ELEANOR dropped her and gazed out into the garden, with its flower-beds lit by the fading rays of the Western sun and the soft wind from the open window fanned her cheeks. An involuntary sigh escaped her.
 
“A penny for your thoughts,” and Douglas, who had approached unnoticed, stepped up to the raised window-seat. A loving smile curved Eleanor’s pretty mouth as she made room for him beside her and slipped her hand in his.
 
“Do you think a penny would bring me any comfort?” she asked.
 
“Take me for a penny, and I will do my utmost to comfort you.” Douglas kissed her gently as she leaned her head against his broad shoulder.
 
“Take you—gladly!” She raised her hand and pressed it against his cheek. “And I am richer in happiness than I ever was before.”
 
 
“My darling!” Douglas checked his impetuosity; the dark circles under Eleanor’s eyes had deepened and her extreme nervousness was betrayed by her restless glances about the room and the movement of her fingers. “Now for your thoughts.”
 
“My thoughts? They are all with Cynthia. Oh, Douglas!”—straightening up,—“I can’t tell her of Fred Lane’s arrest; on top of all she has borne it would be cruel, cruel!”
 
“Is she better?”
 
“She is at last sleeping naturally. When she awoke from the opiate, some hours ago, she evinced no interest, and so I was able to avoid the questions which I feared she would ask me.”
 
“She was probably still under the effects of the opiate and too to recall the events of last night.”
 
“I her .”
 
“You will have to put off telling her of Lane’s arrest and Annette’s death until she is strong enough to bear the shock.”
 
“Do you think him guilty?” The question seemed from her.
 
“Of which crime?”
 
“Of both.”
 
“I don’t see how it is possible for him to have had anything to do with Annette’s death,“ replied Douglas thoughtfully, ”for the very reason you out when Brett was accusing him this morning. It would be physically impossible for him to have left the room and locked and bolted the door on the inside.“
 
“What do you think caused her death?”
 
“I think it highly probable that she committed suicide.”
 
“You don’t think the draft blew out the gas?”
 
“A draft? Where on earth could it come from? Both windows were tightly closed, and the door also. Upon my word,” turning to look at her, “you don’t place any faith in that old legend about the ghost—of your great-great-aunt’s habit of extinguishing all lights in her room after eleven o’clock at night?”
 
“Yes, I do,” reluctantly.
 
“Oh, come now,” a escaped Douglas, but it died out suddenly. He had keen eyesight, and as he raised his head he encountered a steady stare from an oil portrait hanging on the wall opposite him. It was not the stare that attracted his attention, but the whiteness of the eyeballs in the painted face on which the light from the window was reflected. As he looked the eyes seemed to blink, then were gone. With an he rose, startling Eleanor by his sudden movement, and walked across the room until he stood directly in front of the painting, which was life-size and represented a handsome man in a navy uniform of the War of 1812. On closer , the eyes appeared not to be painted in at all, and were represented by shadows. As he retreated from the portrait, however, the shadows took form and he distinctly saw the long and eyeballs. It was an optical illusion, cleverly conceived by the artist, and, satisfied on that point, he returned to Eleanor, who had watched his movements with growing curiosity.
 
“Why this sudden interest in my great-great-grandfather?” she asked.
 
“It’s a fine portrait.” He reseated himself by her side. “I didn’t notice it last night. What is the old gentleman’s name?”
 
“Commodore Barry Thornton; my father was named for him. He inherited the same black hair, blue eyes, and tastes of that old sea-fighter,” nodding toward the portrait. “Do you know on what grounds they arrested Fred Lane for the murder of Senator Carew?”
 
“Only in a general way. It is known that the Senator opposed his engagement to Cynthia, that they had a bitter quarrel that night, and that Lane left the ball to look for Cynthia’s carriage. He was gone some time, and, when the carriage did turn up, Senator Carew was seated in it—dead.”
 
“Is that enough to convict?”
 
“It’s circumstantial evidence,”—evasively,—“I don’t know yet what new Mrs. Winthrop may have contributed to cause his arrest.”
 
“Mrs. Winthrop’s attitude is incomprehensible to me,” burst out Eleanor. “Fred’s father, Governor Lane, was her husband’s best friend, and Mr. Winthrop was under great financial obligations to him when he died. And now look at the way Mrs. Winthrop is treating that friend’s son—hounding him to the . Is that ?” with biting scorn.
 
“Some natures don’t wear well under an obligation, and the cloven crops out.” Douglas pushed the window farther open. “Ingratitude is an sin, and the one most frequently committed.” A faint knock on the hall door interrupted him. “Come in,” he called, and Brett opened the door. He drew back when he saw Douglas was not alone.
 
“Don’t go,” said Eleanor, up her embroidery and workbag, “I must run upstairs and ask the nurse how Miss Carew is.” She hastened toward the door, which Brett still held open, but he stopped her on the threshold.
 
“I will be greatly obliged if you will spare me half an hour, Miss Thornton; when you come downstairs again will be time enough,” he added, as Eleanor stepped back into the library.
 
Eleanor studied his impassive face intently for a second before answering, then: “I’ll be down again shortly,” and she disappeared up the hall.
 
Brett closed the door carefully and selected a chair near Douglas, and sat down heavily. Douglas pulled out his cigarette case and handed it to the detective, who picked out a cigarette and, striking a match, settled back in his chair as he watched the rings of smoke curling upward.
 
“I am glad of an opportunity to have a quiet word with you, Mr. Hunter,” he began. “Things have been moving pretty swiftly to-day, and I’m free to confess that the death of Annette has me. Was it murder or suicide?”
 
“Everything points to suicide.”
 
“I’m not so sure of that,” drawing his chair nearer and lowering his voice. “I’ve been searching Annette’s and have found several things which puzzle me completely.”
 
“What were they?”
 
“Well, for one thing, the torn kimono.”
 
“What—you don’t mean——?”
 
“Exactly. Annette owned a wrapper like Miss Thornton’s, and it was she who paid you that midnight visit when you spent the night in the library on Tuesday evening at the Carew residence. I found the wrapper upstairs among her effects. She had mended the tear very , but the slip which you tore out of it that night exactly fitted the darn. I had the slip with me in my pocket and fitted the two together.”
 
“Great Scott! what on earth was she doing in the library at that hour?”
 
“Aye, what?” significantly. “You that Nicodemus testified that Annette did not want to sleep on the third floor because—’it wor too far off from her folks, an’ she had to be down whar she could hear dem.’ It looks as if Annette were in the habit of taking an unusual interest in her mistress’ affairs.”
 
“It does indeed,” agreed Douglas, knocking the ashes from his cigarette on the window . “Did you get any information from Annette yesterday?”............