Herman felt the force of that gaze and his smooth complexion turned from deathly white to scarlet, and from scarlet to deathly white again. "What next?" he muttered to himself, "does _he_ know? Had I better call for assistance?" Dermoyne, quietly left his seat, and advancing until he confronted Herman, placed a small piece of paper on the table, and held it firmly under his thumb, so that the words written upon it, were legible in the lamp-light. "Read that," he said, and his flashing eye was fixed on Barnhurst's face. Half wondering, half stupefied, Barnhurst bent forward and read:-- _Dec_. 24, 1844. MADAM:--Your _patient_ will come to-night. HERMAN BARNHURST. As he read, Herman looked like a man who has received his death-warrant. The very effort,--and it was a mortal one,--which he made to control himself, only gave a stronger agitation to his quivering lineaments. "Can you tell where I found this?" whispered Dermoyne. "Near the mangled body of the father of Alice,--at sunset, but a few hours ago, and at the house half-way between New York and Philadelphia,--there among the ashes, and half consumed by fire, I discovered this precious document. Did you drop this paper from your pocket, my friend, when you sought shelter in the house, after the accident on the railroad, last night?" Herman had not the power to reply. His eyes were riveted by the half-burned fragment. "What has the Rev. Herman Barnhurst, the clergyman, to do with MADAM RESIMER, _the murderess of unborn children_?" continued Dermoyne; "and the _patient_,--who is the _patient_? Is it Alice? This letter is dated the 24th, and to-morrow night, Alice will cross the threshold of that hell, where THE MADAM rules, as the presiding Devil!" A gleam of hope shot across Herman's soul. "He does not know, that Alice is already in the care of Madam Resimer. Courage,--courage!" "Have you no answer?" Dermoyne's eye gleamed with deadly light; still holding the paper, he advanced a step nearer to the clergyman. "Yes, I have an answer!" exclaimed Herman, sinking back in the chair: "that letter is a forgery." Dermoyne was astonished. "You never wrote it?" "Never,--never!" Herman raised his hands to Heaven,--"it is the work of some mortal enemy. Beside, were I guilty, is it reasonable to suppose, that I, a clergyman, would sign my own name to a letter addressed to Madam Resimer?" Dermoyne was puzzled; he glanced from the letter to Barnhurst's face, and a look of doubt clouded his features. "A forgery?" he asked. "An infamous forgery!" cried Barnhurst, resuming his dignity. "Now, that you have wrung my very soul, by an accusation so utterly infamous, so thoroughly improbable, let me hope that you will--" he pointed to the door. Dermoyne resumed his cap and cloak, first, carefully replacing the letter in his vest pocket.