.

"Ha! ha!" she cries, tossing her bare arms aloft. "How well you planned
that, Constance! the Wardour diamonds; ah, they are worth keeping, they
are worth plotting to keep--and it's often done--it's easy to do. Hush!
Mr. Belknap, I need your help--meet me, meet me to-night, at the boat
house. If a man were to disappear, never to come back, mind--what would
I give? One thousand dollars! two! three! It shall be done! I shall be
free! free! _free!_ Ha! ha! Constance, your diamonds are safer than
mine--but what are diamonds--I shall live a lie--let me adorn myself
with lies. Why not? Why care? I will be free. You have been the tool of
others, Mr. Belknap, why hesitate to serve me--you want money--here it
is, half of it--when it is done, when I _know_ it is done, I will come
here again--at night--and the rest is yours."

With a stifled moan, Mrs. Lamotte leans forward, and lays a hand upon
her companion's arm.

"Constance--do you know what she means?"

Slowly and shudderingly, the girl answers:

"I fear--that I know too well."

"And--that boat-house appointment?"

"Must be kept, Mrs. Lamotte; for Sybil's sake, it must be kept, _by you
or me_."

It is midnight. In Evan Lamotte's room lamps are burning brightly, and
the fumes of strong liquor fill the air. On the bed lies Evan, with
flushed face, and mud bespattered clothing; he is in a sleep that is
broken and feverish, that borders in fact, upon delirium; beside him,
pale as a corpse, with nerves unstrung, and trembling, sits Frank
Lamotte, fearing to leave him, and loath to stay. At intervals, the
sleeper grows more restless, and then starts up with wild ejaculations,
or bursts of demonaic laughter. At such times, Frank Lamotte pours, from
a bottle at his side, a powerful draught of burning brandy, and holds it
to the frenzied lips. They drain off the liquor, and presently relapse
into quiet.

It is midnight. In the library of Mapleton, Jasper Lamotte sits at his
desk, poring over a pile of papers. The curtains are closely drawn, the
door securely locked. Now and then he rises, and paces nervously up and
down the room, gesticulating fiercely, and wearing such a look as has
never been seen upon the countenance of the Jasper Lamotte of society.

It is midnight. In the Mapleton drawing room, all that remains of John
Burrill, lies in solemn solitary state; and, down in his cell, face
downward upon his pallet, lies Clifford Heath, broad awake, and bitterly
reviewi