gentleman, in the library who would like to see you before you go."

They at once turned to the room indicated. But at sight of its
well-known features--its huge cases of books, its large centre-table
profusely littered with papers, the burnt-out grate, the empty
arm-chair--they paused, and it was with difficulty they could recover
themselves sufficiently to enter. When they did, their first glance was
toward the gentleman they saw standing in a distant window, apparently
perusing a book.

"Who is it?" inquired Mr. Ferris of his companion.

"I cannot imagine," returned the other.

Hearing voices, the gentleman advanced.

"Ah," said he, "allow me to introduce myself. I am Mr. Gryce, of the New
York Detective Service."

"Mr. Gryce!" repeated the District Attorney, in astonishment.

The famous detective bowed. "I have come," said he, "upon a summons
received by me in Utica not six hours ago. It was sent by a subordinate
of mine interested in the trial now going on before the court. Horace
Byrd is his name. I hope he is well liked here and has your confidence."

"Mr. Byrd is well enough liked," rejoined Mr. Ferris, "but I gave him no
orders to send for you. At what hour was the telegram dated?"

"At half-past eleven; immediately after the accident to Mr. Orcutt."

"I see."

"He probably felt himself inadequate to meet this new emergency. He is a
young man, and the affair is certainly a complicated one."

The District Attorney, who had been studying the countenance of the able
detective before him, bowed courteously.

"I am not displeased to see you," said he. "If you have been in the room
above----"

The other gravely bowed.

"You know probably of the outrageous accusation which has just been made
against our best lawyer and most-esteemed citizen. It is but one of many
which this same woman has made; and while it is to be regarded as the
ravings of lunacy, still your character and ability may weigh much in
lifting the opprobrium which any such accusation, however unfounded, is
calculated to throw around the memory of my dying friend."

"Sir," returned Mr. Gryce, shifting his gaze uneasily from one small
object to another in that dismal room, till all and every article it
contained seemed to partake of his mysterious confidence, "this is a
world of disappointment and deceit. Intellects we admired, hearts in
which we trusted, turn out frequently to be the abodes of falsehood and
violence. It is dreadful, b