently, I must
     see, and this shall be my business to-morrow.

     “Checkmate! Theodore Stanton is not in this country. Though
     this points him out as the man from whom Dr. Zabriskie bought
     the pistol, it does not facilitate my work, which is becoming
     more and more difficult.

            *       *       *       *       *

     “Mr. Stanton’s whereabouts are not even known to his most
     intimate friends. He sailed from this country most
     unexpectedly on the eighteenth of July a year ago, which was
     _the day after the murder of Mr. Hasbrouck_. It looks like a
     flight, especially as he has failed to maintain open
     communication even with his relatives. Was he the man who shot
     Mr. Hasbrouck? No; but he was the man who put the pistol in
     Dr. Zabriskie’s hand that night, and, whether he did this with
     purpose or not, was evidently so alarmed at the catastrophe
     which followed that he took the first outgoing steamer to
     Europe. So far, all is clear, but there are mysteries yet to
     be solved, which will require my utmost tact. What if I should
     seek out the gentleman with whose name that of Mrs. Zabriskie
     has been linked, and see if I can in any way connect him with
     Mr. Stanton or the events of that night?

            *       *       *       *       *

     “Eureka! I have discovered that Mr. Stanton cherished a mortal
     hatred for the gentleman above mentioned. It was a covert
     feeling, but no less deadly on that account; and while it
     never led him into any extravagances, it was of force
     sufficient to account for many a secret misfortune which
     happened to that gentleman. Now, if I can prove he was the
     Mephistopheles who whispered insinuations into the ear of our
     blind Faust, I may strike a fact that will lead me out of this
     maze.

     “But how can I approach secrets so delicate without
     compromising the woman I feel bound to respect, if only for
     the devoted love she manifests for her unhappy husband!

            *       *       *       *       *

     “I shall have to appeal to Joe Smithers. This is something
     which I always hate to do, but as long as he will take money,
     and as long as he is fertile in resources for obtaining the
     truth from people I am myself unable to reach, so long must I
     make use of his cupidity and his genius. He is an honorable
     fellow in one way, and never retails as gossip what he
     acquires for our use. How will he proceed in this case, and
     by what tactics will he gain the very delicate information
     which we need? I own that I am curious to see.

            *       *       *       *       *

     “I shall really have to put down at length the incidents of
     this night. I always knew that Joe Smithers was invaluable to
     the police, but I really did not know he possessed talents of
     so high an order. He wrote me this morning that he had
     succeeded in getting Mr. T——’s promise to spend the evening
     with him, and advised me that if I desired to be present also,
     his own servant would not be at home, and that an opener of
     bottles would be required.

     “As I was very anxious to see Mr. T—— with my own eyes, I
     accepted the invitation to play the spy upon a spy, and went
     at the proper hour to Mr. Smithers’s rooms, which are in the
     University Building. I found them picturesque in the extreme.
     Piles of books stacked here and there to the ceiling made
     nooks and corners which could be quite shut off by a couple of
     old pictures that were set into movable frames that swung out
     or in at the whim or convenience of the owner.

     “As I liked the dark shadows cast by these pictures, I pulled
     them both out, and made such other arrangements as appeared
     likely to facilitate the purpose I had in view, then I sat
     down and waited for the two gentlemen who were expected to
     come in together.

     “They arrived almost immediately, whereupon I rose and played
     my part with all necessary discretion. While ridding Mr. T——
     of his overcoat, I stole a look at his face. It is not a
     handsome one, but it boasts of a gay, devil-may-care
     expression which doubtless makes it dangerous to many women,
     while his manners are especially attractive, and his voice the
     richest and most persuasive that I ever heard. I contrasted
     him, almost against my will, with Dr. Zabriskie, and decided
     that with most women the former’s undoubted fascinations of
     speech and bearing would outweigh the latter’s great beauty
     and mental endowments; but I doubted if they would with her.

