University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

Meanwhile, Frederick Brandon was busy making
all the necessary preparations for the further object
which he had in view. As soon as Marie de Berniere
had left the city, he came to me.

“This very night, William, we begin our explorations.
I feel that they will not be in vain. Our antagonist
can do nothing to prevent us now. It is
only necessary that we choose our time with reference
to his employment elsewhere; and, fortunately, I am
in a situation to know where he is at certain moments.”

“But who is he, Fred?”

“Wait, William. We shall know something more
—perhaps all—this very night. Look at these keys.
They give us access to the dwelling of Marie. See
this box and bag. They contain my probes and instruments
for penetrating secret places. I pride
myself on my faculty that way. You must assist me
in carrying my tools. You will take the bag and I
the box. At nine to-night we must enter our new
lodgings. My adversary is anxious, but he can do
nothing more.”

“How do you know that he is anxious?”

“By instincts, such as ordinary people too much
undervalue, but which were never given to us in vain.
I feel that he is anxious. I know that he is now disarmed.
Perhaps I conjecture his anxiety by the deportment
of his agents. I saw old Andres, and the
chamber-maid of Marie this morning as they followed
their mistress. They did not see me, and I could
watch them at pleasure. They had the look of persons
thoroughly bewildered. Marie whispered to my
sister, just as they were about to separate, that she
was earnestly urged not to leave town. But the dear
woman was firm. They fear that we shall meet elsewhere—they
feel, or rather their secret tutor feels
that, out of that house, he can no longer raise the
ghost at pleasure.”

After a little further conversation, which I need
not report, Frederick once more disappeared. With
dark, he returned, bringing some small articles with
him, which he did not show to me. He was in excellent
spirits. Doing or contemplating work, he had
the energy and eye of an eagle; and his conversation
rose frequently into passionate bursts of eloquence.
A wonderful capacity for labor and a rare enthusiasm
of temperament were his great secrets, in connection
with a quality of calm, calculating thought,
which is quite as rare in such association. At the
appointed time we sat out for the region devoted to
exploration—I carrying the bag, he the box and
some small bundles, all concealed under our cloaks.
The night was sufficiently dark to cover our movements.

It was cloudy, the streets were imperfectly
lighted; this was not a trading portion of the city;
and, in the short space between our house and that
of Madame de Berniere, we met nobody. The key
was applied to the outer door and fitted to a charm.
We were soon sheltered within the gloomy and mysterious
edifice, which I have already described as a
double house, large, lofty, and of antique character.
It was probably one of the very oldest fabrics of this
already ancient city. Having secured the door behind
us, we laid down our burdens, and prepared to
strike a light; an operation which, in these days of
locofocoism, would be pronounced a very tedious one,
working, as we did, with the old implements, flint
and steel, and tinder-box. We had with us a dark
lantern, which soon gave us a certain, though a feeble
guidance. As soon as the light was fairly kindled,
and before taking another step, Frederick proceeded
to thrust a steel awl into the wood of the outer entrance,
just above the bolt of the lock, so that nobody
could enter from without even if in possession of a
key. Our key we had taken out of the lock as soon
as the door was made fast.

“We must provide, in this way, that no one shall
surprise us.”

The same precautions, I may as well mention, were
taken in regard to every door through which we
passed.

“The communications between the several rooms,”
said Frederick, “may not be by secret avenues. We

must guard against the enemy coming upon us through
the ordinary passages.”

We found ourselves, as soon as the lamp was lighted,
in the great hall of the building, constituting the first
entrance from the street. It was a long, rather broad,
and lofty passage, at the lower end of which the stair-flight
wound upward through the building. The floor
was of dingy white-marble slabs, not a little worn.
Frederick made me remark the fact that the wall was
lined and panelled throughout with black cypress, instead
of being plastered; the panelling was heavy,
with great massive mouldings of wood, while the
stair-flight left no space beneath, but was closed in,
and seemed to form a spacious closet, or series of
closets, all of which was done in a heavy panelling,
the same as the wall. We tried at these apparent
closets, and found one of them partly open. It was
a crypt, employed for hanging up cloaks, hats, umbrellas,
&c.; the pegs still bore some articles, apparently
of servants' clothing. There was evidently
space for several other closets, though we found but
one more, and that was locked.

