y
her condition promised a long siege of illness; Dr. De Breen had
confirmed my own surmise with a declaration to that effect. Why, then,
was she not at this moment in bed, with Genevieve caring for her? I
had an engagement with Genevieve; she was expecting me at eight
o'clock. Miss Belle's appearance indicated that she had prepared for
this meeting with the utmost haste--she had probably risen and donned
dressing-gown and slippers after I rang the doorbell. What, then, had
she done with Genevieve?

I was not in the least frightened by her display of the pistol. To
tell the truth, it was only with much difficulty that I kept from
laughing. Still, I did so. The girl was plainly so overwrought that
she was fairly frantic, and it would require the utmost circumspection
on my part to keep her from precipitating matters before somebody came.
The women folks, I fancied, would then need the assistance of a man;
but for the present her condition demanded that I be at least
considerate.

So I concluded to humor her.

"What is it you wish me to do?" I inquired, not forgetting my dignity.

She waved the insignificant weapon toward a writing desk.

"There are pens and ink and paper," she said, her voice tremulous with
suppressed passion. "I want you to write down a plain, straightforward
declaration that Royal Maillot is innocent, and then follow it with the
reasons why you know him to be innocent--for you have those reasons.
Doubtless it will include an exposure of the guilty; very well, this is
the time for such a disclosure."

The amazing effrontery of the proposal made me gasp. Suppose I were to
tell her that I believed her father to be the guilty man? Heavens and
earth! Here was a pretty pass!

"Miss Fluette," I said at length, very gravely, "such a declaration
from me would have no more weight than the sheet of paper itself. The
matter is entirely out of my hands. Further than to procure the
evidence necessary to convict the guilty, I have no influence whatever."

"So!" Her lip curled and her eyes flashed. "You would weave a rope
about Royal's neck!"

"I would not," I emphatically disputed. "If Royal Maillot was
instrumental in Felix Page's death, he was so innocently. He don't
know now--"

She broke in, leaning with intense eagerness across the chair-back.

"Then _why_ is he in prison?" There was a note of triumph in her
voice, as if she had me cornered.

"Miss Fluette," I replied earnestly,