     “The conversation which immediately began was brilliant but
     desultory, for Mr. Smithers, with an airy lightness for which
     he is remarkable, introduced topic after topic, perhaps for
     the purpose of showing off Mr. T——’s versatility, and perhaps
     for the deeper and more sinister purpose of shaking the
     kaleidoscope of talk so thoroughly, that the real topic which
     we were met to discuss should not make an undue impression on
     the mind of his guest.

     “Meanwhile one, two, three bottles passed, and I saw Joe
     Smithers’s eye grow calmer and that of Mr. T—— more brilliant
     and more uncertain. As the last bottle showed signs of
     failing, Joe cast me a meaning glance, and the real business
     of the evening began.

     “I shall not attempt to relate the half-dozen failures which
     Joe made in endeavoring to elicit the facts we were in search
     of, without arousing the suspicion of his visitor. I am only
     going to relate the successful attempt. They had been talking
     now for some hours, and I, who had long before been waved from
     their immediate presence, was hiding my curiosity and growing
     excitement behind one of the pictures, when suddenly I heard
     Joe say:

     “‘He has the most remarkable memory I ever met. He can tell to
     a day when any notable event occurred.’

     “‘Pshaw!’ answered his companion, who, by the by, was known to
     pride himself upon his own memory for dates, ‘I can state
     where I went and what I did on every day in the year. That may
     not embrace what you call ‘notable events,’ but the memory
     required is all the more remarkable, is it not?’

     “‘Pooh!’ was his friend’s provoking reply, ‘you are bluffing,
     Ben; I will never believe that.’

     “Mr. T——, who had passed by this time into that state of
     intoxication which makes persistence in an assertion a duty as
     well as a pleasure, threw back his head, and as the wreaths of
     smoke rose in airy spirals from his lips, reiterated his
     statement, and offered to submit to any test of his vaunted
     powers which the other might dictate.

     “‘You have a diary——’ began Joe.

     “‘Which is at home,’ completed the other.

     “‘Will you allow me to refer to it to-morrow, if I am
     suspicious of the accuracy of your recollections?’

     “‘Undoubtedly,’ returned the other.

     “‘Very well, then, I will wager you a cool fifty, that you
     cannot tell where you were between the hours of ten and eleven
     on a certain night which I will name.’

     “‘Done!’ cried the other, bringing out his pocket-book and
     laying it on the table before him.

     “Joe followed his example and then summoned me.

     “‘Write a date down here,’ he commanded, pushing a piece of
     paper towards me, with a look keen as the flash of a blade.
     ‘Any date, man,’ he added, as I appeared to hesitate in the
     embarrassment I thought natural under the circumstances. ‘Put
     down day, month, and year, only don’t go too far back; not
     farther than two years.’

     “Smiling with the air of a flunkey admitted to the sports of
     his superiors, I wrote a line and laid it before Mr.
     Smithers, who at once pushed it with a careless gesture
     towards his companion. You can of course guess the date I made
     use of: July 17, 1851. Mr. T——, who had evidently looked upon
     this matter as mere play, flushed scarlet as he read these
     words, and for one instant looked as if he had rather flee our
     presence than answer Joe Smithers’s nonchalant glance of
     inquiry.

     “‘I have given my word and will keep it,’ he said at last, but
     with a look in my direction that sent me reluctantly back to
     my retreat. ‘I don’t suppose you want names,’ he went on,
     ‘that is, if anything I have to tell is of a delicate nature?’

     “‘O no,’ answered the other, ‘only facts and places.’

     “‘I don’t think places are necessary either,’ he returned. ‘I
     will tell you what I did and that must serve you. I did not
     promise to give number and street.’

     “‘Well, well,’ Joe exclaimed; ‘earn your fifty, that is all.
     Show that you remember where you were on the night of’—and
     with an admirable show of indifference he pretended to consult
     the paper between them—‘the seventeenth of July, 1851, and I
     shall be satisfied.’