“We may examine these hereafter,” said Frederick.
“How deep that closet may go, is a question. But,
though we see, apparently, all the space accounted
for, yet it is surprising how much may still really be
concealed from the most inquiring eye, unless submitted
to tests of actual measurement. Let us first secure
this back door, and then ascend to the chamber.
It is there that we must seek the secret.”

We drove another little spear of steel over the bolt

of the lock, so as to prevent its motion, and then
moved up the massive stairway. It creaked beneath
our steps, and the slight sound, suddenly made in the
silence of that dim, ancient, and (as alleged) haunted
habitation, stirred my heart with a disquieting sensation.
But we went forward boldly, and as rapidly as
we could under the guidance of our dark lantern. On
reaching the second floor, Frederick bade me observe
that the walls continued to be heavily panelled as
below; but we did not linger to examine them. My
companion, at once fitting his key, led the way into
the chamber of Marie de Berniere. It was a spacious
and beautifully furnished apartment, hung with great
mirrors, and graced with several old cabinet pictures,
all French, and from the hands of eminent painters.
Our light did not suffice for their examination, nor
had we the leisure for this purpose. But it was evident
that Frederick surveyed the scene with a deep,
as with a silent, interest. The mirror before which
the beloved object attires and adorns her person, the
bath which purely receives her pure and lovely form,
the couch on which she dreams of innocent happiness
—these can never be beheld by a noble-hearted lover,
without awakening the most sweet and touching emotions.
Frederick held up the lamp and looked around
him without a word, but with evident curiosity and a
full heart. At length, he spoke—

“My poor Marie! What has she not been compelled
to endure in this place—a place in which luxury
and taste have equally striven to secure her happiness.
It is for me, and because of me, that she has

been made to suffer so much. I would die to relieve
her of this sorrow, William. She loves me—that I
feel. Here, she has prayed for me, wept for me,
dreamed of me.”

His voice faltered. I fancied that I could see a
big tear gathering in his eye, but he turned from me
at the moment.

“Love,” he continued—“tears—are not inconsistent
with manhood. I feel that I am a strong man;
yet, as I love, I am more assured of my manhood
from the earnestness and strength of the passion of
tenderness which fills my soul whenever I hear her
name, whenever the tender thought tells me of her.
How weak is the heart which cannot love. It confounds
a brutal insensibility with strength, and is only
coarse and unfeeling—not, in fact, human—when it
fancies itself strong.”

We now proceeded diligently to our task. Our bag
and box were opened. They were filled with a variety
of instruments, such as I had never before seen, and
the uses of which, at first, I did not know. Some of
them were instruments for measurement; others were
slender steel probes for sounding and penetrating
cavities. There were compasses, and squares, and
saws of particularly delicate make, such as the surgeons
use. There were also long and broad knife-blades, of
singular thinness, which could be made to pass between
the joints of planks without widening their
crevices. The uses of all these I had occasion to learn
as we proceeded.

“This, if you recollect, William, was the chamber in

which the Egyptian first made his appearance. That
night, Marie must have transferred her couch to an
upper room. This apartment was partly given up to
the guests. It was probably designed as a retiring
room for the ladies. That door, which opens behind
the stair-flight, and conducts, through a closed passage,
to the chief saloon, was locked, if you remember,
when we tried it, fancying that the Egyptian might
have escaped that way. It leads, also, through the
same passage, to a door which opens on the veranda,
as well as to the one that conducts to the saloon.
The veranda was closed in with canvas, and we
entered it through the door of the passage, but only
from the opposite apartment. There is a private
stair-way, I fancy, leading from the same passage.
It was through the door which we entered to-night,
that we followed the Egyptian into this chamber. I
am satisfied that he did not escape by the passage.
We must look elsewhere for his mode of disappearance.”

“Always supposing that he was no ghost.”

