“If this had happened at any other time,” Bertram pursued, “one could afford to let the man have his say; but now, just as this other mystery has come up—” “I don’t believe in submitting to blackmail,” came from his uncle in short, quick tones. Bertram gave a start. “You then advise me to leave him alone?” asked he, with unmistakable emotion. His uncle dropped the hand which till now he had held before his face, and hastily confronted his nephew. “You will have enough to do to attend to the other matter without bestowing any time or attention upon this. The man that robbed Mr. Stuyvesant’s box, can be found and must. It is the one indispensable business to which I now delegate you. No amount of money and no amount of diligence is to be spared. I rely on you to carry the affair to a successful termination. Will you undertake the task?” “Can you ask?” murmured the young man, with a shocked look at his uncle’s changed expression. “As to this other matter, we will let it rest for to-night. To-morrow’s revelations may be more favorable than we expect. At all events let us try and get a little rest now; I am sure we are both in a condition to need it.” Bertram rose. “I am at your command,” said he, and moved to go. Suddenly he turned, and the two men stood face to face. “I have no wish,” pursued he, “to be relieved of my burden at the expense of any one else. If it is to be borne by any one, let it be carried by him who is young and stalwart enough to sustain it.” And his hand went out involuntarily towards his uncle. Mr. Sylvester took that hand and eyed his nephew long and earnestly. Bertram thought he was going to speak, and nerved himself to meet with fortitude whatever might be said. But the lips which Mr. Sylvester had opened, closed firmly, and contenting himself with a mere wring of his nephew’s hand, he allowed him to go. The slip of paper remained upon the table unopened. * * * * * That night as Paula lay slumbering on her pillow, a sound passed through the house. It was like a quick irrepressible cry of desolation, and the poor child hearing it, started, thinking her name had been called. But when she listened, all was still, and believing she had dreamed, she turned her face upon her pillow, and softly murmuring the name that was dearest to her in all the world, fell again into a peaceful sleep. But he whose voice had uttered that cry in the dreary emptiness of the great parlors below, slept not. XXXVI. MORNING. “Two maidens by one fountain’s joyous brink, And one was sad and one had cause for sadness.”