He passed it to the judge, who, untying the paper, drew forth a small box, such as is usually used to contain articles of jewelry. Lifting the lid, he held up to view a superb diamond ring, the curious setting of which Guly recognized at once, as being the same as on a diamond ring, of like appearance, he had seen the prisoner wear. While examining it, some words engraved on the inside, caught the judge's eye, and turning it to the light, he read, in full, clear tones, the name of "_Clinton Delancey_."

At that moment there was a sudden opening in the crowd, and Mr. Delancey tottered forward, with features ashy pale, and the strong eyes softened almost to tears.

"My son, my son!"

A gleam of triumph shot into Clinton's gaze, as stretching forth his hand, he exclaimed:--

"Aye, father, behold your son! It was not here I thought next to see you when we parted last; but it is one of those retributive meetings, which come sometimes, God-appointed. What you see me, you have made me.

By your own false pride I was forced to beg or steal. In taking from you, I felt I took but my just due. This shame be upon your own head!"

A dead silence fell upon all, and a glance of sympathy for Mr. Delancey ran round the court and the crowd of spectators; but, after a strong effort, the merchant drew himself to his full height, and, in a moment, all his coldness and flintiness of manner had returned to him. Turning to the Court, he said, firmly:--

"Let the law pursue its course," and passed from the room, striking his cane heavily down with each step, as Guly had often heard him do before.

The prisoner dropped his eyes, with a look of keen disappointment, and, at this moment, the strange figure of the dwarf forced itself in through the crowd, and, balancing himself on his crutches, stopped full in front of the judge.

"Hih! hih! Monsieur," he panted, turning his one eye up at the grave face of the officer, "I got something to say; please, sir, may I be heard?"

"Testimony with regard to this matter?"

"Yes, Monsieur; I hang round the courts, I find out what this man has done; I understand then something I saw him do. I may tell?"

The Court assented; and he went on to state where he had seen Clinton deposit the goods, on the night of the burglary, adding, that another man was with him, whom he did not know, but whose name the other had mentioned, and he remembered it was Quirk--_Charley_ Quirk, he guessed, because sometimes Mr. Clinton addressed him as Charley, sometimes as Quirk, and he continued: "You go there, Mr. Court, you find ze goods where I tell you; hih! hih! you dig um up, an' give dis poor little wretch someting for his information."

The dwarf was dismissed, but waited to hear the end of the trial; and had the satisfaction of seeing Clinton, against whom the testimony was so strong, sentenced to five years' imprisonment; and the veritable Charley Quirk brought in under arrest, on the strength of his evidence.

He then turned to go away, but catching sight of Guly, he advanced toward him, nodding his head, winking his great eye, and chuckling joyfully to himself.

"Hih, Monsieur; not seen you since that day you so sick in bed. Tink of you one great deal--miss you great deal--need your picayune a great deal--love me yet, Monsieur?"

"Yes, Richard," said the boy, kindly, laying his hand on his great ill-shaped head, as they went out together. "Have you suffered for want of my humble charity, in this great city, poor fellow?"

"No, Monsieur; I have lived on the dime the tall man gave me, in your room the other day. Hih, hih! but I've suffered for want of your face, Monsieur. Rare thing for poor Richard to look in any one's face, and remember he has said he loved such a dismal little thing as me; hih!

rare thing that, yes."

Guly sighed as he listened to these touching, mournful words, and slipping some money into the dwarf's hand, bade him good-bye, telling him he would see him soon again, and hurried on to the store.

He missed Wilkins' kind face, as he passed his desk, and felt sad, when he remembered he might never see him there any more. Mr. Delancey was not in the store either, and there was evidence of the want of a presiding mind in the appearance of the whole store; clerks talking together in knots, while some of the customers were being neglected; goods still covered with the linen curtains, and counters undusted and unattended.

As Guly took his place, Arthur crossed over, and inquired, in a steady tone, but with an excited manner, how the trial had gone.

Guly informed him, at the same time telling him the fact of Clinton's proving to be Mr. Delancey's son.

Arthur started violently, and turned away to conceal the emotion which he could not repress, as he remembered he had unconsciously assisted a son to rob his own father! The thought brought so much remorse with it, that, seizing his hat, he started away to the nearest saloon, to procure something to drown the unpleasant memory. Guly looked after him with a deep sigh, feeling that what influence he might once have possessed over him, was gone for ever,--wrested from him by the overpowering hands of an honest pride, unjustly dealt with, and the attendant circumstances of evil society.

The memory of the voice, which came from beneath the mask on that fearful night, had never passed from the boy's heart; and though he studiously concealed his fears, he could but tremble at the conviction, that Arthur might, at any moment, share the fate of the unfortunate young man he had just seen convicted.

But, though Quirk and Clinton both were found guilty, they faithfully kept their oath, and threw no suspicion upon Arthur. Poor Jeff, who had felt convinced of his guilt, had allowed his secret to die with him, for Guly's sake; Wilkins had rejected any such idea he may have entertained, the moment he saw Arthur that night in bed, and Guly alone was left to his cruel doubts, with the memory of that familiar voice haunting him, always haunting him.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

"Is there no constancy in earthly things?

No happiness in us but what must alter?

No life without the heavy load of fortune?

What miseries we are, and to ourselves!

Even then, when full content sits by us, What daily sores and sorrows!"

Beaumont & Fletcher.

Mr. Delancey hurried from the court-room to his own house. He said nothing about what had occurred, to his wife, but, stern and silent, took his seat in the breakfast-room, waiting for the morning meal to be served.

"Go to Miss Della's room," said he, to a servant, who entered, "and tell her I wish her to fill her place at table this morning."

The servant returned in a moment, telling his master that he had knocked loudly, but received no answer, and he could hear no one stirring in the room.

"And has Ruth been by the door constantly, as I bade her?"

"She has, sir; but says she has heard no sound in the room since the usual hour for retiring last night."

"She can't be asleep at this hour," said Mrs. Delancey, looking up from the morning paper.

A sudden thought seemed to strike the merchant, and starting to his feet, he hurried away to his daughter's apartment; he knocked, but all was still; he tried the door, but it was locked.

"Go," said he, to a servant standing near, "and bring me the brass key lying on my dressing-table; it fits this lock."

The key was brought, and Mr. Delancey entered the room, closing the door behind him. All was silence and loneliness around him. He called his daughter's name, there was no responsive voice; he rushed to her sleeping-apartment, but the luxurious couch, unrumpled and unpressed, told it had known no occupant during the night. The balcony, the garden, belonging to her rooms, all were searched, but in vain; and the agonized father threw himself upon the chair Della had so often occupied, with all the terrible truth rushing across his heart. He buried his pallid face in his hands, and _wept_; aye, _wept_ hot, burning tears, from those steady eyes that had never wept for another's woe, and rarely for his own. There was no note, no word, or line, left to tell him of her flight, but he knew all without; and bitter, bitter was the crushing weight upon his mighty pride.

He sent word to Mrs. Delancey, that she would breakfast without him; and two hours passed before he again stood in the presence of his anxious wife. None might know what fearful storms, what blighting whirlwinds, what earthquakes of passion, had passed over that strong heart in those two short hours. However fierce had been the struggle, it had been conquered, not by prayer and pleading at that Throne whence all mercy flows, but by the unbending power of that strong, indomitable will.

When he broke the news to Mrs. Delancey, the voice was calm and quiet, and no signs of emotion were visible. But with his wife it was different. She shrieked, and screamed, and tore her hair, and wept with a wild violence; Mr. Delancey looked upon her anguish with those same cold eyes; and when she went off in a fit of violent hysterics, he ordered her attendants to convey her to her own room, and then drove off to the store, as though nothing had happened. But what a hidden fire was scorching up the heart within! Shame and sorrow, remorse and wounded pride, all struggling and battling there, with their volcanic fires striving to burst forth, but smothered and kept down by the strength of the proud heart they lacerated.

Arrived at the store, he seemed to take no notice of Wilkins' absence, but went straight to his own high desk, and sat there with his eyes looking out of the door before him. Those who knew the result of the morning trial pitied him deeply, wondering at the calmness he displayed; but Guly, who knew how much more he had suffered by the flight of his only daughter, and sole remaining child, felt for him a deep and earnest sympathy which he longed to, but dared not, express.

Suddenly the merchant rose in his seat.

"Gulian Pratt, if disengaged I would like to see you here."

Guly bowed and advanced toward him; but it was with a heart bounding forebodingly, for he remembered he had been chiefly instrumental in getting his son convicted, and he fancied that the merchant was about to discharge him. He saw that Mr. Delancey looked ten years older than when he had seen him in the morning, and with a gush of sympathy in his warm heart, he gained the merchant's side and extended his hand.

Mr. Delancey took it, and for the first time pressed it kindly.

"Pardon me, sir, for touching upon a painful subject, but allow me to express the sincere sympathy I feel for you."

The merchant bowed, and for an instant both were silent, Mr. Delancey sitting with his eyes looking down.