     “‘I was at the club for one thing,’ said Mr. T——; ‘then I went
     to see a lady friend, where I stayed till eleven. She wore a
     blue muslin—— What is that?’

     “I had betrayed myself by a quick movement which sent a glass
     tumbler crashing to the floor. Helen Zabriskie had worn a
     blue muslin on that same night. I had noted it when I stood
     on the balcony watching her and her husband.

     “‘That noise?’ It was Joe who was speaking. ‘You don’t know
     Reuben as well as I do or you wouldn’t ask. It is his
     practice, I am sorry to say, to accentuate his pleasure in
     draining my bottles, by dropping a glass at every third one.’

     “Mr. T—— went on.

     “‘She was a married woman and I thought she loved me; but—and
     this is the greatest proof I can offer you that I am giving
     you a true account of that night—she had not had the slightest
     idea of the extent of my passion, and only consented to see me
     at all because she thought, poor thing, that a word from her
     would set me straight, and rid her of attentions that were
     fast becoming obnoxious. A sorry figure for a fellow to cut
     who has not been without his triumphs; but you caught me on
     the most detestable date in my calendar, and——’

     “There is where he stopped being interesting, so I will not
     waste time by quoting further. And now what reply shall I make
     when Joe Smithers asks me double his usual price, as he will
     be sure to do, next time? Has he not earned an advance? I
     really think so.

            *       *       *       *       *

     “I have spent the whole day in weaving together the facts I
     have gleaned, and the suspicions I have formed, into a
     consecutive whole likely to present my theory in a favorable
     light to my superiors. But just as I thought myself in shape
     to meet their inquiries, I received an immediate summons into
     their presence, where I was given a duty to perform of so
     extraordinary and unexpected a nature, that it effectually
     drove from my mind all my own plans for the elucidation of the
     Zabriskie mystery.

     “This was nothing more nor less than to take charge of a party
     of people who were going to the Jersey heights for the purpose
     of testing Dr. Zabriskie’s skill with a pistol.”



III.


The cause of this sudden move was soon explained to me. Mrs. Zabriskie,
anxious to have an end put to the present condition of affairs, had
begged for a more rigid examination into her husband’s state. This being
accorded, a strict and impartial inquiry had taken place, with a result
not unlike that which followed the first one. Three out of his four
interrogators judged him insane, and could not be moved from their
opinion though opposed by the verdict of the young expert who had been
living in the house with him. Dr. Zabriskie seemed to read their
thoughts, and, showing extreme agitation, begged as before for an
opportunity to prove his sanity by showing his skill in shooting. This
time a disposition was evinced to grant his request, which Mrs.
Zabriskie no sooner perceived, than she added her supplications to his
that the question might be thus settled.

A pistol was accordingly brought; but at sight of it her courage failed,
and she changed her prayer to an entreaty that the experiment should be
postponed till the next day, and should then take place in the woods
away from the sight and hearing of needless spectators.

Though it would have been much wiser to have ended the matter there and
then, the Superintendent was prevailed upon to listen to her entreaties,
and thus it was that I came to be a spectator, if not a participator,
in the final scene of this most sombre drama.

There are some events which impress the human mind so deeply that their
memory mingles with all after-experiences. Though I have made it a rule
to forget as soon as possible the tragic episodes into which I am
constantly plunged, there is one scene in my life which will not depart
at my will; and that is the sight which met my eyes from the bow of the
small boat in which Dr. Zabriskie and his wife were rowed over to Jersey
on that memorable afternoon.

Though it was by no means late in the day, the sun was already sinking,
and the bright red glare which filled the heavens and shone full upon
the faces of the half-dozen persons before me added much to the tragic
nature of the scene, though we were far from comprehending its full
significance.

