ing happened, and
they had trouble about money. Oh, I made her understand. I appealed to
her as a woman to do what she could to right Mr. Waring, who was so
generally believed to be the guilty man. I told her we had detectives
tracing Philippe and would soon find how and when he reached New
Orleans. Finally I showed her the despatch that Mr. Reynolds sent up,
and at last she broke down, burst into tears, and said she, too, had
learned since the inquest that Philippe was with her husband, and
probably was the stranger referred to, that awful night. She even
suspected it at the time, for she knew he came not to borrow but to
demand money that was rightfully his, and also certain papers that
Armand held and that now were gone. It was she who told me of Philippe's
having been seen with Armand at the office, but she declared she could
not believe that he would kill her husband. I pointed out the fact that
Armand had fired two shots from his pistol, apparently, and that no
bullet-marks had been found in the room where the quarrel took place,
and that if his shots had taken effect on his antagonist he simply could
not have been Waring, for though Waring had been bruised and beaten
about the head, the doctor said there was no sign of bullet-mark about
him anywhere. She recognized the truth of this, but still she said she
believed that there was a quarrel or was to be a quarrel between her
husband and Mr. Waring. Otherwise I believe her throughout. I believe
that, no matter what romance there was about her nursing Philippe and
his falling in love with her, she did not encourage him, did not call
him here again, was true to her old husband. She is simply possessed
with the idea that the quarrel which killed her husband was between
himself and Mr. Waring, and that it occurred after Philippe had got his
money and papers, and gone."

"W-e-e-ll, Philippe will have a heap to explain when he is found," was
Cram's reply. "Now I have to go to Doyle's. He is making some
confession, I expect, to the priest."

But Cram never dreamed for an instant what that was to be.

That night poor Doyle's spirit took its flight, and the story of misery
he had to tell, partly by scrawling with a pencil, partly by gesture in
reply to question, partly in painfully-gasped sentences, a few words at
a time, was practically this. Lascelles and his party did indeed leave
him at the Pelican when he was so drunk he only vaguely knew what was
going on or what h