whispered words from his own lips, that might mean nothing of
importance, when calmly reconsidered; a missing letter, with the
contents of which he was familiar, and which, therefore, could be of
little value to him, and it was enough. He stood before her accused, and
went out from her presence wronged, insulted, splendid as King Arthur in
his helpless indignation.

Now the detective's strong chain of evidence, John Burrill's strange
insinuations, and still stranger conduct, his words when he spoke, his
reticence when he kept silence, all were arrayed against him, with
telling effect, and in spite of them all, Constance Wardour angrily
assured herself, and fully believed, that Clifford Heath was a wronged,
and innocent man. She did not reason herself into this belief; and it
was absurd, of course. She arrived at her conclusions, as all loving
women do, through her feelings, and her instinct. A woman seldom
reasons, but in many cases her ready intuition is worth more than all
man's wisdom. Her delicate instinct strikes directly at the truth, when
man's reason gropes in darkness.

Constance went out very little during these troubled days, and for this
there were several reasons. John Burrill's obtrusiveness was at its
height, and he fairly haunted the vicinity of Wardour; and since the
advent of Mr. Belknap, Constance had an uneasy feeling that she was in
some way, under surveillance. Nelly, who was argus-eyed, and always in
armor on behalf of her mistress, had, on one or two occasions, spied a
lurker about the premises; and Constance was resolved to give Mr.
Belknap as little trouble, on her account, as possible. She had not
visited Sybil for some days, for, although she had informed the
detective that she desired to consult Mr. Lamotte, she had no such
intentions; and, since the day when she had promised Mr. Lamotte to
retain the detective for another week, she had avoided meeting him, and
being forced to resume the conversation.

To know herself under the watchful eye of one detective, while anxiously
expecting the advent of another, and to be aware that the presence of
the one must not be made known to the other, afforded her a new and
strange sensation; not altogether an unpleasant one either, for
Constance was no coward, and had a decided taste for adventure.

She realized, too, the absurdity of being thus shadowed in her own
house, by her own hired agent.

"I should go down to posterity as the first woman wh