"We did not know you were to come up. Indeed, we did not expect Richard back so soon. Has any thing transpired?" "We hope that something will transpire, very soon," answered the detective. "You are very anxious, I see--and no wonder." "No--no wonder! We are all of us perfectly absorbed--and, as for me, my heart bleeds for my friends, Mr. Burton." "And your friends' hearts bleed for you." Mr. Burton had a peculiar voice, searching, though not loud; I was talking with Mr. Argyll, and yet I heard this reply without listening for it; I did not comprehend it, and indeed, I let it in at one ear and out at the other, for I was asking about Eleanor. "She is better than we hoped for," said the father, wiping the mist from his eyes which gathered at the mention of her name, "but, alas, Richard, that is not saying much. My girl never will be herself again. My pretty Eleanor will never be my sunshine anymore. Not that her mind is shaken--that remains only too acutely sensitive. But her heart is broken. I can see that--broken, past mending. She has not left her bed since Henry was carried away; the doctor assures me there is nothing dangerous about her illness--only the natural weakness of the system after intense suffering, the same as if she had endured great physical pain. He says she will rally presently." "If I could take her burden upon myself, I would ask no greater boon," I said. My voice must have been very full of the feeling within me, for it made Mr. Argyll give me a wondering look; I think it was the first time he had a suspicion of the hopeless passion I had cherished for his daughter. "We must all bear our own troubles," he said. "Poor Richard, I fear you have your own, like the rest of us." When I again noticed what was passing between the other two, James was telling Mr. Burton, with great animation, of some information which had been lodged with the authorities of the village. I became absorbed in it, of course. A respectable citizen of a town some thirty or forty miles beyond, on the railroad, hearing of the murder, had taken the trouble to come down to Blankville and testify to some things which had fallen under his observation on the night of the murder. He stated that he was a passenger on the Saturday afternoon train from New York; that the seat in front of his own, in the car, was occupied by a young gentleman, who, by the description since given, he knew must be Henry Moreland; that, as there were but few people in that car, he had given the more attention to those near him; that he was particularly attracted by the prepossessing appearance of the young gentleman, with whom he exchanged a few remarks with regard to the storm, and who informed him that he was going no further than Blankville.