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CHAPTER XII. Henry my brother, forgive the tmnl things 1 have thought of yon I ' Every thing dwindles into insignificance in the presence of a calamity snch as this. How futile and insincere all my specu lations seem nowl And now repentance is as futile, however sincere it may be. But we must not think of our sorrow yet. The first thing to be done is to dis cover and to punish. I shall never forget that knocking at my door. 1 can hear it now. I shall hear it in my dreams. It seemed to carry its message with it before a word was spoken. Ami yet, when the words were spoken, 1 could not understand them. They fell like meaningless sounds on my ear. And 1 cannot help thinking that, had I been well and about that night, this would not have happened. He must have exposed himself needlessly. He was always heedless, confident and fearless. 1 remember his saying once that he bore a charmed life. A curse on all supersti tions! And be those juggling fiends no more believed who palter with us in a double sense! It could not have happened earlier than 2 o’clock in the morning. 1 must have slept more than three hours when 1 was aroused, and when I last looked at my watch it was between 11 and 12. It was 3 when Tom knocked on my door, and he had just come from him. He found him still warm, and he could hardly have been dead more than half an hour. But he was dead, and he must have “died instantly. The bullet, fired from behind, struck him below the left shoulder and went through his heart. The body lay at the foot of the cliff, and from its appearance Henry must have been standing near its verge when he was struck and have fallen or been pushed over. The fall was upward of 20 feet There were bruises on the body, and some dirt and a small fragment of rock had fallen with him from above. He must have been standing there look iug down into the wood below when the villain crept up behind him and fired. The shot was at close range—not more than 8 or 10 feet away. It seems strange that he heard no footstep. Yet if he had he would surely have turned round, and then the bullet would have struck him in front These points will probably be eluci dated at the trial, when we know whom to try. Of course there is no doubt that the murderer was one of the burglars Thus far, however, no truce of any bur glars has been seen. Neither John nor Tom discovered any signs of them, either before or after the shooting. This is the more strange because the murder proves that they must have been there. They had made no attempt ui>on the house, however, though they must have known that it was empty, and if they got wind of our intention to capture them, or if on arriving on the ground they discovered our ambush, why did they not retire at once instead of putting their necks in a noose by a wanton as sassination? Had there been signs that Henry had attempted to arrest one of them and that a struggle had taken place we might suppose that they had shot him self defense, but the indications Are that he was approached unawares. The evidence on this point will have to be carefully sifted. At present it is per plexing. The dominion of mind over matter can seldom have been more conclusively il lustrated than it was in my case when 1 was made to comprehend what had happened. A moment before I was as helpless as any cripple can bo and suf fering acute pain. Five minutes after ward 1 was beside my brother’s dead bgdy, a quarter of a mile away. 1 have Seen conscious of no pain since, and now even the traces of inflammation are gone. I have no distinct recollection of what 1 did, but I must have sprung from my chair and run at full speed, all band aged as I was, to the place where he lay. This indeed is Tom’s account of the fhat- ter. He says that toward 2In the morning he heard a report as of a piitol, but it was at some distance, and he was at first disposed to think TTe had been mistaken. He had for more than an hour past given up all expectation of the success of the ambush and was beginning to feel some what sleepy. However, he went along in the direction from which the sound had seemed to come, stopping every now and then to look and listen, bat detecting noth ing, and he was just on the point of aban doning the search when he saw something dark lying near the foot of the cliff. He took it for a small rock or fallen bowlder, but as he .did not remember having be fore noticed anything of the kind in the place he came nearer to examine. Until he stood within a yard of it no suspicion as to what it really was enter ed his mind. Then in a moment he knew it was a man’s body, but even then he thought of a tramp fallen asleep and not of Henry or of any one he knew. But when he noticed how the body lay—face downward, with one arm doubled under it—he recognized death, and bending down he saw the curly hair that could only be Henry’s. With that a fit of the horrors took possession of him.- He does not know what he did, but thinks he shouted in the dead man’s ears as if to awaken him from that irrevocable sleep, and he felt for his heart and got his hand smeared with blood. He was thor oughly unmanned and ran hither and thither, not knowing what to do, but probably hoping to meet John. At length he reflected that I was in my rooms, and without further delay he made a straight line for my door. He was a ghastly looking object when, the door being unfastened. I hade him come in. My first idea was that he had himself been attacked and had barely es caped with his life. He was white in the face, bailees, his dress disorders 1 and his hand bloody. He was shaking all ever like a man chilled to the marrow, and be could not command his tongue to speak clearly. I asked him several ques tions before getting any coherent or comprehensible reply. At last he said: “It’s a murder—that’s what it is! And somebody’s got to swing for it,” "Who?" I asked. • “Ah, if I knowed Jhgt, wouldn’t I teUT ‘Whos murdered, i mcanr ’’Lord ’are mercy on us. Your broth er, sir.” “My brother? John?" “No, sir, not ’im. Master ’Enry, sir!" “Henry!” 