sat in his room,
vainly striving to reconcile the dozen theories of the flaring
editions of the evening papers. There was not a single suggestion
of foul play; not a word to point the direction of the supposed
fugitive's evasion; not a clue from the baffled police.

It was the old story of a double life, the wreckage of a promising
career. "Just a plain, ordinary thief was Mr. Randall Clayton,"
said one acute observer; "his case is only extraordinary from the
amount taken. And it seems that he robbed for the lucre itself, as
the most careful inquiry divulges no stain upon his private life.
Another case of the 'model young man' gone wrong."

Witherspoon had thrown the journals into his trunk as a precaution,
and was smothering his disgust at their heartlessness, when Arthur
Ferris, white-faced, dashed into his room.

"What has happened? Have you found his body?" cried the Detroit
man, springing up. "I may have to leave you here to represent me
privately," gasped Ferris, as with a shaking hand he extended a
telegram. "Read that!" Witherspoon gasped, in a sudden dismay, as
he read the crushing news. The dispatch was simply signed "Alice,"
and the young men were speechless as Witherspoon falteringly read
the words:

"Ellensburg, Washington, July 5, 1897. Father lying dying at Pasco.
Railroad accident. Join me there. I arrive six o'clock morning."

"I have ordered all the Tacoma dispatches repeated to her," muttered
Ferris.

"He did not get this news about Clayton." Ferris' eyes were averted.
In his craven heart there was but one burning question, "My God!
Did he remake his will after our marriage? I may be left a pauper
on Alice's bounty."

And Ferris, with a mighty effort, controlled his knowledge of the
secret wedding. "This is horrible!" he cried, as he sank into a
chair.

And while they were mute, a ghastly, gleaming corpse was whirled
hither and thither, under the blackened waters rushing inward from
the sea, under the arch of Brooklyn Bridge, a mute witness of the
curse of Cain, waiting God's awful mandate for the sea to give up
its dead.

CHAPTER X.

A CRUEL LEGACY.

Randall Clayton's name was being bandied scornfully by thousands
of sneering lips as Arthur Ferris evaded his New York friends in
the crowded lobby of the Hoffman. The crafty lawyer bridegroom was
happy at Witherspoon's promise to remain and aid him.

The secret antagonists had, however, lied to each other with all
poss