The Doctor sat with his wife in the stern, and it was upon their faces
my glance was fixed. The glare shone luridly on his sightless eyeballs,
and as I noticed his unwinking lids I realized as never before what it
was to be blind in the midst of sunshine. Her eyes, on the contrary,
were lowered, but there was a look of hopeless misery in her colorless
face which made her appearance infinitely pathetic, and I felt confident
that if he could only have seen her, he would not have maintained the
cold and unresponsive manner which chilled the words on her lips and
made all advance on her part impossible.

On the seat in front of them sat the Inspector and a doctor, and from
some quarter, possibly from under the Inspector’s coat, there came the
monotonous ticking of a small clock, which, I had been told, was to
serve as a target for the blind man’s aim.

This ticking was all I heard, though the noise and bustle of a great
traffic was pressing upon us on every side. And I am sure it was all
that she heard, as, with hand pressed to her heart and eyes fixed on the
opposite shore, she waited for the event which was to determine whether
the man she loved was a criminal or only a being afflicted of God, and
worthy of her unceasing care and devotion.

As the sun cast its last scarlet gleam over the water, the boat
grounded, and it fell to my lot to assist Mrs. Zabriskie up the bank.
As I did so, I allowed myself to say: “I am your friend, Mrs.
Zabriskie,” and was astonished to see her tremble, and turn toward me
with a look like that of a frightened child.

But there was always this characteristic blending in her countenance of
the childlike and the severe, such as may so often be seen in the faces
of nuns, and beyond an added pang of pity for this beautiful but
afflicted woman, I let the moment pass without giving it the weight it
perhaps demanded.

“The Doctor and his wife had a long talk last night,” was whispered in
my ear as we wound our way along into the woods. I turned and perceived
at my side the expert physician, portions of whose diary I have already
quoted. He had come by another boat.

“But it did not seem to heal whatever breach lies between them,” he
proceeded. Then in a quick, curious tone, he asked: “Do you believe this
attempt on his part is likely to prove anything but a farce?”

“I believe he will shatter the clock to pieces with his first shot,” I
answered, and could say no more, for we had already reached the ground
which had been selected for this trial at arms, and the various members
of the party were being placed in their several positions.

The Doctor, to whom light and darkness were alike, stood with his face
towards the western glow, and at his side were grouped the Inspector and
the two physicians. On the arm of one of the latter hung Dr.
Zabriskie’s overcoat, which he had taken off as soon as he reached the
field.

Mrs. Zabriskie stood at the other end of the opening, near a tall stump,
upon which it had been decided that the clock should be placed when the
moment came for the Doctor to show his skill. She had been accorded the
privilege of setting the clock on this stump, and I saw it shining in
her hand as she paused for a moment to glance back at the circle of
gentlemen who were awaiting her movements. The hands of the clock stood
at five minutes to five, though I scarcely noted the fact at the time,
for her eyes were on mine, and as she passed me she spoke:

“If he is not himself, he cannot be trusted. Watch him carefully, and
see that he does no mischief to himself or others. Be at his right hand,
and stop him if he does not handle his pistol properly.”

I promised, and she passed on, setting the clock upon the stump and
immediately drawing back to a suitable distance at the right, where she
stood, wrapped in her long dark cloak, quite alone. Her face shone
ghastly white, even in its environment of snow-covered boughs which
surrounded her, and, noting this, I wished the minutes fewer between the
present moment and the hour of five, at which he was to draw the
trigger.

“Dr. Zabriskie,” quoth the Inspector, “we have endeavored to make this
trial a perfectly fair one. You are to have one shot at a small clock
which has been placed within a suitable distance, and which you are
expected to hit, guided only by the sound which it will make in striking
the hour of five. Are you satisfied with the arrangement?”

“Perfectly. Where is my wife?”

“On the other side of the field, some ten paces from the stump upon
which the clock is fixed.”

He bowed, and his face showed satisfaction.

“May I expect the clock to strike soon?”

“In less than five minutes,” was the answer.

“Then let me have the pistol; I wish to become acquainted with its size
and weight.”

