Henry Clavering. Strange that I can write it without quivering
when my whole soul is one flush of indignation and revolt. But let me
state the facts. Having left my room for a few minutes this morning,
I returned to find on my dressing-table a note from Mary in which she
informed me that she was going to take Mrs. Belden for a drive and would
not be back for some hours. Convinced, as I had every reason to be, that
she was on her way to meet Mr. Clavering, I only stopped to put on my
hat--"

There the Diary ceased.

"She was probably interrupted by Mary at this point," explained Mr.
Gryce. "But we have come upon the one thing we wanted to know. Mr.
Leavenworth threatened to supplant Mary with Eleanore if she persisted
in marrying contrary to his wishes. She did so marry, and to avoid the
consequences of her act she----"

"Say no more," I returned, convinced at last. "It is only too clear."

Mr. Gryce rose.

"But the writer of these words is saved," I went on, trying to grasp
the one comfort left me. "No one who reads this Diary will ever dare to
insinuate she is capable of committing a crime."

"Assuredly not; the Diary settles that matter effectually."

I tried to be man enough to think of that and nothing else. To rejoice
in her deliverance, and let every other consideration go; but in this I
did not succeed. "But Mary, her cousin, almost her sister, is lost," I
muttered.

Mr. Gryce thrust his hands into his pockets and, for the first time,
showed some evidence of secret disturbance. "Yes, I am afraid she is;
I really am afraid she is." Then after a pause, during which I felt a
certain thrill of vague hope: "Such an entrancing creature too! It is a
pity, it positively is a pity! I declare, now that the thing is worked
up, I begin to feel almost sorry we have succeeded so well. Strange, but
true. If there was the least loophole out of it," he muttered. "But
there isn't. The thing is clear as A, B, C." Suddenly he rose, and began
pacing the floor very thoughtfully, casting his glances here, there, and
everywhere, except at me, though I believe now, as then, my face was all
he saw.

"Would it be a very great grief to you, Mr. Raymond, if Miss Mary
Leavenworth should be arrested on this charge of murder?" he asked,
pausing before a sort of tank in which two or three disconsolate-looking
fishes were slowly swimming about.

"Yes," said I, "it would; a very great grief." "Yet it must be done,"
said he, though wi