The Diamond Coterie Part 56

"I can't realize anything fully," he says, slowly. "It's as well that Burrill did not live to know this."

"Well! It's providential! We should not have a chance; as it is, we have one. Do you know where Burrill kept his papers?"

"No."

"Who removed his personal effects? Were you present?"

"a.s.suredly. There were no papers of value to us upon the body."

"Well, those papers must be found. Once in our hands, we are safe enough for the present; but until we find them, we are not so secure. However, I have no doubt but that they are secreted somewhere about his room.

Have you seen Belknap to-day?"

"Only at the inquest. Curse that fellow; I wish we were rid of him entirely."

"I wish we were rid of his claim; but it must be paid somehow."

"Somehow!" echoing the word, mockingly.

"That is the word I used. I must borrow the money."

"Indeed! Of whom?"

"Of Constance Wardour."

"What!"

"Why not, pray? Am I to withdraw because you have been discarded? Why should I not borrow from this tricky young lady? Curse her!"

"Well!" rising slowly, "she is under your roof at this moment. Strike while the iron is hot. Have you anything more to say to-night?"

"No. You are too idiotic. Get some of the cobwebs out of your brain, and that scared look out of your face. One would think that _you_, and not Heath, were the murderer of Burrill."

A strange look darts from the eyes of Frank Lamotte.

"It won't be so decided by a jury," he says, between his shut teeth.

"Curse Heath, he is the man who, all along, has stood in my way."

"Well, there's a strong likelihood that he will be removed from your path. There, go, and don't look so abjectly hopeless. We have nothing to do at present, but to quiet Belknap. Good night."

With lagging steps, Frank Lamotte ascends the stairs, and enters his own room. He locks the door with a nervous hand, and then hurriedly lowers the curtains. He goes to the mirror, and gazes at his reflected self,--hollow, burning eyes, haggard cheeks, blanched lips, that twitch convulsively, a mingled expression of desperation, horror, and despair,--that is what he sees, and the sight does not serve to steady his nerves. He turns away, with a curse upon the white lips.

He flings himself down in a huge easy chair, and dropping his chin upon his breast, tries to think; but thought only deepens the despairing horror and fear upon his countenance. Where his father sees one foe, Francis Lamotte sees ten.

He sees before him Jerry Belknap, private detective, angry, implacable, menacing, not to be quieted. He sees Clifford Heath, pale, stern, accusing. Constance Wardour, scornful, menacing, condemning and consigning him to dreadful punishment. The dead face of John Burrill rises before him, jeering, jibing, odious, seeming to share with him some ugly secret. He pa.s.ses his hand across his brow, and starts up suddenly.

"Bah!" he mutters, "this is no time to dally; on every side I see a pitfall. Let every man look to himself. If I must play in my last trump, let me be prepared."

He takes from his pocket a bunch of keys, and, selecting one of the smallest, unlocks a drawer of his dressing case. He draws forth a pair of pistols and examines them carefully. Then he withdraws the charges from both weapons, and loads one anew. The latter he conceals about his person, and then takes up the other. He hesitates a moment, and then loads that also, replaces it in its hiding place, closes and locks the drawer. Then he breathes a long sigh of relief.

"It's a deadly anchor to windward," he mutters, turning away. "It's a last resort. Now I have only to wait."

CHAPTER x.x.xV.

A STRANGE INTERVIEW.

While Frank Lamotte, in his own chamber, is preparing himself for emergencies, Constance Wardour stands by the bedside of her unconscious friend, struggling for self control; shutting her lips firmly together, clenching her teeth; mastering her outward self, by the force of her strong will; and striving to bring the chaos of her mind into like subjection. Three facts stare her in the face; three ideas dance through her brain and mingle themselves in a confused ma.s.s. Clifford Heath is in peril. She can save him by betraying a friend and a trust. She loves him.

Yes, stronger than all, greater than all, this fact stands out; in this hour of peril the truth will not be frowned down. She loves this man who stands accused of murder; she loves him, and, great heavens! he is innocent, and yet, must suffer for the guilty.

What can she do? What must she do? She can not go to him; she, by her own act, has cut off all friendly intercourse between them. But, something must be done, shall be done.

Suddenly, she bends down, and looks long and earnestly into the face of the sleeper. The dark lashes rest upon cheeks that are pale as ivory; the face looks torture-stricken; the beautiful lips quiver with the pain of some dismal dream.

Involuntarily, this cry escapes the lips of the watcher:

"My G.o.d! To think that two n.o.ble lives must be blasted, because of that pitiful, worthless thing, that lies below."

The moments drag on heavily, her thoughts gradually shaping themselves into a resolve, while she watches by the bedside and waits the return of Mrs. Lamotte. At last, she comes, and there is an added shade of sorrow in her dark eyes; Evan is very ill, she fears for his reason, too.

"What has come upon my children, Constance?" she asks, brokenly; "even Frank has changed for the worse."

"Poor Evan," sighs Constance, thinking of his loyal love for Sybil; and thus with her new resolve strong in her mind, she says, briefly:

"I must go to town at once, Mrs. Lamotte, and will return as soon as possible. Can you spare me without too much weight upon yourself."

Without a question, Mrs. Lamotte bids her go; and very soon she is driving swiftly toward W----, behind the splendid Lamotte horses.

Straight to Lawyer O'Meara she is whirled, and by the time she reaches the gate, she is as calm as an iceberg.

Coming down the steps is a familiar form, that of her aunt, Mrs.

Aliston. Each lady seems a trifle disconcerted by this unexpected meeting; neither is inclined to explain her presence there.

Mrs. Aliston appears the more disturbed and startled of the two; she starts and flushes, guiltily, at sight of her niece.

But, Constance is intent upon her errand; she pauses long enough to inquire after her aunt's health, to report that Sybil is much the same, and Evan ill, and then she says:

"Is Mr. O'Meara at home, Aunt Honor?"

"Yes. That is, I believe so," stammers Mrs. Aliston.

"Then I must not detain you, or delay myself; good morning, auntie;" and she enters the house, leaving Mrs. Aliston looking perplexed and troubled.

Ushered into the presence of Mr. O'Meara, Constance wastes no words.