t greatly alarmed me. But almost
instantly he recovered himself, and paced with a steady step toward the
hall door, which at that moment resounded with a short loud knock.

"Who is there?" he asked, with every appearance of his usual sternness.

"Hartley," was the reply.

"Are you alone?" the old gentleman again queried, making a move as if to
unlock the door.

"Carrie is with me; no one else," came in smothered accents from
without.

Mr. Benson at once turned the key, but no sooner had he done so than he
staggered back. For an instant or two of horror he stood oscillating
from side to side, then his frame succumbed, and the terrified eyes of
his children beheld his white head lying low, all movement and
appearance of life gone from the form that but a moment before towered
so proudly before them.

With a shriek, the daughter flung herself down at his side, and even the
cheek of Hartley Benson grew white as he leaned over his father's
already inanimate body.

"He is dead!" came in a wild cry from her lips. "See! he does not
breathe. Oh! Hartley, what could have happened? Do you think that Joe--"

"Hush!" he exclaimed, with a furtive glance around him. "He may be here;
let me look. _If Joe has done this_--" He did not continue, but rose,
and with a rapid tread began to cross the floor in my direction.

In a flash I realized my situation. To be found by him now, without a
domino, and in the position of listener, would be any thing but
desirable. But I knew of no way of escape, or so for the moment it
seemed. But great emergencies call forth sudden resources. In the quick
look I inadvertently threw around me, I observed that the _portiere_
hanging between me and the library was gathered at one side in very
heavy folds. If I could hide behind them perhaps I might elude the
casual glance he would probably cast into my place of concealment. At
all events it was worth trying, and at the thought I glided behind the
curtain. I was not disappointed in my calculations. Arrived at the door,
he looked in, perceived the domino lying in a heap on the floor, and
immediately drew back with an exclamation of undoubted satisfaction.

"He is gone," said he, crossing back to his sister's side. Then in a
tone of mingled irony and bitterness, hard to describe, cried aloud with
a glance toward the open door: "He has first killed his father and then
fled. Fool that I was to think he could be trusted!"

A horrified "Hartley!" burst