We glanced at each other, then across at her.

She made a gesture; it was one of acquiescence.

Immediately the Inspector placed the weapon in the blind man’s hand. It
was at once apparent that the Doctor understood the instrument, and my
last doubt vanished as to the truth of all he had told us.

“Thank God I am blind this hour and cannot see _her_,” fell
unconsciously from his lips; then, before the echo of these words had
left my ears, he raised his voice and observed calmly enough,
considering that he was about to prove himself a criminal in order to
save himself from being thought a madman.

“Let no one move. I must have my ears free for catching the first stroke
of the clock.” And he raised the pistol before him.

There was a moment of torturing suspense and deep, unbroken silence. My
eyes were on him, and so I did not watch the clock, but suddenly I was
moved by some irresistible impulse to note how Mrs. Zabriskie was
bearing herself at this critical moment, and, casting a hurried glance
in her direction, I perceived her tall figure swaying from side to side,
as if under an intolerable strain of feeling. Her eyes were on the
clock, the hands of which seemed to creep with snail-like pace along the
dial, when unexpectedly, and a full minute before the minute hand had
reached the stroke of five, I caught a movement on her part, saw the
flash of something round and white show for an instant against the
darkness of her cloak, and was about to shriek warning to the Doctor,
when the shrill, quick stroke of a clock rung out on the frosty air,
followed by the ping and flash of a pistol.

A sound of shattered glass, followed by a suppressed cry, told us that
the bullet had struck the mark, but before we could move, or rid our
eyes of the smoke which the wind had blown into our faces, there came
another sound which made our hair stand on end and sent the blood back
in terror to our hearts. Another clock was striking, the clock which we
now perceived was still standing upright on the stump where Mrs.
Zabriskie had placed it.

Whence came the clock, then, which had struck before the time and been
shattered for its pains? One quick look told us. On the ground, ten
paces at the right, lay Helen Zabriskie, a broken clock at her side, and
in her breast a bullet which was fast sapping the life from her sweet
eyes.

       *       *       *       *       *

We had to tell him, there was such pleading in her looks; and never
shall I forget the scream that rang from his lips as he realized the
truth. Breaking from our midst, he rushed forward, and fell at her feet
as if guided by some supernatural instinct.

“Helen,” he shrieked, “what is this? Were not my hands dyed deep enough
in blood that you should make me answerable for your life also?”

Her eyes were closed, but she opened them. Looking long and steadily at
his agonized face, she faltered forth:

“It is not you who have killed me; it is your crime. Had you been
innocent of Mr. Hasbrouck’s death, your bullet would never have found
my heart. Did you think I could survive the proof that you had killed
that good man?”

“I—I did it unwittingly. I——”

“Hush!” she commanded, with an awful look, which, happily, he could not
see. “I had another motive. I wished to prove to you, even at the cost
of my life, that I loved you, had always loved you, and not——”

It was now his turn to silence her. His hand crept over her lips, and
his despairing face turned itself blindly towards us.

“Go,” he cried; “leave us! Let me take a last farewell of my dying wife,
without listeners or spectators.”

Consulting the eye of the physician who stood beside me, and seeing no
hope in it, I fell slowly back. The others followed, and the Doctor was
left alone with his wife. From the distant position we took, we saw her
arms creep round his neck, saw her head fall confidingly on his breast,
then silence settled upon them and upon all nature, the gathering
twilight deepening, till the last glow disappeared from the heavens
above and from the circle of leafless trees which enclosed this tragedy
from the outside world.

But at last there came a stir, and Dr. Zabriskie, rising up before us,
with the dead body of his wife held closely to his breast, confronted us
with a countenance so rapturous that he looked like a man transfigured.

“I will carry her to the boat,” said he. “Not another hand shall touch
her. She was my true wife, my true wife!” And he towered into an
attitude of such dignity and passion, that for a moment he took on
heroic proportions and we forgot that he had just proved himself to have
committed a cold-blooded and ghastly crime.

