The librarian smiled--amused by his own folly. Because a stranger’s appearance had attracted him, he had taken it for granted that circumstances of romantic interest must be connected with her visit to the library. Far from misleading him, as he supposed, his fancy might have been employed to better purpose, if it had taken a higher flight still--and had associated Emily with the fateful gloom of tragedy, in place of the brighter interest of romance. There, among the ordinary readers of the day, was a dutiful and affectionate daughter following the dreadful story of the death of her father by murder, and believing it to be the story of a stranger--because she loved and trusted the person whose short-sighted mercy had deceived her. That very discovery, the dread of which had shaken the good doctor’s firm nerves, had forced Alban to exclude from his confidence the woman whom he loved, and had driven the faithful old servant from the bedside of her dying mistress--that very discovery Emily had now made, with a face which never changed color, and a heart which beat at ease. Was the deception that had won this cruel victory over truth destined still to triumph in the days which were to come? Yes--if the life of earth is a foretaste of the life of hell. No--if a lie _is_ a lie, be the merciful motive for the falsehood what it may. No--if all deceit contains in it the seed of retribution, to be ripened inexorably in the lapse of time. CHAPTER XXVI. MOTHER EVE. The servant received Emily, on her return from the library, with a sly smile. “Here he is again, miss, waiting to see you.” She opened the parlor door, and revealed Alban Morris, as restless as ever, walking up and down the room. “When I missed you at the Museum, I was afraid you might be ill,” he said. “Ought I to have gone away, when my anxiety was relieved? Shall I go away now?” “You must take a chair, Mr. Morris, and hear what I have to say for myself. When you left me after your last visit, I suppose I felt the force of example. At any rate I, like you, had my suspicions. I have been trying to confirm them--and I have failed.” He paused, with the chair in his hand. “Suspicions of Me?” he asked. “Certainly! Can you guess how I have been employed for the last two days? No--not even your ingenuity can do that. I have been hard at work, in another reading-room, consulting the same back numbers of the same newspaper, which you have been examining at the British Museum. There is my confession--and now we will have some tea.” She moved to the fireplace, to ring the bell, and failed to see the effect produced on Alban by those lightly-uttered words. The common phrase is the only phrase that can describe it. He was thunderstruck.