“Then it never has been,” was Violet’s emphatic conclusion, her dimples enforcing the statement as only such dimples can.  “But—­ what do you want of me in an affair of this kind?  Something more than to help you locate the one possible clue to further enlightenment.  You would not have mentioned the big reward just for that.”

“Perhaps not.  There is a sequel to the story I sent you.  I have written it out, with my own hand.  Take it home and read it at your leisure.  When you see into what an unhappy maze my own inquiries have led me, possibly you will be glad to assist me in clearing up a situation which is inflicting great suffering on one whom you will be the first to pity.  If so, a line mentioning the fact will be much appreciated by me.”  And disregarding her startled look and the impetuous shaking of her head, he bowed her out with something more than his accustomed suavity but also with a seriousness which affected her in spite of herself and effectually held back the protest it was in her heart to make.  She was glad of this when she read his story; but later on—­

However, it is not for me to intrude Violet, or Violet’s feelings into an affair which she is so anxious to forget.  I shall therefore from this moment on, leave her as completely out of this tale of crime and retribution as is possible and keep a full record of her work.  When she is necessary to the story, you will see her again.  Meanwhile, read with her, this relation of her employer’s unhappy attempt to pursue an investigation so openly dropped by the police.  You will perceive, from its general style and the accentuation put upon the human side of this sombre story, a likeness to the former manuscript which may prove to you, as it certainly did to Violet, to whose consideration she was indebted for the readableness of the policeman’s report, which in all probability had been a simple statement of facts.

But there, I am speaking of Violet again.  To prevent a further mischance of this nature, I will introduce at once the above mentioned account.

II

No man in all New York was ever more interested than myself in the Hasbrouck affair, when it was the one and only topic of interest at a period when news was unusually scarce.  But, together with many such inexplicable mysteries, it had passed almost completely from my mind, when it was forcibly brought back, one day, by a walk I took through Lafayette Place.

At sight of the long row of uniform buildings, with their pillared fronts and connecting balconies every detail of the crime which had filled the papers at the time with innumerable conjectures returned to me with extraordinary clearness, and, before I knew it, I found myself standing stockstill in the middle of the block with my eye raised to the Hasbrouck house and my ears—­or rather my inner consciousness, for no one spoke I am sure—­ringing with a question which, whether the echo of some old thought or the expression of a new one, so affected me by the promise it held of some hitherto unsuspected clue, that I hesitated whether to push this new inquiry then or there by an attempted interview with Mrs. Hasbrouck, or to wait till I had given it the thought which such a stirring of dead bones rightfully demanded.