Money he must have, and as he believed in neither God nor the devil, he had no scruples as to how he got it, only he would a little rather not murder one outright to get it. Every argument which he could think of had been brought to bear upon Rossie, with a view to inducing here to keep the fortune willed her, but she had stood firm as a rock in her decision to make the whole over to Everard as soon as she came of age, and so he had recourse to the horrid scheme of which we have hinted. He knew Van Schoisner well, and knew that he was the man for any deed, however dark,—provided there was money in it, with little chance of detection; and he sent for him to meet them at Salzburg to confer on important business. So Van Schoisner went and found what the business was, and talked to Rossie about her head, and brain, and _cerebellum_, until she lost her wits and said she hadn’t any _cerebellum_, and never had. She was homesick, and that was all. This, of course, was proof conclusive of a diseased state of mind. A girl who hadn’t any cerebellum, and who persisted in throwing away hundreds of thousands of dollars, must be insane and dealt with accordingly. So the bargain was made, and Rossie’s fate was sealed. And then arose the question of the friends at home. What should be said to them to quiet all suspicion? “She must be dead, of course,” Van Schoisner said. “Nothing easier than that. A notice in the paper; a letter containing particulars; crape on your hat; a tear in your eye, and the thing is accomplished.” “Yes,” returned the doctor, “but suppose that chap who is in love with her takes it into his head to come spooning after her grave, and inquires about her death, and wants to see the very room, and all that,—and it would be like him to do it,—what then?” Van Schoisner rubbed his forehead thoughtfully a moment, and then said: “That’s the hardest part to manage, but I think I can do it, only give me time. I have a niece in the country a few miles from here, very sick with consumption,—in the last stages, and poor, too, with no friends but myself. I pay her board where she is, and visit her sometimes. She was born in London, her father was an Englishman; so she speaks English perfectly, and might be your sister. I have talked of taking her to Haelder-Strauchsen, and will do so at once, though the journey will shorten her life. But that will not matter, as she must die soon. Once at Haelder-Strauchsen she is your sister, and your sister is my niece. The attendants never ask questions nor talk. Do you comprehend?” Dr. Matthewson thought he did, but left the matter wholly to his ally, who had, if possible, drank deeper from the cup of iniquity than himself.