"As you please; but before I begin my story, I must be sure that it is _the_ story. Yesterday, as I told you, I had an interview with my sister-in-law."

"Yes."

"I had observed some things that puzzled me, and--does that letter of Leslie's contain any statements concerning her early life?" He breaks off abruptly.

"It does; many statements."

"Do you know anything of her early history?"

"Yes."

"Is she the daughter of Thomas Uliman?"

"His adopted daughter; yes."

"And are her parents living?"

"Two people who claim to be her parents are in this city. I may as well say to you now, Mr. Warburton, that Leslie never knew herself to be an adopted child until shortly before her marriage; that she discovered it by accident, and came straight to me with the news, which I had known all along. Then she told the truth to your brother, and knowing the height, depth, and absurdity of the Warburton pride, offered to release him from his engagement. He refused this release and bade her never mention the subject again."

He paused a moment, and seeing that Alan was regarding him with steadfast earnestness, resumed:

"I supposed that the end of the affair, and from that day to this have never heard a word on the subject from Leslie, or from any one, until you brought me this letter. And now, as I have gone thus far into the matter, let me tell you what I have learned from this letter--not as Leslie has written it, but briefly as possible. Shortly before her marriage, two people, a.s.serting themselves to be the two who gave Leslie to the Ulimans, came and claimed her as their child. They were so repulsive, clamorous, and so evidently greedy for money, that Leslie could not, would not, credit their story. Here she made her first mistake. She bribed these old wretches with a good slice of her little fortune, instead of turning them and their claim over to me. They promised to go away, of course, and never trouble her again, and also of course, they did not keep their word. As soon as she was married to your brother, they became bolder; and she was more than ever in their power.

She dared not confide in her husband; first, because of his pride, which was only a little less than yours, and next, because she feared the effect of such a revelation upon a const.i.tution so frail, and a mind so sensitive. It was too late, she thought, to come to me; and so it went on. They drained her private purse to the last dollar; they compelled her to come at their summons at any time, and she had to creep from her home like a guilty thing to carry hush-money to these wretches. And so things continued until, in order to satisfy their greed, she must begin to fee them with her husband's money. Think of _that_, sir," casting an ironical glance at his _vis-a-vis_; "feeing those common clods with the Warburton gold."

But Alan never noted this home-thrust. He sat quite still, with a troubled look upon his face; seeing which, Mr. Follingsbee continued:

"This she firmly resolved that she would never do; and then came that masquerade."

"Ah!" Alan starts as he involuntarily utters the e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, but controls himself instantly, and says: "Go on, please."

"That night they sent her a note," continues Mr. Follingsbee. "It came when she was in the midst of her guests; and it was so urgent in its demands that she grew desperate, threw off her festive garments, and went, alone, in the night, to the hovel where these old impostors lived.

She went to defy them, and she found herself entrapped."

"Entrapped?"

"Yes; while she talked, she was seized by two persons who crept upon her from behind. She does not understand their actual object; they seemed trying to secure the jewels which she had forgotten to remove from her ears. Just here she is not very definite; I will read the pa.s.sage to you."

He takes up the letter, searches out the lines referred to, and reads:

I can scarcely describe the rest. It is sufficient that a brave man rescued me--at what a fearful cost to himself, I only learned afterward. I escaped from the hovel, and reached my home. You know the rest: how Daisy vanished, and all the sorrow since. And now I tell you that I believe these two have stolen Daisy.

Here he breaks off abruptly. "The rest is a mixture of business affairs and hurried directions how to dispose of her property should she be long absent, or should she never return, etc. At the close she says, that on the night of her adventure at the hovel, and during the affray, a man was killed; and that either herself or her brave rescuer, she is informed, is likely to be arrested for that crime; and in case of the arrest of either, the other will be compelled to testify _for or against_."

"And her motive for now quitting her home so suddenly?"

"Of that she says very little; merely that she is leaving, and that she hopes I will continue my confidence in her."

"Which you do?"

"Which I do."

For many moments Alan Warburton sat with his head bowed, and his face pale and troubled, saying nothing. Then he roused himself, and turned towards his companion.

"Mr. Follingsbee," he said, very gravely, "if this story--a part of which you have told me, the rest being contained in that letter--is true; if Leslie Warburton has been a martyr throughout this affair, then I am a most contemptible scoundrel!"

"You!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the old gentleman testily; "you a scoundrel! Good heavens, has everybody gone into high dramatics? What have you done?"

"I have accused Leslie of receiving a lover in her own house; of going from her home to meet him; I have heaped upon her insult after insult; I have driven her from her home by my cruel accusations!"

A moment Mr. Follingsbee sat looking as if about to pour forth a volume of wrath, upon the head of his self-accusing visitor; then he said, as if controlling himself by an effort:

"You had better tell the whole story, young man, having begun it."

And Alan did tell the whole story; honestly, frankly and without sparing himself. He began at the beginning, telling how, at the first, Leslie's youth, beauty and vivacity, together with a certain disparity of years between herself and husband, had caused him to doubt her affection for his brother, and to suspect a mercenary marriage; how he had discovered her sending away notes by stealth; how his suspicions had grown and strengthened until, on the night of the masquerade, he had set Van Vernet to watch her movements; and how Vernet had discovered, or claimed to discover, a lover in the person of a certain G.o.ddess of Liberty.

At this point in his narrative, Alan was surprised to note certain unmistakable signs of levity in the face and manner of Mr. Follingsbee; and presently that gentleman broke in:

"Wait; just wait. Let's clear up that point, once and for all. That 'G.o.ddess' was introduced into your house by me, and for a purpose which, to me, seemed good. Until that night he had never seen Leslie Warburton."

"He! then it was a man?"

"It was; and Van Vernet, as I have since learned, knew him and laid a trap for him. Their feud dates from that night."

"Ah, then our detective and the 'G.o.ddess of Liberty'--"

"Are the same. Now resume, please."

Going back to his story, Alan tells how he had followed Leslie; how he had rushed in, in answer to her cry for aid; how he had rescued her, and had himself been rescued in turn by a pretended idiot. He told of his return home; his interview with Leslie after the masquerade, and their last interview; ending with the scene with Vernet and the organ-grinder.

"That fellow is the mischief!" said Mr. Follingsbee, rubbing his palms softly together. "He's the very mischief!"

"By which I infer that my 'Organ-grinder,' my 'Idiot,' and the 'G.o.ddess of Liberty,' are one and the same?"

"_Pre_cisely; I haven't a doubt of it."

"And that the three are identical with this 'gentleman detective,' who, in making war upon Van Vernet, has espoused my cause, or rather that of my sister-in-law."

"Just so."

Alan leans back in his chair, and clutches his two hands upon its either arm, fixing his eyes on vacancy. Seeming to forget the presence of his _vis-a-vis_, he loses himself in a maze of thoughts. Evidently they are not pleasant thoughts, for his face expresses much of perplexity, doubt and disgust, finally settling into a look of stern resolve.

He is silent so long that Mr. Follingsbee grows impatient, and by and by this uneasiness manifests itself in a series of restless movements. At last Alan turns his face toward the lawyer, and then that gentleman bursts out:

"Well, are you going to sit there all night? What shall you do next?"

Alan Warburton rises from his chair and faces his questioner. "First,"

he says slowly, "I am going to find Leslie, and bring her back."