le I settle
with Mr. Barclay."

Mechanically Barclay led the way into an adjoining room. When there,
he turned haughtily and said--

"Now, sir, explain yourself--tell me why my privacy is thus invaded,
and--"

Atwood interrupted him.

"It is useless to attempt bravado with me, sir. Your whole career is
too intimately known to me to render it of any avail. You know that
from my boyhood I have loved Miss Euston, for you may remember a
conversation which took place between us several years since, when you
were received as a visiter at her mother's house. Jealousy enabled you
to penetrate what had been carefully veiled from others, and you taxed
me with what I would not deny. Do you remember the words you used to
the boy you then spoke to? That you would move heaven and earth to win
Edith Euston."

"To what does all this tend?" asked Barclay, in an irritated tone.

"Patience, and you will see. I returned from Europe and found that
Mrs. Euston's family had left for Havanna. Her lawsuit had gone
against her, and she had lost her home. Nothing more was known of her.
I lost no time in following her. I reached Cuba, and after many
inquiries, traced her to the house of the family which had received
her beneath their roof. There I heard the history of her son's unhappy
death, at the moment he was about to confer independence upon his
mother and sister. _You_ were mentioned as a visiter after his death;
your _generous_ offer to share with Miss Euston as your wife the
wealth which should have been hers was dwelt on. All this aroused a
vague suspicion in my mind. I made minute inquiries, and traced you
through all the orgies of your dissipation. One night I was following
up the inquiry, and I entered a tavern much frequented by foreigners.
A man sat apart in gloomy silence. One of his comrades said--

"'Antoine grieves over the loss of his bird. All the money the
American paid him does not make him forget that he sold his best
friend!'

"By an electric chain of thought, the incident which attended poor
Euston's last moments, occurred to me. I approached the man, and
addressed him in French, for I saw that he was a native of that
country. I spoke of his bird. He shook his head and said--

"'It is not the loss of the bird, monsieur, but the use that was made
of him, that troubles my conscience.'

"In short, to condense a long story, I learned from Antoine, that he
remained in your lodgings several days, until the mackaw h