lace.]

After dinner Aunt Honor occupies herself with the evening paper; and,
after a while, Constance and Doctor Heath pass out through the low,
broad French window, and stand on the balcony. The light from within
falls upon them and that portion of the balcony where they stand. There
is a young moon, too; and just beyond is a monster oak, that spreads its
great branches out, and out, until they rustle, and sway above the lower
half of the long balcony, and rap and patter against the stone walls.

"Have you thought," asks Constance, as she leans lightly against the
iron railing, "that to-morrow is Sunday, and that Mr. Lamotte, unless he
has already returned, can not reach home until Monday?"

"It has occurred to me."

"And poor Sybil! Where will she be by then?"

"Miss Wardour! What disinterestedness! I thought you were thinking of
your detective."

"My detective! Why, what a lot of stupid people! He might as well not
come at all. Why didn't you tell me to telegraph at once?"

"Because Mr. Lamotte was coming. I depended upon him."

"And he has made a blunder."

"Not necessarily."

"Why?"

"He may have seen an officer immediately, and the man may be now on the
way, by the night train. He will be sure to be here before Monday, or he
is no detective. They depend very little on the regular trains."

"Oh; I am enlightened! All the same, I shall never see my diamonds
more."

"You don't seem much troubled."

"Pride, all pride! I'm heart broken."

"You are a most _nonchalant_ young lady."

"Yes,--it's contagious."

Then they both laugh, and relapse into silence. Presently, she says:

"We are sure to have the wrong man. Why did you not tell me the name of
your great detective, so that I might have commissioned Mr. Lamotte to
bring him? That man has been in my mind all day. You have made me
enamored of him."

"Why?" laughing indulgently; "I barely mentioned him."

"No matter; you say he is a splendid officer?"

"There is no better. I know of none as good."

"And his name?"

"A very romantic one: Neil J. Bathurst."

"Why!" stepping suddenly to the window. "Aunt Honor!"

"Well," replies Mrs. Aliston, from behind her newspaper.

"What is the name of your wonderful detective, who brought those two
murderers from Europe, and had them properly hung?"

"Mr. Neil Bathurst. Why, my dear?"

"Oh, nothing special, auntie;" then returning to the window, "Auntie
never loses trace of a crime or a trial in h