Again Mr. Dunbar drew closer to the jury, held up the former fragment of envelope, and then took from his pocket a second piece.  Jagged edges fitted into each other, and he lifted for the inspection of hundreds of eyes, the long envelope marked and underscored:-"Last will and testament of Robert Luke Darrington.”  The lower edge of the paper was at one corner brown, scorched, somewhat burned.

“Lucullus Grantlin.”

An elderly man of noble presence advanced, and Mr. Dunbar met and shook hands with him, accompanying him almost to the stand.  At sight of his white head, and flowing silvery beard, Beryl’s heart almost ceased its pulsation.  If, during her last illness her mother had acquainted him with their family history, then indeed all was lost.  It was as impossible to reach him and implore his silence, as though the ocean rocked between them; and how would he interpret the pleading gaze she fixed upon his face?  The imminence of the danger, vanquished every scruple, strangled her pride.  She caught Mr. Dunbar’s eye, beckoned him to approach.

When he stood before her, she put out her hand, seized one of his, and drew him down until his black head almost touched hers.  She placed her lips close to his ear, and whispered: 

“For God’s sake spare the secrets of a death-bed.  Be merciful to me now; oh!  I entreat you—­do not drag my mother from her grave!  Do not question Doctor Grantlin.”

She locked her icy hands around his, pressing it convulsively.  Turning, he laid his lips close to the silky fold of hair that had fallen across her ear: 

“If I dismiss this witness, will you tell me the truth?  Will you give me the name of the man whom I am hunting?  Will you confess all to me?”

“I have no sins to confess.  I have made my last statement.  If you laid my coffin at my feet, I should only say I am innocent; I would tell you nothing more.”

“Then his life is so precious, you are resolved to die, rather than trust me?”

She dropped his hand, and leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes.  When she opened them, Doctor Grantlin was speaking: 

“I am on my way to Havana, with an invalid daughter, and stopped here last night, at the request of Mr. Dunbar.”

“Please state all that you know of the prisoner, and of the circumstances which induced her to visit X——.”

“I first saw the prisoner in August last, when she summoned me to see her mother, who was suffering from an attack of fever.  I discovered that she was in a dangerous condition in consequence of an aneurism located in the carotid artery, and when she had been relieved of malarial fever, I told both mother and daughter that an operation was necessary, to remove the aneurism.  Soon after, I left the city for a month, and on my return the daughter again called me in.  I advised that without delay the patient