       *       *       *       *       *

The stars were shining when we again took our seats in the boat; and if
the scene of our crossing to Jersey was impressive, what shall be said
of that of our return.

The Doctor, as before, sat in the stern, an awesome figure, upon which
the moon shone with a white radiance that seemed to lift his face out of
the surrounding darkness and set it, like an image of frozen horror,
before our eyes. Against his breast he held the form of his dead wife,
and now and then I saw him stoop as if he were listening for some tokens
of life at her set lips. Then he would lift himself again, with
hopelessness stamped upon his features, only to lean forward in renewed
hope that was again destined to disappointment.

The Inspector and the accompanying physician had taken seats in the bow,
and unto me had been assigned the special duty of watching over the
Doctor. This I did from a low seat in front of him. I was therefore so
close that I heard his laboring breath, and though my heart was full of
awe and compassion, I could not prevent myself from bending towards him
and saying these words:

“Dr. Zabriskie, the mystery of your crime is no longer a mystery to me.
Listen and see if I do not understand your temptation, and how you, a
conscientious and God-fearing man, came to slay your innocent neighbor.

“A friend of yours, or so he called himself, had for a long time filled
your ears with tales tending to make you suspicious of your wife and
jealous of a certain man whom I will not name. You knew that your friend
had a grudge against this man, and so for many months turned a deaf ear
to his insinuations. But finally some change which you detected in your
wife’s bearing or conversation roused your own suspicions, and you began
to doubt if all was false that came to your ears, and to curse your
blindness, which in a measure rendered you helpless. The jealous fever
grew and had risen to a high point, when one night—a memorable
night—this friend met you just as you were leaving town, and with cruel
craft whispered in your ear that the man you hated was even then with
your wife, and that if you would return at once to your home you would
find him in her company.

“The demon that lurks at the heart of all men, good or bad, thereupon
took complete possession of you, and you answered this false friend by
saying that you would not return without a pistol. Whereupon he offered
to take you to his house and give you his. You consented, and getting
rid of your servant by sending him to Poughkeepsie with your excuses,
you entered a coach with your friend.

“You say you bought the pistol, and perhaps you did, but, however that
may be, you left his house with it in your pocket and, declining
companionship, walked home, arriving at the Colonnade a little before
midnight.

“Ordinarily you have no difficulty in recognizing your own doorstep.
But, being in a heated frame of mind, you walked faster than usual and
so passed your own house and stopped at that of Mr. Hasbrouck’s, one
door beyond. As the entrances of these houses are all alike, there was
but one way by which you could have made yourself sure that you had
reached your own dwelling, and that was by feeling for the doctor’s sign
at the side of the door. But you never thought of that. Absorbed in
dreams of vengeance, your sole impulse was to enter by the quickest
means possible. Taking out your night-key, you thrust it into the lock.
It fitted, but it took strength to turn it, so much strength that the
key was twisted and bent by the effort. But this incident, which would
have attracted your attention at another time, was lost upon you at this
moment. An entrance had been effected, and you were in too excited a
frame of mind to notice at what cost, or to detect the small differences
apparent in the atmosphere and furnishings of the two houses—trifles
which would have arrested your attention under other circumstances, and
made you pause before the upper floor had been reached.

“It was while going up the stairs that you took out your pistol, so that
by the time you arrived at the front-room door you held it ready cocked
and drawn in your hand. For, being blind, you feared escape on the part
of your victim, and so waited for nothing but the sound of a man’s voice
before firing. When, therefore, the unfortunate Mr. Hasbrouck, roused by
this sudden intrusion, advanced with an exclamation of astonishment, you
pulled the trigger, killing him on the spot. It must have been
immediately upon his fall that you recognized from some word he uttered,
or from some contact you may have had with your surroundings, that you
were in the wrong house and had killed the wrong man; for you cried out,
in evident remorse, ‘God! what have I done!’ and fled without
approaching your victim.