1 cried out. I jumped up and caught the man by the breast of his coat. "Henry? Murdered?” “As sure as there’s a God in ’eaven, Mr. Frank, affff ’e’s lyin under the cliff en ’is face.” Ilevif white in the fnre, hntiese, hltdrce* diminlercd and hie hand bloody That was the way the news came to me. So‘ far as I can recollect, my first feeling was one of violent anger against poor Tom, who, as I imagined, was tell ing some hideous falsehood. That Hen ry could be dead was not possible. Any body else might be dead, but not Henry. Henry, my playmate in boyhood, from whom I had parted only that afternoon, alive and well—Henry dead? 1 was al most ready to kill Tom for saying so, as if that would bring my brother back to life. But after a few moments of dizzy in credulity 1 steadied myself and confront ed the truth, and with it came a won derful glow and buoyancy of strength, so that I became entirely unconscious of my body and seemed to be all will and power. 1 motioned Tom to lead the way, and he went off at a run with me at his heels. We crossed the lawn and plunged down the slope into the wood. J ust as we turned to the right to roach the cliff we met some one. It was John. At sight of me he uttered a cry of aston ishment. I did not then know why, for getting that I had been a cripple five minutes before. "Cornel come!” was all I said, and he turned and ran beside me. He asked some questions, but I only shook my head. Tom, before us, dodged along be tween the trunks and beneath the boughs of the trees. It was dark, but 1 saw all his movements distinctly and could de scribe every one of them at this moment. Every sense was dilated ami intensified almost to the point of suffering. And when we drew near the fatal place I be lieve I pushed on in advance of the oth ers and was actually the first to reach the body. With the touch of my hand upon it came a change. The frantic, uncon scious energy which brought me to him was transformed into a no less unnatural serenity and self possession: it might al most be called coldness. My nerves wer» steady, my perception clear, my voice calm and authoritative. The others fol lowed my directions and waited upon my movement! with involuntary sub mission. After carefully noting the position of the body and assuring myself that no life was left, 1 asked for a knife, which Tom handed me, and cut off the coat and underclothing, laying bare the wound. It was small and dark where the bullet had entered, but in the breast was a ragged hole half as large as the palm of my hand. The effusion of blood, however, had not been great—death had been too sudden. The left side of the skull was slightly crushed, evidently from the fall, and the left arm was fractured at the elbow. The face, when the leaves and clay which adhered to it had been removed, appeared calm in its expression. 1 lit v wax match from a box that John car ried and scrutinized it closely. The match burned without flickering in the still air. It was a handsome face—never handsomer than then—and a dignity in vested it which was seldom seen in life. Tom shrank appalled at the aspect of these quiet features, and John broke down and cried like a child. I felt neither appalled nor inclined to weep. 1 was conscious only of a stem determina tion to see ;’astice done upon his assassin. Some trees had been felled near by a few days before. We selected some stout stakes cut from their boughs, placed the body on them and carried it slowly arl with difficulty up the hill to the house and laid it on the sofa in my library. Then I sent Tom for th» coroner and wrote a note to mother, which John car ried. It told her thatHenry had had a bad fall and bade her return at once. When he had gone, I was left alone With my dead-brother. It was about 4 o’clock, and the dawn was already in the east. That strange serenity of mind did not abandon me, though I was fully aware of its strangeness. During the past week or two I had thought of this man as an enemy. I believed he had done a great wrong, and circumstances had brought the wrong home to me to be shared with his immediate victim. I had even ad mitted the thought that his presence, if not his very existence, was hostile to my happiness, and now, like a swift answer ’ to that unspoken thought, he was dead, i and his body lay upon the same sofa where he bad lounged and smoked so i short a while ago. But 1 felt as little fear aa animosity. All passions, both good and evil, were absolutely still in me. I stood and looked down at him for a long time. It was to be, and I, Ukj him, was the creature of destiny. I stood with my back toward the door. ! I heard no sound, but I was suddenly aware that I was not alone. I turned, and there stood Anfire. my own part at any rate i have gem: ally found myself in an attitude to ac cept whatever happens as something to be more or less expected. It is not a conscious premonition, but a kind of in stant and instinctive accommodation of one’s self to circumstances. It simply means that the man and his environment are essentially in harmony. But now and then there is an abrupt exception to this