This matter he now looked upon as of secondary importance, and on the second day of Archibald Warburton's illness he turned his steps toward the mansion, intent upon bringing his "simple bit of shadowing" to a summary termination.

He had gathered no new information concerning Mrs. Warburton and her mysterious movements, nevertheless he knew how to utilize scant items, and the time had come when he proposed to make Richard Stanhope's presence at the masquerade play a more conspicuous part in the investigation which he was supposed to be vigorously conducting.

The silence and gloom that hung over the mansion was too marked to pa.s.s unnoticed by so keen an observer.

Wondering as to the cause, Vernet pulled the bell, and boldly handed his professional card to the serious-faced footman who opened the door.

In obedience to instructions, the servant glanced at the card, and reading thereon the name and profession of the applicant, promptly admitted him, naturally supposing him to be connected with the search for little Daisy.

"Tell your master," said Vernet, as he was ushered into the library, "tell your master that I must see him at once. My business is urgent, and my time limited."

The servant turned upon him a look of surprise.

"Do you mean Mr. Archibald Warburton, sir?"

"Yes."

"Then it will be impossible. Mr. Warburton has been dangerously sick since yesterday. The shock--Mr. Alan receives all who have business."

Mentally wondering what the servant could mean, for in the intensity of his interest in his new search, he had not informed himself as to the late happenings that usually attract the attention of all connected with the police, and was not aware of the disappearance of Archibald Warburton's little daughter, Vernet said briefly, and as if he perfectly understood it all:

"Nevertheless, you may deliver my message."

Somewhat overawed by the presence of this representative of justice, the servant went as bidden, and in another moment stood before Alan Warburton, presenting the card of the detective and delivering his message.

Alan Warburton started at sight of the name upon the card, and involuntarily turned his gaze toward the mirror. The face reflected there was not the face we saw unmasked, for a moment, at the masquerade.

The brown moustache and glossy beard, the abundant waving hair, were gone. To the wonder and disapproval of all in the house, Alan had appeared among them, on the morning following the masquerade, with smooth-shaven face and close-cropped hair, looking like a boy-graduate rather than the distinguished man of the world he had appeared on the previous day.

Van Vernet had seen his bearded face but once, and there was little cause to fear a recognition; nevertheless, recalling Stanhope's warning, Alan chose the better part of valor, and said calmly:

"Tell the person that Mr. Warburton is so ill that his life is despaired of, and that he is quite incapable of transacting business. He cannot see him at present."

Wondering somewhat at this cavalier message, the servant retraced his steps, and Alan returned to the sick-room, murmuring as he went:

"It seems the only way. I dare not trust my voice in conversation with that man. For our honor's sake, my dying brother must be my representative still."

And then, as his eye rested upon Leslie, sitting by the bedside pale and weary, a thrill of aversion swept over him as he thought:

"But for her, and her wretched intrigue, I should have no cause to deceive, and no man's scrutiny to fear."

Alas for us who have secrets to keep; we should be "as wise as serpents," and as fa.r.s.eeing as veritable seers.

While Alan Warburton, above stairs, was congratulating himself, believing that he had neglected nothing of prudence or precaution, Van Vernet, below stairs, was grasping a clue by which Alan Warburton might yet be undone.

Reentering the library, the servant found Vernet, his cheeks flushed, his eyes ablaze with excitement, standing before an easel which upheld a life-sized portrait--a new portrait, recently finished and just sent home, and as like the original, as he had appeared on yesterday, as a picture could be like life.

When the servant had delivered his message, and without paying the slightest heed to its purport, Vernet demanded, almost fiercely:

"Who is the original of that portrait?"

"That, sir," said the servant, "is Mr. Alan Warburton."

CHAPTER XXI.

A PROMISE TO THE DYING.

Paying no further heed to the servant, and much to the surprise of that functionary, Van Vernet turned his gaze back upon the picture, and looked long and intently, shifting his position once or twice to obtain a different view. Then taking up his hat, he silently left the house, a look of mingled elation and perplexity upon his face.

"It's the same!" he thought, as he hurried away; "it's the same face, or a most wonderful resemblance. Allow for the difference made by the glazed cap, the tattoo marks and the rough dress, and it's the very same face! It seems incredible, but I know that such impossibilities often exist. What is there in common between Mr. Alan Warburton, aristocrat, and a nameless sailor, with scars upon his face and blood upon his hands? The same face, certainly, and--perhaps the same delicate hands and dainty feet. It may be only a resemblance, but I'll see this Alan Warburton, and I'll solve the mystery of that Francoise hovel yet."

While Van Vernet thus soliloquizes over his startling discovery, we will follow the footsteps of Richard Stanhope.

He is walking away from the more bustling portion of the city, and turning into a quiet, home-like street, pauses before a long, trim-looking building, turns a moment to gaze about him in quest of possible observers, and then enters.

It is a hospital, watched over by an order of n.o.ble women, and affording every relief and comfort to the suffering ones within its walls.

Pa.s.sing the offices and long wards, he goes on until he has reached a private room in the rear of the building. Here coolness and quiet reign, and a calm-faced woman is sitting beside a cot, upon which a sick man tosses and mutters feverishly. It is the ex-convict who was rescued from the Thieves' Tavern by Stanhope, only a few nights ago.

"How is your patient?" queries the detective, approaching the bed and gazing down upon the man whom he has befriended.

"He has not long to live," replies the nurse. "I am glad you are here, sir. In his lucid moments he asks for you constantly. His delirium will pa.s.s soon, I think, and he will have a quiet interval. I hope you will remain."

"I will stay as long as possible," Stanhope says, seating himself by the bed. "But I have not much time to spare to-night."

The dying man is living his childhood over again. He mutters of rolling prairies, waving trees, sweeping storms, and pealing thunder. He laughs at the review of some pleasing scene, and then cries out in terror as some vision of horror comes before his memory.

And while he mutters, Richard Stanhope listens--at first idly, then curiously, and at last with eager intensity, bending forward to catch every word.

Finally he rises, and crossing the room deposits his hat upon a table, and removes his light outer coat.

"I shall stay," he says briefly. "How long will he live?"

"He cannot last until morning, the surgeon says."

"I will stay until the end."

He resumes his seat and his listening att.i.tude. It is sunset when his watch begins; the evening pa.s.ses away, and still the patient mutters and moans.

It is almost midnight when his mutterings cease, and he falls into a slumber that looks like death.

At last there comes an end to the solemn stillness of the room. The dying man murmurs brokenly, opens his eyes with the light of reason in them once more, and recognizes his benefactor.

"You see--I was--right," he whispers, a wan smile upon his face; "I am going to die."