“Of that I am quite satisfied,” was the cool response.
He continued,—

“Now see. His approach is always announced by
a sound of sighing, and by a cold breath of air. You
see where her bed stands. She can hear this sighing
sound where she lies; she also feels the cold breath in
the same place. It follows that the door which opens
upon her, the draught from which she feels, must be
tolerably near. It might be from the passage, yet, as
that door was fast locked, and the key on this side,

when the Egyptian escaped us, I take it for granted
that the sighing and breathing do not come from that
quarter. It is most likely to arise from the opposite
side, on which the chimney stands. The distance from
the couch to this wall is about ten feet—an easy
distance. The fireplace, you perceive, is one of an
ancient fashion, very deep, and designed for enormous
wood fires. But deep as it is, and broad, you will
yet perceive that it bears no sort of relation to the
immense breadth of surface which the chimney itself
occupies. There is a space here, on one side, you
perceive, of more than two feet; on the other, of little
more than fourteen inches. Why this difference?
Let us now measure the depth of the fireplace, which,
you see, is very great, and must have consumed a very
enormous and unnecessary quantity of fuel. You see
the depth? Compare this depth with that of the walls
on each side of the chimney. They are not one-half
as much recessed, yet the outer wall of the chimney
must necessarily be panelled with that of the rest of
the house. Assuming this panelling to be directly
against the bricks, and the thickness of the wall far
exceeds any that we build in modern times, involving
a prodigious waste of material, and quite unnecessary,
unless the purpose was to build a fortress, and prepare
against cannon. This is not likely. This wall is
hollow. Now, walls should be made hollow in a moist
climate. It might be well, as a matter of charity,
that free avenues should be given to the rats. I think
it only good taste to have rats in a large, old dwelling;
but the hollows here are quite too large, and the first
laws of art require the recognition of economy of
space and material as vital principles. There is no
hodman so obtuse as not to know this. Here, then, in
this immediate neighborhood, lies our mystery. Let
us now examine this heavy panelling, which you perceive
is richly wrought in black cypress, with heavy
mouldings, extending not only over the whole face of
the wall, but from the mantle up to the ceiling, over
the whole front of the fireplace. Let us see if there
be anything peculiar in this moulding. What do you
perceive?”

I looked with all my eyes; but everything seemed
uniform. I could see no part which differed from the
rest.

“The joinery,” said Frederick, resuming—“has
been well done. But the design of the panelling, you
will perceive, is clumsy and tasteless, showing a striking
contrast between the merits of the plan and the
execution. In other words, the person who could
execute such neat work, ought to have designed a
more pleasing form of panelling. You will perceive
that the sections of the panels are oblong and rather
narrow, while the dividing plates between each pair of
panels are broad and massive. You will also note
that there is but one grand horizontal dividing line of
plate, belting the wall, and separating the panels;
making two sets only in a wall fully twelve feet high.
Thus, we have the panels about two feet in width, to
six feet in height. There is, as you see, no wainscot,
unless the central belt of plate, which is six feet from
the floor, can be so considered. Now, then, if we could

open one of these panels, we should find the aperture
to be just about six feet high, by two feet and a few
inches broad, a width quite sufficient for the passage
of any ordinary man. If there be such an opening,
it must open inwardly, the plates dividing the panels
effectually preventing it from opening outwards; besides,
such a mode of opening would reveal seams and
hinges. As good taste and beauty have not been subserved
by this plan of panelling, we must look for some
other motive. I have shown you one. I am persuaded
that these plates cover a secret door, and that it is in
close proximity to this chimney. The question now
is, how to find it out?”

“How will you proceed?”

“The laws are quite simple in all such cases. To
find the whereabouts of a secret passage, closet, case,
or drawer, you have only to find a certain space which
is obviously unemployed and unaccounted for. To
look for obstruction is the next object. If there be a
door here, of the dimensions I speak of, it must be independent
of the lower and the upper plates crossing
the panels. The lower plate, as you perceive, runs
along the floor, forming its moulding; in other words,
the washboard. It is to be remarked that the paint is
uniform throughout. The common practice is to give
the washboard a different color from the wall. But
this, being a legitimate part of the panelling, has been
justifiably excepted from the rule. Now this door,
wherever it is, must work freely of the washboard and
of the upper plate, six feet above. If much used,
unless the work were admirably done, it might, under

a better light than ours, betray its seams; but our
easier course will be, not wasting time and eyesight,
to probe our way along with our instruments.”

We did so. I held the lantern; and, with his thin
spatula, my friend, on his knees, proceeded to insinuate
the blade between the heavy plate-moulding, and
the rest of the panel. He commenced at the fireplace,
working backwards, to the rear of the building.
After a few moments, he said—

“It is here! I was sure of it! I have not been
mistaken! It is the very first panel adjoining the
fireplace. You see, William, as I pass the knife
down to the floor a depth of six inches, the width of
the lower plate, or washboard, I find no obstruction
the whole width of the panel?”