rule, and then everything seems to break away, and there is chaos. The news of Henry’s death., profound ly though it affected me and amazed me, too, did not startle me at all. Per- haps it struck too deep for that; perhaps the dream from which 1 had just awak ened had been a dream of foreboding. Be that as it may, it steadied even while it appalled me. But this sudden appari tion of Sinfire at my elbow unmanned me completely. I had not been think ing of her directly at all; she had formed in my mind no more than a feature of the general circumstances; I was not prepared to consider her separate rela tion to the event; she was 10 miles away, as 1 supposed, and hours would pass before any hint of what had occurred would reach her. Yet here she was mys teriously on the spot—almost before the corpse of the man she had loved and hated had stiffened into its final rigidity. I stared at her in silence, striving to prepare myself for I knew not wl.at other shock. Had she witnessed the murder? Had she any purpose to ful fill? A score of wild conjectures flew through my head. I loved her; she was the great and only passion of my life; she had transfigured me—almost created me; whatever I might do or be hereaft' r would be due to her, but there are a time and a mood for all things, and 1 was in no mood, standing where 1 did, to think of anything tender and sacred. My nerves and faculties were tuned to something different, and I could not divest myself of the idea that she was about to connect herself in some way with the omnipresent horror. She was dressed in her scarlet riding habit, which she had taken with her to the lake, intending, as she said, to ride back the next day. In the darkness of the night it would have been indistin guishable from any other color, butwii’i the rays of the lamplight falling upon it its vivid hue gleamed out with a strik ing intensity. Her derringer hung in a sling from her belt on the right side. Her lijis were compressed, her eyes bril liant with concentrated light. Her glance seemed to question or challenge me, but after a few silent moments she turned her face slowly toward the couch, which she approached lingeringly. Within a few .feet of it she paused and gazed down upon the dead. “How came this?" she asked at length, not altering her attitude. “He was murdered in the wood. We brought him here.” “Murdered in the wood! Murdered!’’ she repeated in a murmur. "I thought you were ill," she added, glancing up, and then before I could reply, "Who did it?" she inquired. CHAPTER XIIL There was nothing miraculous in her appearing at that moment, but it is cer tain that I was never more startled in my life. So far as I have noticed genuine surprises are not nearly so common as tbvy arc popularly m;cr*s»d to be. .Fur “IFfio did itf" she intfiilred. “The murderer alone knows,” said 1. “It seems cruel. He loved to be alive, and he didn’t expect it," was the next re mark. She fetched a long sigh. “1 would have spared his life." “Would you have him alive agaiu?” 1 demanded. “How can I tell?” she returned. “It is done!” Those words, “It is doner had a sad ness and solemnity in them that pierced through my resentment and sternness and made me feel, as I had not done tie- fore, that the horror was not only a hor ror, but that it was irrevocable forever. I could not speak. I turned and walked down the room. Life is all possibility. There are few riddles that time cannot answer, few wro^;- that years will not remedy, but death has no cure. Every thing must stop thareaud begin afresh. The life that has gone out is no longer an element fn the problem. The Gor dian knot is cut, and the severed strinds are intractable and meaningless. Then we see, what was invisible till then, how much might have been saved by the strong magic of patience. But it is done —it is no dream or imagination—it is done! I turned again. She had stepped near er to the body, and stooping forward took something from the breast of her riding habit and laid it on the dead man’s heart. As I came toward her I saw that it was a gold ring set with an opal. "What does that mean?” I asked. “It is his,” she replied. “Let it be burled with him. I have no more to do with it.” “How came yon by it?” "Call it a bequest. I always meant to return it to him,” was her answer. “It meant a great deal once, but now that he is gone it means nothing. It is his.” "I have no curiosity to gratify, Sin- fire,” I said after a pause. “I have al ways accepted you and everything con cerning yon on your own representation and cared for nothing more. If you were compelled to answer any questions I put to you, I would ask none. Nothing that is past ir any concern of mine or of ours, and this is no time to think of the future. Let that, too, take care of itself. But I may ask you why and how you came here. It seems strange to me and might seem stranger still to others if they knew." “Oh, there’s no mystery about it. Cous in Frank,” replied she, looking at me with a half smile and speaking in much lighter tones than she had used before. “You know I asked to be allowed to stay, and though, to please your mother, I agreed to go to the lake I made up my mind from the first that I would come back. So when they were all asleep I saddled my horse and came. I was ready to do my part,” she concluded, touching the derringer at her side. “You rode 10 miles through the Woods alone?" “I feel at home in the woods. I can find my way anywhere.” ■•How Iona have yon bean here?" . . - [TO B> OOKTCtUKD.] -• A Solid Oak Suit of Ton Pieces for S35.00! 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