is repugnance in a few minutes--or,
rather, I acted spite of it, I knew not how; but instinctively it
seemed to me that it was better to lay the body in the bed, than leave it
where it was, shewing, as its position might, that the thing occurred in
an altercation. So, sir, I raised it, and bore it softly across the room,
and laid it in the bed; and, while I was carrying it, it swayed forward,
the arms glided round my neck, and the head rested against my cheek--that
was a parody upon a brotherly embrace!

"I do not know at what moment it was, but some time when I was carrying
Wynston, or laying him in the bed," continued Marston, who spoke rather
like one pursuing a horrible reverie, than as a man relating facts to a
listener, "I heard a light tread, and soft breathing in the lobby. A
thunderclap would have stunned me less that minute. I moved softly,
holding my breath, to the door. I believe, in moments of strong
excitement, men hear more acutely than at other times; but I thought I
heard the rustling of a gown, going from the door again. I waited--it
ceased; I waited until all was quiet. I then extinguished the candle, and
groped my way to the door; there was a faint light in the corridor, and I
thought I saw a head projected from the chamber-door, next to the
Frenchwoman's--mademoiselle's. As I came on, it was softly withdrawn,
and the door not quite noiselessly closed. I could not be absolutely
certain, but I learned all afterward. And now, sir, you have the story of
Sir Wynston's murder."

Dr. Danvers groaned in spirit, being wrung alike with fear and sorrow.
With hands clasped, and head bowed down, in an exceeding bitter agony of
soul, he murmured only the words of the Litany--"Lord, have mercy upon
us; Christ, have mercy upon us; Lord, have mercy upon us."

Marston had recovered his usual lowering aspect and gloomy
self-possession in a few moments, and was now standing erect and defiant
before the humbled and afflicted minister of God. The contrast was
terrible--almost sublime.

Doctor Danvers resolved to keep this dreadful secret, at least for a
time, to himself. He could not make up his mind to inflict upon those
whom he loved so well as Charles and Rhoda the shame and agony of such a
disclosure; yet he was sorely troubled, for his was a conflict of duty
and mercy, of love and justice.

He told Charles Marston, when urged with earnest inquiry, that what he
had heard that evening was intended solely for his