Pondering this problem, as he rode along the public road outside the boundary of Judge Dent’s lawn, Mr. Dunbar caught a glimpse of his betrothed, sitting behind the hedge of lilacs, and he lifted his hat, hoping that she would meet him at the entrance; but although she bowed in recognition, he was forced to open the gate and admit himself.  Throwing the bridle rein over one of the iron spikes of the fence, and taking off his gloves, he approached the bench.

“Dare I flatter myself, that my queen deigns to meet me half way?”

He took her outstretched hand, and kissed it softly, while his glance noted every detail of her handsome fawn-colored dress, with its jabot of creamy lace, and the cluster of crimson carnations in her belt.  The touch of his lips on her fingers, deepened the flush in her cheeks, and, making room for him beside her, she replied: 

“Sit down, and tell me if this dreadful news about General Darrington be indeed true?  I have hoped there might be some mistake, some exaggeration.”

“Some horrors exceed the possibility of verbal exaggeration, and last night’s tragedy is one of that class.  General Darrington was most brutally murdered.”

“Poor old gentleman!  How incredible it seems that such awful crimes can be committed in our quiet neighborhood? who could have been so guilty; and what motive could have prompted such a fiendish act?”

“The one all-powerful evil passion of mankind—­greed of gold; lust of filthy lucre.  He was first robbed, then murdered by the thief, to avoid detection and punishment.  There is unmistakable evidence that the General was chloroformed while asleep; but he must have awakened in time to discover the robber, with whom he struggled desperately, and by whom he was struck down.  The coroner’s inquest developed some startling facts.”

“Has any clue been discovered which would indicate the murderer?”

“A handful of clues.”

“Then you have a theory concerning the person who perpetrated this awful crime?”

“My dear Leo, not a theory, but a conviction; I might almost say an absolute knowledge.”

“Would it be pardonable for me to ask whom you suspect; would it be a violation of professional etiquette for you to tell me?”

“Certainly, my dearest, you can ask me anything, only—­” he paused a moment; and she put her hand quickly on his arm.

“I see.  Do not tell me mere suspicions; they might cruelly wrong an innocent person; and I ought not to have asked the question.”

“My hesitation arose from a totally different source, and I was merely wondering whether you, my sweet saint, could believe that a woman committed the bloody deed.”

“Oh, Mr. Dunbar, impossible!  A woman guilty of taking that old man’s life?  The supposition is as horrible as the crime itself.”

Passing his hand lightly over her crimped fair hair, and looking down into her eyes, as brown as the back of a thrush, her lover replied: