I glanced at him askance. This morbid suspicion of his cousin amounted almost to monomania. He had told the tale of Madeline's disappearance clearly and tersely; but when he began to account for it his theory was a wild and untenable one. However much he suspected Ralph Carriston of longing to stand in his shoes, I could see no object for the crime of which he accused him, that of decoying away Madeline Rowan. "But why should he have done this?" I asked. "To prevent your marriage? You are young; he must have foreseen that you would marry some day." Carriston leaned toward me, and dropped his voice to a whisper. "This is his reason," he said; "this is why I come to you. You are not the only one who has entirely misread my nature, and seen a strong tendency to insanity in it. Of course I know that you are all wrong, but I know that Ralph Carriston has stolen my love--stolen her because he thinks and hopes that her loss will drive me mad--perhaps drive me to kill myself. I went straight to him--I have just come from him. Brand, I tell you that when I taxed him with the crime--when I raved at him--when I threatened to tear the life out of him--his cold, wicked eyes leaped with joy. I heard him mutter between his teeth, 'Men have been put in strait-waistcoats for less than this.' Then I knew why he had done this. I curbed myself and left him. Most likely he will try to shut me up as a lunatic; but I count upon your protection--count upon your help to find my love." That any man could be guilty of such a subtle refinement of crime as that of which he accused his cousin seemed to me, if not impossible, at least improbable. But as at present there was no doubt about my friend's sanity I promised my aid readily. "And now," I said, "my dear boy, I won't hear another word to-night. Nothing can be done until to-morrow; then we will consult as to what steps should be taken. Drink this and go to bed; yes, you are as sane as I am, but, remember, insomnia soon drives the strongest man out of his senses." I poured out an opiate. He drank it obediently. Before I left him for the night I saw him in bed and sleeping a heavy sleep. VI. The advantage to one who writes, not a tale of imagination, but a simple record of events, is this: He need not be bound by the recognized canons of the story-telling art--need not exercise his ingenuity to mislead his reader--need not suppress some things and lay undue stress on others to create mysteries to be cleared up at the end of the tale. Therefore, using the privilege of a plain narrator, I shall here give some account of what became of Miss Rowan, as, so far as I can remember, I heard it some time afterward from her own lips.