rits we sometimes imagine as flitting across the open
mouth of hell. But he said nothing, seemingly had no power to do so, and
his father-in-law was about to make some effort to turn aside this blow
when a voice in the hall outside was heard inquiring for Mr. Adams,
saying that his wife had fainted again and required his help.

The young husband started, cast a look full of despair at Mr.
Poindexter, and thrusting his hand against the door as if to hold it
shut, sank on his knees before Mr. Gryce, saying:

"She knows! She suspects! Her nature is so sensitive."

This he managed to utter in gasps as the detective bent compassionately
over him. "Don't, don't disturb her! She is an angel, a saint from
heaven. Let me bear the blame--he was my brother--let me go with you,
but leave her in ignorance----"

Mr. Gryce, with a vivid sense of justice, laid his hand on the young
man's arm.

"Say nothing," he enjoined. "My memory is good, and I would rather hear
nothing from your lips. As for your wife, my warrant does in no way
include her; and if you promise to come with me quietly, I will even let
you bid her adieu, so that you do it in my presence."

The change which passed over the young man's face at these significant
words was of a nature to surprise Mr. Gryce. Rising slowly, he took his
stand by Mr. Poindexter, who, true to his inflexible nature, had
scarcely moved in limb and feature since Mr. Gryce came in.

"What have you against me?" he demanded. And there was a surprising ring
to his voice, as if courage had come with the necessity of the moment.
"Of what am I accused? I want you to tell me. I had rather you would
tell me in so many words. I cannot leave in peace until you do."

Mr. Poindexter made a movement at this, and cast a half-suspicious,
half-warning glance at his son-in-law. But the young man took no notice
of his interference. He kept his eye on the detective, who quietly took
out his warrant.

At this instant the door shook.

"Lock it!" was the hoarse command of the accused man. "Don't let any one
pass that door, even if it is to bring the tidings of my wife's death."

Mr. Gryce reached out his hand, and turned the key in the lock. Young
Adams opened the paper which he had taken from the detective's hand, and
while his blood-shot eyes vainly sought to master the few lines there
written, Mr. Poindexter attracted the attention of Mr. Gryce, and,
fixing him with his eye, formed his lips with three sou