room, closely attended by his mother; is carried to the cell where
lately Clifford Heath has dwelt a prisoner, while the latter is escorted
in triumph, to O'Meara's, by all his rejoicing friends.

As the procession of conquerors moves away from the entrance, an officer
approaches Jasper Lamotte.

"Mr. Lamotte, I am very sorry, sir, but you must consider yourself my
prisoner."

Jasper Lamotte bows coldly, and signals the man that he will follow him.

The officer turns to Frank, but before he can open his lips, the
miserable young man steps back, makes one quick movement; there is a
flash, a loud report, and Frank Lamotte falls forward, to be caught in
the arms of a by-stander.

[Illustration: There is a flash--a loud report.]

They lay him gently down, and Jasper Lamotte bids them send for a
physician; there must be one very near.

But Frank beckons his father to come close, and when the others have
drawn back, this is what the father hears, from the son's lips:

"There is another--pistol in--my pocket--I meant it for Evan,--you--had
better--use it."

Horrible words from the lips of a dying son. They are his last. Before
Doctor Benoit can turn back and reach his side, Frank Lamotte has
finished his career of folly, and sin, and shame, dying as he had lived,
selfishly, like a coward.

CHAPTER XLIV.

A SPARTAN MOTHER.

"I never before in all my career, brought to justice a criminal whom I
both pitied unreservedly, and justified fully. Viewing all things from
his standpoint, Evan Lamotte is less a murderer than a martyr."

It is the day after the trial with so strange an ending. They are seated
in O'Meara's library; Constance, Mrs. Aliston, Mrs. O'Meara, Sir
Clifford, his brother, the Honorable George Heathercliffe, Ray Vandyck,
O'Meara, and Mr. Bathurst. Mr. Bathurst, who now appears what he _is_; a
handsome gentleman, about thirty years of age, clever, vivacious,
eminently agreeable. Mr. Wedron, like Brooks, has served out his day,
and been set aside.

They have assembled at the detective's request, and while fully
expecting a revelation of some sort, they look a serene, and not an
apprehensive party.

"Poor Evan," sighs Constance; "I pity him most sincerely; I shall go and
see him."

"_We_ will go and see him," corrects Sir Clifford, and she smiles, and
does not dispute the correction.

"Before I begin my other story," says the detective, "I may as well tell
you of my visit yesterday, and