"Yes, sir. They said so many things to each other, that I came to know all. The young lady was a daughter of a Mr. George Conway, and when she was a girl, had fallen in love with some worthless young man, who had persuaded her to elope with him and get married. He soon deserted her, when she fell in with this Mr. Mortimer and married him."

"Did she know that he was her father's murderer?"

"No, sir--not until after their marriage, I gathered."

"Then," said Mohun, who had suppressed all indications of emotion, and was listening coolly; "then it seems to me that she was wrong in taking shame to herself--or claiming credit--for the marriage."

"Yes, sir," returned Amanda, "and he told her as much."

"So they had something like a quarrel?"

"Not exactly a quarrel, sir. He seemed to love her with all his heart--more than she loved him. They went on talking, and laying plans to make money in some way. I remember he said to her, 'You are sick, and need every luxury--I would rather die than see you deprived of them--I would cheat or rob to supply you every thing--and we must think of some means, honest or dishonest, to get the money we want. I do not care for myself, but you are all that I have left in the world.' That is what he said, sir."

And Amanda was silent.

"Then they fell asleep?" asked Mohun.

"Yes, sir; and on the next morning he took her in his arms again, and carried her to the carriage, and they left me."

Mohun leaned his chin upon his hand, knit his brows, and reflected. The singular narrative plunged me too into a reverie. This man, Darke, was a veritable gulf of mystery--his life full of hidden and inexplicable things. The son of General Davenant, he had murdered his father's foe; permitted that father to be tried for the crime, and to remain under suspicion; disappeared, changed his name, encountered the daughter of his victim, married her, had those mysterious dealings with Mohun, disappeared a second time, changed his name a second time, and now had once more made his appearance near the scene of his first crime, to murder Swartz, capture his father and brother, and complete his tragic record by fighting under the enemy's flag against his country and his family!

There was something diabolical in that career; in this man's life "deep under deep" met the eye. And yet he was not entirely bad. On that night in Pennsylvania, he had refused to strike Mohun at a disadvantage--and had borne off the gray woman at the peril of death or capture. He had released his captured father and brother, bowing his head before them.

He had confessed the murder of George Conway, over his own signature, to save this father. The woman who was his accomplice, he seemed to love more than his own life. Such were the extraordinary contrasts in a character, which, at first sight, seemed entirely devilish; and I reflected with absorbing interest upon the singular phenomenon.

I was aroused by the voice of Mohun. He had never appeared more calm: in his deep tones I could discern no emotion whatever.

"That is a singular story," he said, "and your friend, Colonel Darke, is a curious personage. But let us come back to events more recent--to the visits of Swartz."

"Yes, sir," said Amanda, smiling.

"But, first, let me ask--did Colonel Darke recognize you?"

"You mean _know_ me? Oh, yes, sir."

"And did he speak of his former visit--with his wife?"

"No, sir."

"And you--?"

Amanda smiled.

"I made out I didn't remember him, sir; I was afraid he would think I had overheard that talk with his wife."

"So he simply called as if to see you as a curiosity?"

"Yes, sir--and staid only a few minutes."

"But you know or rather knew poor Swartz better?"

"I knew him well, sir."

"He often stopped here?"

"Yes, sir."

Mohun looked at the woman keenly, and said:--

"I wish you, now, to answer plainly the question which I am about to ask. I come hither as a friend--I am sent by your friend Mr. Nighthawk.

Listen and answer honestly--Do you know any thing of a paper which Swartz had in his possession--an important paper which he was guarding from Colonel Darke?"

"I do not, sir," said Amanda, with her eternal smile.

"For that paper I will pay a thousand dollars in gold. Where is it?"

The woman's eyes glittered, then she shook her head.

"On my salvation I do not know, sir."

"Can you discover?"

Again the shake of the head.

"How can I, sir?"

Mohun's head sank. A bitter sigh issued from his lips--almost a groan.

"Listen!" he said, almost fiercely, but with a singular smile, "you have visions--you see things! I do not believe in your visions--they seem folly--but only _see_ where that paper is to be discovered, and I will believe! nay more, I will pay you the sum which I mentioned this moment."

I looked at the woman to witness the result of this decisive test of her sincerity. "If she believes in her own visions, she will be elated," I said, "if she is an impostor, she will be cast down."

She smiled radiantly!

"I will try, sir!" she said.

Mohun gazed at her strangely.

"When shall I come to hear the result?"

"In ten days from this time, sir."

"In ten days? So be it."

And rising, Mohun bade the singular personage farewell, and went toward his horse.

I followed, and we rode back, rapidly, in dead silence, toward the Rowanty.