ioned the report.
How he had come to her the second time to claim her promise, and
announce the time for its fulfillment.

"To-day," she says, with moist eyes, "Evan Lamotte lies on a drunkard's
bed; liquor has been his curse. Morally he is weaker than water; but he
has, under all that weakness, the elements that go to make a hero. All
that he had, he sacrificed for his sister. Degraded by drink as he was,
he could still feel his superiority to the man Burrill; yet, for Sybil's
sake, to relieve her of his brutal presence, Evan became his companion,
and passed long hours in the society that he loathed."

"Ah!" ejaculates Mr. Wedron; "ah-h-h!" then he closes his lips, and
Constance resumes.

She tells next how she became weary of the search for the Wardour
diamonds; how she sought to withdraw private detective Belknap; and how
that individual had endeavored to implicate Doctor Heath, and had
finally accused him; how she had temporized, and sent for officer
Bathurst; and how, during the three days of waiting, she had sent Ray
Vandyck to watch over Clifford Heath. She finishes her story without
interruption, carrying it up to the very day of the murder. Then she
pauses, dreading further questioning.

But Mr. Wedron asks no questions, and makes no comment. He fidgets in
his chair, and seems anxious to end the interview.

"Thank you, Miss Wardour," he says, rising briskly, "you have been an
invaluable witness; and I feel like telling you, that--thanks to you, I
hope soon to put my hand upon the guilty party, and open the prison
doors for Heath."

She utters a low cry.

"My God! What have I said!" she cries wildly. "Listen, sir; Clifford
Heath must, and shall, be free; but--you must never drag to justice the
true culprit; you _never shall_!"

She is on her feet facing Mr. Wedron, a look of startled defiance in her
eyes.

He is gazing at her with the look of a man who has discovered a secret.
Suddenly he comes close beside her, and says, in low, significant tones:

"Let us understand each other; one of two must suffer for this crime.
Shall it be Clifford Heath, the innocent, or--_Frank Lamotte_?"

She reels and clutches wildly at a chair for support.

"Frank Lamotte!" she gasps, "_Frank_, Oh! No! No! It must not be him!
Oh! You do not understand; you can not."

She pauses, affrighted and gasping. Then her lips close suddenly, and
she struggles fiercely to regain her composure. After a little she turns
to Mr. O'