ilence falls between them. Frank Lamotte sits staring straight
before him; sudden conviction seems to have overtaken his panic-stricken
senses. Jasper Lamotte drums upon the table impatiently, looking moody
and despondent.

"A variety of queer things may seem plain to you now," he says, finally.
"Perhaps you realize the necessity for instant action of some sort."

Frank stirs restlessly, and passes his hand across his brows.

"I can't realize anything fully," he says, slowly. "It's as well that
Burrill did not live to know this."

"Well! It's providential! We should not have a chance; as it is, we
have one. Do you know where Burrill kept his papers?"

"No."

"Who removed his personal effects? Were you present?"

"Assuredly. There were no papers of value to us upon the body."

"Well, those papers must be found. Once in our hands, we are safe enough
for the present; but until we find them, we are not so secure. However,
I have no doubt but that they are secreted somewhere about his room.
Have you seen Belknap to-day?"

"Only at the inquest. Curse that fellow; I wish we were rid of him
entirely."

"I wish we were rid of his claim; but it must be paid somehow."

"Somehow!" echoing the word, mockingly.

"That is the word I used. I must borrow the money."

"Indeed! Of whom?"

"Of Constance Wardour."

"What!"

"Why not, pray? Am I to withdraw because you have been discarded? Why
should I not borrow from this tricky young lady? Curse her!"

"Well!" rising slowly, "she is under your roof at this moment. Strike
while the iron is hot. Have you anything more to say to-night?"

"No. You are too idiotic. Get some of the cobwebs out of your brain, and
that scared look out of your face. One would think that _you_, and not
Heath, were the murderer of Burrill."

A strange look darts from the eyes of Frank Lamotte.

"It won't be so decided by a jury," he says, between his shut teeth.
"Curse Heath, he is the man who, all along, has stood in my way."

"Well, there's a strong likelihood that he will be removed from your
path. There, go, and don't look so abjectly hopeless. We have nothing to
do at present, but to quiet Belknap. Good night."

With lagging steps, Frank Lamotte ascends the stairs, and enters his own
room. He locks the door with a nervous hand, and then hurriedly lowers
the curtains. He goes to the mirror, and gazes at his reflected
self,--hollow, burning eyes, haggard cheeks, blanched lips, that twitc