But Franz caught no word from the inner room, for Doctor Bayless never once opened his lips. The watcher could see his large form bending over the bed, with one hand slightly upraised as if holding a watch, the other resting upon the wrist of the patient.

But Leslie saw more than this. Locked in that strange calm, she saw the doctor's hand go to his side, and take from a pocket a card which quite filled his palm.

Holding this card so that Leslie could easily scan its contents, he sat mutely watching her face.

The card contained these words, closely written in a fine, firm hand:

Seem to submit to their plans. We can conquer in no other way. At the right time I shall be at hand, and no harm shall befall you.

Let them play their game to the very last; it shall not go too far. Feign a continual stupor; they will believe it the result of drugs. Trust all to me, and believe your troubles almost over.

STANHOPE.

Three times did Leslie's eyes peruse these words, and in spite of that powerful soothing draught, her composure almost forsook her. But she controlled herself bravely, and only by a long look of hopeful intelligence, and a very slight gesture, did she respond to this written message so sorely needed, so welcome, so fraught with hope.

When Mamma returned with the water, Leslie lay quiet among the pillows, her eyes half closed, and no trace of emotion in her face. But her heart was beating with a new impulse. That message had brought with it a comforting sense of protection, and of help near at hand.

The last instructions of Doctor Bayless, too, fell upon her ear with hopeful meaning, although they were spoken, apparently, for Mamma's sole benefit.

"She is a trifle dull," he said, turning from the bed and confronting Mamma. "It's the result of that mistaken dose, in part. In part, it's the natural outcome of her fever. It's better for her; she will gain strength faster so. These powders"--depositing a packet of paper folds in Mamma's hand,--"are to strengthen and to soothe. She must take them regularly. She will be a little dull under their influence, very docile and easy to manage, but she will gain strength quite rapidly. In a week, if she is not unnerved or excited, she should be able to be up, to be out."

Once more he turned toward Leslie, and took her hand in his.

What Mamma saw, was a careful physician going through with a last professional formula. What Leslie felt, was a warm, rea.s.suring hand-clasp, friendly rather than professional.

When he had gone, Leslie lay quiet, repeating over and over in her mind the words of Stanhope's note, and feeling throughout her entire being a strong, new desire to live.

CHAPTER L.

MR. FOLLINGSBEE'S SOCIAL CALL.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Holding this card so Leslie could easily scan its contents, he sat mutely watching her face."--page 359.]

Five weeks have pa.s.sed since the fateful masquerade. Five weeks since Vernet and Stanhope entered, in rivalry, the service of Walter Parks, the bearded Englishman. Five weeks since that last named and eccentric individual set sail for far-off Australia.

Matters are moving slowly at the Agency. Van Vernet is seldom seen there now, and Stanhope is not seen at all.

In his private office the Chief of the detectives sits musing; not placidly, as is usual with him, but with a growing restlessness, and a dark frown upon his broad, high brow.

The thing which has caused the disquiet and the frown, lies upon the desk beside him, just under his uneasy right hand. A letter; a letter from California, from Walter Parks.

It was brief and business-like; it explained nothing; and it puzzled the astute Chief not a little.

John Ainsworth is better; so much better that we shall start in two days for your city. His interests are identical with mine, and he may be able, in some way, to throw a little light upon the Arthur Pearson mystery.

Walter Parks had set out for Australia, drawn thither by an advertis.e.m.e.nt mentioning the name of Arthur Pearson. It had also contained the name of John Ainsworth; but this had seemed of secondary interest to the queer Englishman. He had distinctly stated that he knew nothing of John Ainsworth; had never seen him.

And yet here he was, if this letter were not a hoax, journeying eastward at that very moment, in company with this then unknown man.

Evidently, he had not visited Australia; that he could have done so was scarcely possible. And he was coming back with this John Ainsworth to urge on the search for the murderer of Arthur Pearson.

They would hope much, expect much, from Vernet and Stanhope. And what had been done?

Since the day when Stanhope had suddenly appeared in his presence, to announce his readiness to begin work upon the Arthur Pearson case, nothing had been heard from him.

"You will not see me again," he had said, "until I can tell who killed Arthur Pearson." And he was keeping his word.

Four weeks had pa.s.sed since Stanhope had made his farewell announcement, and nothing was known of his whereabouts. Where was he? What was he doing? What had he done?

It was not like Stanhope to make sweeping statements. In proffering his services to Walter Parks, he had said: "I'll do my level best for you."

But he had not promised to succeed. Why, then, had he said, scarce five days later: "I shall not return until I have found the criminal."

What had he done, or discovered, or guessed at, during those intervening days?

Something, it must have been, or else--perhaps, after all, it was a mere defiance to Van Vernet; his way of announcing a reckless resolve to succeed or never return to own his failure. d.i.c.k Stanhope was a queer fellow, and he _had_ been sadly cut up by Vernet's falling off.

The Chief gave up the riddle, and turned to his desk.

"I may as well leave d.i.c.k to his own devices," he muttered, "but I'll send for Vernet. He has kept shy enough of the office of late, but I know where to put my hand on him."

As he reached out to touch the bell, some one tapped upon the door.

"Come in," he called, somewhat impatiently.

It was the office-boy who entered and presented a card to the Chief.

"The gentleman is waiting?" queried the Chief, glancing at the name upon the bit of pasteboard.

"Yes, sir."

"Admit him."

Then he rose and stood to receive his visitor.

"Ah, Follingsbee, I'm glad it's you," extending his hand cordially. "Sit down, sit down."

And he pushed his guest toward a big easy chair just opposite his own.

The little lawyer responded warmly to his friendly greeting, established himself comfortably in the chair indicated, and resting a hand upon either knee, smiled as he glanced about him.

"You seem pretty comfortable here," he said, as his eye roved about the well-equipped private office. "Are you particularly busy just now?"

"I can be quite idle," smiling slightly, "if you want a little of my leisure."

The attorney gave a short, dry laugh.