l
I do? What shall I do?"

"Do?" said Josephine Harris, smoothing down her hair and striving to
comfort her at the same time that she braced up her nerves for what must
follow. "Do? Why send Colonel Egbert Crawford packing--that is the first
step."

"Oh, I cannot!" moaned the young girl. "It would kill my poor old
father, to have any trouble in the house, now; and I must marry that
man, though I have never loved him--and he, oh heavens!--a murderer!"

"Well, if you _do_ marry him," said Joe, with something of her old
manner, justifying the resumption of her pet name, "all that I can say,
is, that I hope you will have a happy time of it!"

"Why do you speak so?" asked the poor girl. "Why do you speak so lightly
when I am so wretched?"

"Because I do not mean that you shall _remain_ wretched," was the
answer. "Hold up your head, now, Mary--may I not call you Mary, _dear_
Mary! Hold up your head, like a brave girl, and listen to me."

Her frightened companion made an effort to do so, and she went on:

"You believe that I have been right in what I have said, do you not? And
that I am a true friend?"

"Yes, indeed I do!"

"Then obey me now!" she continued, rapidly shaping into words the
thoughts that had been for a few moments assuming consistency in her
brain. "Do precisely as I tell you, nothing less and nothing more, and
this marriage will _break itself_, without one word from you."

"Oh, how can that be possible?" asked the trembler.

"Sit down in that chair for a few minutes, and don't mind _me_!" and in
a moment she had transferred her burden to the chair. In another she had
flung open one of the end shutters of the room, drawn a small table
towards the window, opened upon it her portable writing-desk (an article
of use without which she never travelled), and was hastily scribbling,
though with a hand that shook a little at its own boldness--the
following note:--

WEST FALLS, Sunday, July 6th (noon).

_Col. Egbert Crawford:--_

You will probably recognize the name at the bottom of this, as that
of one you have often seen, but of whom you know very little. No one
but myself knows anything of the contents. You are
discovered--detected. I have watched you and overheard your
conversation, for days past, at the house of Richard Crawford. What
is more, I have the _poisoned bandage_ in my pocket, after having had
it analyzed by a chemist. If you leave at once, without attempting