, and that
will spare Sybil."

"And what then?"

"Then, aided by you, Sybil can come back to us. Aided by my new strong
resolve, I will receive that Burrill,--it nearly chokes me to speak his
name,--just as Sybil shall dictate; and then, aided by the old man's
money, we may be able to buy him off and get him out of the country."

"Why, Evan Lamotte," cried Constance, with a burst of hopefulness, "you
have actually evolved a practical scheme. I begin to feel less
hopeless."

"Oh, I have a brain or two left, when a firm hand, like yours, shakes me
up, sets me straight, and gets me in running order. Will you help,
Con.?"

"Will I help! Sybil Lamotte, if she comes back, will be warmly welcomed
by me, and by all W----, if I can bring it about."

He sprang to his feet and seized her hands. "Thank you, Conny," he
cried; "my heart is lightened now; I can 'bide my time,' as the novels
say. Only do your part, Con."

"Trust me for that. Now come to luncheon, Evan."

He dropped her hands, and turned away abruptly.

"I wont! I can't," he said, almost gruffly. "Go in, Con., and be
prepared to welcome Sybil back; and I," he added, moving away, and
turning a wicked look over his shoulder, "will be prepared to welcome
Burrill;" a low, ironical laugh followed these words, and Evan Lamotte
leaped the low garden palings, and went back as he had come, by the
river way.

"What can that strange boy mean," thought Constance, gazing after him;
"he makes me nervous, and yet he was reasonable after his fashion. Poor
Evan, he is indeed unfortunate; here he has been breaking his heart over
Sybil, and before night he may be singing in some saloon, in a state of
mad intoxication. Altogether, they are a very uncomfortable pair to
entertain in one half day, Frank and Evan Lamotte."

CHAPTER XI.

THE END OF THE BEGINNING.

Doctor Clifford Heath sat alone in his office at half-past eleven
o'clock. His horse, "all saddled and bridled," stood below in the
street, awaiting him. On a small stand, near the door, lay his hat,
riding whip, gloves. On the desk beside him, lay a small pyramid of
letters and papers, and these he was opening, and scanning in a
careless, leisurely fashion, with his chair tilted back, his heels on
high, his entire person very much at ease.

Over one letter he seemed to ponder, blowing great clouds of smoke from
the secret depths of a huge black Dutch pipe the while. Finally, he laid
letter and pipe aside,