d has on several occasions been
threatened by accused; he was found buried near the premises of accused,
and upon his person was found a handkerchief bearing the name, Clifford
Heath.' This, and how much more I can't tell. It's a beautiful case,
O'Meara."

The little lawyer stared, astonished at his coolness.

"Don't underrate this business, Heath," he said, anxiously. "I'm glad to
see that it has not had the opposite effect on you. I'm glad to see
plenty of pluck, but--"

"But, there's a strong case against me; that's what you would say,
O'Meara. I don't doubt, and let me tell you that neither you nor I can
guess _how_ strong the case is; not yet."

"Such an affair is bad enough, at the best, Heath; I don't see anything
in the case, thus far, that will hold up against an impartial
investigation; as for other evidence, am I to understand--"

Clifford Heath bent forward, and lifted one hand warningly.

"Understand nothing for the present, O'Meara; after the verdict come to
me, not as a lawyer, but as a friend, and I will explain my language
and--attitude; for the present I have nothing to say."

"Then I must be satisfied with what you _have_ said," replied the lawyer
cheerfully. "Of course you will be at the inquest?"

The doctor nodded.

"Well, having seen--and heard you, it is not necessary to offer any
suggestions, I see that," and the lawyer arose and took up his hat, "and
it won't be policy for me to remain here too long. Count on me Heath, in
any emergency. I'm your man."

"Thank you, O'Meara; rest assured such friendship is fully appreciated."
And he extended his hand to the friendly lawyer, who grasped it
silently, seemed struggling, either to speak or to repress some thought,
and then dropped it and went out silently, followed in equal silence by
his host, who closed the door behind him, and then went thoughtfully
back to his claret.

"Zounds!" muttered Lawyer O'Meara, picking his way back across the muddy
street, and entering his own dwelling. "To think of accusing a man of so
much coolness, and presence of mind, of such a bungling piece of work as
this. It's a queer suspicion, but I could almost swear that Heath smells
a plot."

At this moment a carriage drove hastily by, all mud bespattered, and
lying open in defiance of the rain.

"It's Lamotte's landau," said the lawyer, peeping out from the shelter
of his verandah; "it's Lamotte's carriage, and it's Lamotte himself; I
would like to see how