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Ocumpaugh's confidence; will you then pardon me if I ask what may strike you as impertinent questions, but which may lead to the discovery of the motive if not to the method of the little one's abduction?" "I do not understand " She was trying to shake off her apathy. "I feel confused, sick, almost like one dying. How can I help? Haven't I done everything?

"What relationship?" "Why, his relationship to the family. He is Gwendolen's cousin and I have heard it said that he's named after her in Madam Ocumpaugh's will." "O, I see! The next heir, eh?" "Yes, to the Rathbone property." "So that if she is not found " "Your sickly man, in that case, would be well worth the marrying." "Is Mrs. Carew so fond of money as all that?

Meanwhile I had attempted some kind of answer to Mrs. Ocumpaugh's heart-rending appeal. "We do not hear because she was not taken from you simply for the money her return would bring. Indeed, after hours of action and considerable thinking, I am beginning to doubt if she was taken for money at all. Can you not think of some other motive?

This was evident enough from her manner, and soon she paused in her observations on the beauties of nature, and with a strange ringing emphasis for which I was not altogether prepared, remarked with feeling: "I may be making a mistake I was always an unconventional woman but I think you ought to know something of Mrs. Ocumpaugh's private history before you see her.

"You, because you have something of importance to impart, and I, because of the action I must take as soon as the facts you have concealed become known to me. What gives you such confidence in this belief, which I am sure is not shared by the police, and who is the some one who, as you say, is playing upon Mrs. Ocumpaugh's fears? A short time ago it was as the wretch you spoke of him.

Ocumpaugh's frantic clinging to the theory she had so recklessly advanced, nor Mrs. Carew's determined effort to meet suspicion with the brave front calculated to disarm it, was of any avail. The truth would have its way and their secret stood revealed. This was the story told me by Mrs.

"Philo!" the voice rang out in a misery to wring the heart of the most callous. "Philo! Philo!" Mr. Ocumpaugh's name called aloud by his suffering wife. Was she in delirium? It would seem so; but why Philo! always Philo! and not once Gwendolen? With hushed steps, ears ringing and heart palpitating with new and indefinable sensations, I turned into the road to the stables.

"Then I shall have to tell you. It was written by the one who Come! I will tell you outside. I haven't any courage here." "But I have." "You haven't read the story." "Never mind; tell me who the writer was." "Mr. Ocumpaugh's father; he, by whose orders this partition was put up." "Oh, you have his story written and by himself! You are fortunate, Mrs. Carew."

God be thanked that no warmth was expected from her and that no one would suspect the death she was dying, if she did not cry out. But the moment came when she did cry out. Miss Graham entered, told her story, and all Mrs. Ocumpaugh's pent-up agony burst its bounds in a scream which to others seemed but the natural outburst of an alarmed mother.

Ocumpaugh's father he who raised this partition and who is the undoubted author of these lines. Remember that they headed the letter: "'Perish with the room whose ceiling oozes blood! If in time to come any man reads these lines, he will know why I pulled down the encircling wall built by my father, and why I raised a new one across this end of the pavilion." Mrs.