“Descending the stairs, you rushed from the house, closing the front
door behind you and regaining your own without being seen. But here you
found yourself baffled in your attempted escape, by two things. First,
by the pistol you still held in your hand, and secondly, by the fact
that the key upon which you depended for entering your own door was so
twisted out of shape that you knew it would be useless for you to
attempt to use it. What did you do in this emergency? You have already
told us, though the story seemed so improbable at the time, you found
nobody to believe it but myself. The pistol you flung far away from you
down the pavement, from which, by one of those rare chances which
sometimes happen in this world, it was presently picked up by some late
passer-by of more or less doubtful character. The door offered less of
an obstacle than you anticipated; for when you turned to it again you
found it, if I am not greatly mistaken, ajar, left so, as we have reason
to believe, by one who had gone out of it but a few minutes before in a
state which left him but little master of his actions. It was this fact
which provided you with an answer when you were asked how you succeeded
in getting into Mr. Hasbrouck’s house after the family had retired for
the night.

“Astonished at the coincidence, but hailing with gladness the
deliverance which it offered, you went in and ascended at once into your
wife’s presence; and it was from her lips, and not from those of Mrs.
Hasbrouck, that the cry arose which startled the neighborhood and
prepared men’s minds for the tragic words which were shouted a moment
later from the next house.

“But she who uttered the scream knew of no tragedy save that which was
taking place in her own breast. She had just repulsed a dastardly
suitor, and, seeing you enter so unexpectedly in a state of
unaccountable horror and agitation, was naturally stricken with dismay,
and thought she saw your ghost, or, what was worse, a possible avenger;
while you, having failed to kill the man you sought, and having killed a
man you esteemed, let no surprise on her part lure you into any
dangerous self-betrayal. You strove instead to soothe her, and even
attempted to explain the excitement under which you labored, by an
account of your narrow escape at the station, till the sudden alarm from
next door distracted her attention, and sent both your thoughts and hers
in a different direction. Not till conscience had fully awakened and the
horror of your act had had time to tell upon your sensitive nature, did
you breathe forth those vague confessions, which, not being supported by
the only explanations which would have made them credible, led her, as
well as the police, to consider you affected in your mind. Your pride as
a man, and your consideration for her as a woman, kept you silent, but
did not keep the worm from preying upon your heart.

“Am I not correct in my surmises, Dr. Zabriskie, and is not this the
true explanation of your crime?”

With a strange look, he lifted up his face.

“Hush!” said he; “you will awaken her. See how peacefully she sleeps! I
should not like to have her awakened now, she is so tired, and I—I have
not watched over her as I should.”

Appalled at his gesture, his look, his tone, I drew back, and for a few
minutes no sound was to be heard but the steady dip-dip of the oars and
the lap-lap of the waters against the boat. Then there came a quick
uprising, the swaying before me of something dark and tall and
threatening, and before I could speak or move, or even stretch forth my
hands to stay him, the seat before me was empty and darkness had filled
the place where but an instant previous he had sat, a fearsome figure,
erect and rigid as a sphinx.

What little moonlight there was only served to show us a few rising
bubbles, marking the spot where the unfortunate man had sunk with his
much-loved burden. We could not save him. As the widening circles fled
farther and farther out, the tide drifted us away, and we lost the spot
which had seen the termination of one of earth’s saddest tragedies.

       *       *       *       *       *

The bodies were never recovered. The police reserved to themselves the
right of withholding from the public the real facts which made this
catastrophe an awful remembrance to those who witnessed it. A verdict of
accidental death by drowning answered all purposes, and saved the memory
of the unfortunate pair from such calumny as might have otherwise
assailed it. It was the least we could do for two beings whom
circumstances had so greatly afflicted.

THE END.



THE INCOGNITO LIBRARY.


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