I noted the proceeding.

“Now,” said he, “let us mount these chairs, and
probe the corresponding plate above. If that offers
no obstruction, we may be assured of what we seek.”

This was done. The result corresponded entirely
to what we had discovered below. The spatula worked
free of obstruction.

“Now, then, our difficulties begin. We must now
find out where the hinges are, and how the door is
secured in the rear. In all probability, it is connected
with some spring, which may be beneath the floor, or
in the side of the fireplace; possibly in the wall, concealed
somewhere in the panelling. What are the
conditions of such a secret? The first is concealment.
The second is facility. It must be of such a nature
as not readily to be found; and yet it must be convenient

to the hand, or the foot, of him who seeks
egress. Such springs are usually small, and they are
correspondingly feeble. To work efficiently, they must
be as near as possible to the door upon which they
operate, and whose hinges they influence. If we can
find the hinges, we can find the fastenings. They
must be opposite to the hinges. If we find the fastenings,
we know in what direction to look for the secret
springs.”

Thus saying, Frederick proceeded with a large
spatula to feel his way along the perpendicular lines
of panel.

“A secret which is suspected to exist,” said he, as
he worked, “is already more than half revealed. Take
this knife into your hand. Press it as I do. Do you
feel the hard obstruction here?”

“I do.”

“It is the upper hinge. There are probably three.
Come down to the middle one; or—let me have the
knife, and hold the lantern. I am more practised in
this sort of experiment.”

It was not long before the knife was again held by
the obstruction. I again felt it. It was evidently
metallic, and hard. I could make it sound, with a
slight effort with the blade. A third trial brought us
to the third hinge, which was probably a full inch
below the lower plate, or washboard.

“Here, then, we have the hinges. The fastening
is necessarily opposite, and against the chimney.
Now comes our most tedious scrutiny. It must be
concealed somewhere in the panelling of the mantle-piece.

It must lie within convenient reach, yet must
not attract the eye. It lies probably in some partially
apparent nail-hole, or in some seam near the corner,
or it may be among the tiles which line the side of the
fireplace. Our first process will be to feel for an obstruction
on the opposite side.”

His spatula was employed, but none was felt. But
it was quite enough for Frederick, that he found the
knife-blade to work with comparative freedom up and
down, everywhere, except in one place.

“You see,” he observed, “that it binds here. This
is about four feet from the floor, and tolerably convenient
to the hand. That we feel no other obstruction
than the binding of the wood, is conclusive to me
that the spring is in the rear of the door, working
like a bolt, against it. This leads me to the conclusion
that it is to be found by operating from the fireplace.
Give me the lantern.”

Throwing fully open the door of the lantern, so that
the light should be as ample as it could afford, Frederick
kneeled upon the hearth, never troubling himself
with fear of soot and ashes, and thrust his head
and light into the vaulted chimney-place. Here he
worked for some time with patience and in silence. At
length he called me.

“I fancy I have found it. Look you here. Here
—let me guide your finger. Do you feel a small cavity
like a two-inch auger-hole?”

I did. It was on the side of the fireplace next the
secret door, and just behind, in the angle of the crosspiece
of marble which ran directly over the fireplace.

“You perceive,” said he, “that once know where
the opening lies, and a person standing outside cannot
miss it. Stand without now, on the corner of the
fireplace, and thrust your fore-finger firmly into this
crevice.”

I obeyed him. A slight clicking sound was heard
as I did so.

“Look,” said he, “does the door open?”

It stood wide, but dark, before me, while the light
was still in Frederick's hands and up the chimney. I
saw nothing; and so silently had the well-oiled hinges
and the spring performed their office, that I had never
suspected the result. It was only when I attempted
to pass my hand over the panelling that I found the
vacant space. Frederick did not immediately leave
the fireplace after I made my report. He was employed,
with a probe, feeling the secret opening, and
examining the opposite side of the wall also. Certainly,
he was the most remarkably cool person in the
world, having, at the same time, such powerful passions.
He exhibited no sort of surprise at the result.
In fact, he had calculated on it as confidently as on
a solved problem. When he came forth, he proceeded
to inspect the opening, about which, as I had never
seen a secret door, or any similar machinery, I was
excessively curious. The lantern was thrust into the
recess, and Frederick—peering eagerly, all the while,
over his shoulder—examined it closely, looking particularly
to the flooring of the recess. The space
was just sufficiently wide for the entrance of a single
person. It was ample for this purpose. Kneeling

