he grate, and, thwarted in my
design, I stood hesitating what to do, when I heard some one coming
up-stairs. Alive to the consequences of being found in that room at that
time, I cast the lighters into the grate and started for the door. But
in the quick move I made, the key flew from my hand and slid under a
chair. Aghast at the mischance, I paused, but the sound of approaching
steps increasing, I lost all control over myself and fled from the room.
And indeed I had no time to lose. I had barely reached my own door when
Eleanore Leavenworth, followed by two servants, appeared at the top of
the staircase and proceeded towards the room I had just left. The sight
reassured me; she would see the key, and take some means of disposing
of it; and indeed I always supposed her to have done so, for no further
word of key or letter ever came to my ears. This may explain why the
questionable position in which Eleanore soon found herself awakened in
me no greater anxiety. I thought the suspicions of the police rested
upon nothing more tangible than the peculiarity of her manner at the
inquest and the discovery of her handkerchief on the scene of the
tragedy. I did not know they possessed what might be called absolute
proof of her connection with the crime. But if I had, I doubt if my
course would have been any different. Mary's peril was the one thing
capable of influencing me, and she did not appear to be in peril. On the
contrary, every one, by common consent, seemed to ignore all appearance
of guilt on her part. If Mr. Gryce, whom I soon learned to fear, had
given one sign of suspicion, or Mr. Raymond, whom I speedily recognized
as my most persistent though unconscious foe, had betrayed the least
distrust of her, I should have taken warning. But they did not, and,
lulled into a false security by their manner, I let the days go by
without suffering any fears on her account. But not without many
anxieties for myself. Hannah's existence precluded all sense of personal
security. Knowing the determination of the police to find her, I trod
the verge of an awful suspense continually.

Meantime the wretched certainty was forcing itself upon me that I had
lost, instead of gained, a hold on Mary Leavenworth. Not only did she
evince the utmost horror of the deed which had made her mistress of
her uncle's wealth, but, owing, as I believed, to the influence of Mr.
Raymond, soon gave evidence that she was losing, to a certain extent,
the char