"Richard, you must forgive me if I do not see fit to allow you to read it at present. I have a purpose in it, or I should not keep back from you any of my own information. That confession did not surprise me; I knew the murderer long ago, but I could not prove it. You shall soon be at rest about this affair. I only pray, now, for a speedy voyage, and that Leesy Sullivan may be alive when we reach New York. Richard!" he added, with a passionate gesture, "you do not dream what a constant fever I am in--I am so afraid we shall be _too late_. I can not bear the horror which that would be to me." And indeed it did seem, at that time, as if my own engrossing interest was scarcely equal to that of my companion, who yet had nothing at all at stake, while I had so much. Not only then, but at various other times during the remainder of our voyage, he expressed so much anxiety lest Miss Sullivan should be dead before we arrived home, that I, who was always torturing myself with conjectures, again revived my suspicions that she was connected with the murder. In the mean time, the sun arose upon the bustle of disembarking from the steamer to the cars. Fortunately, the fog lifted by eight o'clock, and we could enjoy the magnificent scenery through which the cars whirled us--scenery so at variance, in its wildness and the exuberance of its foliage, and the secluded aspect of its beauty, with this noisy wonder of civilization which scattered its fiery deluge of sparks along the path of gorgeous tropical flowers waving at us, sometimes, in long streamers of bloom from the topmost branches of gigantic trees. Nothing occurred to mar the tranquillity of the passage home. On the expected day, we landed at the dock in New York, and I stepped upon the earth with a curious, excited feeling, now that we drew so near to the close of our efforts, which made me almost light-headed. We took a carriage and drove to Mr. Burton's; he was expected by the housekeeper, so that we found the house prepared for our reception. A fine dinner was served at the usual hour--but I could not eat. Appetite and sleep fled before my absorbing anticipations. My host, who noticed my intense, repressed excitement, promised me, before I retired for the night, that to-morrow, God willing, the secret places of the wicked should be laid bare--that myself and all those interested should witness the triumph of the innocent and the confusion of the guilty. CHAPTER VIII. THE RIPE HOUR. I arose from my sleepless bed to face this, the most memorable day of my life. Whether I ate or drank, I know not; but I noticed that Mr. Burton's countenance wore a peculiar, illuminated look, as if his soul was inwardly rejoicing over a victory gained. However, there was still preoccupation in it, and some perplexity. Immediately after breakfast, he proposed to go out, saying,