of intolerable weight from my shoulders. Now I shall
feel easier about that interview. But I should like to ask you this: Do
you feel justified in this continued surveillance of a man who has so
frequently, and with such evident sincerity, declared his innocence?"

"I do that. If he's as guiltless as he says he is, my watchfulness won't
hurt him. If he's not, then, Mr. Challoner, I've but one duty; to match
his strength with my patience. That man is the one great mystery of
the day, and mysteries call for solution. At least, that's the way a
detective looks at it."

"May Heaven help your efforts!"

"I shall need its assistance," was the dry rejoinder. Sweetwater was by
no means blind to the difficulties awaiting him.

XXXII. TELL ME, TELL IT ALL

The day was a grey one, the first of the kind in weeks. As Doris stepped
into the room where Oswald sat, she felt how much a ray of sunshine
would have encouraged her and yet how truly these leaden skies and this
dismal atmosphere expressed the gloom which soon must fall upon this
hopeful, smiling man.

He smiled because any man must smile at the entrance of so lovely a
woman, but it was an abstracted smile, and Doris, seeing it, felt her
courage falter for a moment, though her steps did not, nor her steady
compassionate gaze. Advancing slowly, and not answering because she did
not hear some casual remark of his, she took her stand by his side and
then slowly and with her eyes on his face, sank down upon her knees,
still without speaking, almost without breathing.

His astonishment was evident, for her air was strange and full of
presage,--as, indeed, she had meant it to be. But he remained as silent
as she, only reached out his emaciated hand and, laying it on her head,
smiled again but this time far from abstractedly. Then, as he saw her
cheeks pale in terror of the task before her, he ventured to ask gently:

"What is the matter, child? So weary, eh? Nothing worse than that, I
hope."

"Are you quite strong this morning? Strong enough to listen to my
troubles; strong enough to bear your own if God sees fit to send them?"
came hesitatingly from her lips as she watched the effect of each word,
in breathless anxiety.

"Troubles? There can be but one trouble for me," was his unexpected
reply. "That I do not fear--will not fear in my hour of happy recovery.
So long as Edith is well--Doris! Doris! You alarm me. Edith is not
ill;--not ill?"

The poor child cou