h
convulsively, a mingled expression of desperation, horror, and
despair,--that is what he sees, and the sight does not serve to steady
his nerves. He turns away, with a curse upon the white lips.

He flings himself down in a huge easy chair, and dropping his chin upon
his breast, tries to think; but thought only deepens the despairing
horror and fear upon his countenance. Where his father sees one foe,
Francis Lamotte sees ten.

He sees before him Jerry Belknap, private detective, angry, implacable,
menacing, not to be quieted. He sees Clifford Heath, pale, stern,
accusing. Constance Wardour, scornful, menacing, condemning and
consigning him to dreadful punishment. The dead face of John Burrill
rises before him, jeering, jibing, odious, seeming to share with him
some ugly secret. He passes his hand across his brow, and starts up
suddenly.

"Bah!" he mutters, "this is no time to dally; on every side I see a
pitfall. Let every man look to himself. If I must play in my last trump,
let me be prepared."

He takes from his pocket a bunch of keys, and, selecting one of the
smallest, unlocks a drawer of his dressing case. He draws forth a pair
of pistols and examines them carefully. Then he withdraws the charges
from both weapons, and loads one anew. The latter he conceals about his
person, and then takes up the other. He hesitates a moment, and then
loads that also, replaces it in its hiding place, closes and locks the
drawer. Then he breathes a long sigh of relief.

"It's a deadly anchor to windward," he mutters, turning away. "It's a
last resort. Now I have only to wait."

CHAPTER XXXV.

A STRANGE INTERVIEW.

While Frank Lamotte, in his own chamber, is preparing himself for
emergencies, Constance Wardour stands by the bedside of her unconscious
friend, struggling for self control; shutting her lips firmly together,
clenching her teeth; mastering her outward self, by the force of her
strong will; and striving to bring the chaos of her mind into like
subjection. Three facts stare her in the face; three ideas dance through
her brain and mingle themselves in a confused mass. Clifford Heath is in
peril. She can save him by betraying a friend and a trust. She loves
him.

Yes, stronger than all, greater than all, this fact stands out; in this
hour of peril the truth will not be frowned down. She loves this man who
stands accused of murder; she loves him, and, great heavens! he is
innocent, and yet, must suffer