down, Frederick felt around the floor of the closet.
He drew my attention to the fact that it was separated
entirely from the walls around it; was separated
equally from the floor of the chamber, and from the
beams of the dwelling. He next showed me four stout
cords, fully an inch in diameter, working in grooves
against the chimney; and the opposite wall, which
was of plank, smoothed, but not panelled as in that of
the chamber. Standing upon a chair, he discovered
the tackle and pulleys above, and a stouter rope connected
with them, the end of which was passed down
through a central groove in the chimney, which, in
the centre, was perpendicularly recessed so as to afford
additional space to the person within the cavity.

“The rope,” said he, “finds its way to the lower
story, by which the ghost works his way up. This
accounts for the sighing sound which precedes his
appearance, and forms one of the spiritual influences
operating upon the imagination of my poor Marie.
The other mysterious influence is that cold breath,
which, you perceive, must be the draught wholly occasioned
by the opening of this door. You perceive,
William, that here we have a square box, in which a
good-sized man may comfortably stand. But, clearly,
there is much more space to be accounted for. There
is still some eight feet in length, from this partition
of plank to the outer wall, in the rear of the building;
as the walls of this and the other house necessarily
lie squarely and parallel to each other. This
being inevitable, it is probable that another door lies
in that plank partition. That must inwardly open,

and the fastening, therefore, must be on this side.
Let us look for it. Let me have the lantern.”

After a brief search he called to me.

“See here; the very hinges are apparent on this
side. The work has been rudely done. Indeed, the
whole machinery exhibits but a humble condition of
art. It would not long have baffled any individual at
all curious or accustomed to such investigations. Now
for the fastenings, which must lie somewhere in this
neighborhood.”

It required but little painstaking to discover the
thin bolt of steel, working in a groove of the plank,
which was employed to secure the door of the recess.
Barely passing his hand over the region where he
suspected it to lie, Frederick discovered and tried it.
The aperture at once unfolded itself to his gaze.
Thrusting the lantern into this closet, for such it was,
it was discovered to contain a small table, which completely
crossed the space, just leaving sufficient room
for the swinging of the door. Frederick passed into
the closet, and in a moment after said to me—

“Here is a discovery with a vengeance. Here is
the ghost himself. Here is his mask of death, the
frightful face of mortality and Colonel de Berniere—
here is the Egyptian garment with which the scoundrel
simulated me at the ball, and here are sundry
other matters, the uses of which I do not so readily
perceive.”

These were held up to me, one by one, at the entrance,
as the space would not suffer both of us to
enter. The secret was thus far conclusively discovered,

and the pretensions of the ghost thoroughly laid at
rest—so far as we were concerned. Frederick made
other discoveries, but we need not linger in detailing
them, as they were all simply dependent upon the
main facts in our possession. Emerging from the
inner recess, and carefully closing the door behind him,
Frederick paused for a few moments, as if for rest
and reflection. At length he said—

“It is now necessary that I should go below, and
see from what sort of Tartarus our afflicted ghost
emerges nightly. To do this, however, is not so easy.
It will give us some work, though I have provided, in
some degree, against the necessity. You perceive
that the ghost works his way up, planted upon this
board or floor, by means of these short ropes, which
hang within the grooves in the chimney. These four
smaller ropes are connected above, as you perceive,
with four slender arms of iron, which meet in the
centre, and are held up by a bolt and tackle fixed in
the ceiling overhead. The thicker ropes find their
way below, where they are fastened, until the ghost
ascends, when he brings with him that by which he
has worked his way, and secures it, until he desires
to return, by a loop (which is measured carefully in
the rope, so as to bring this footboard level with the
floor) to this iron spike, which lies, as you see, conveniently,
here in the corner. Now, as this great rope
is made fast below, the question is, how shall we get
at it, or in other words, be able to descend?”

For this difficulty I was utterly unprepared; but it

was otherwise with my friend. He smiled at the
blankness of my visage, and said—

“The process is a simple one—simply, by substituting
one rope for another, and shipping that by which
the tackle is worked at present.”

With these words he drew from his bag a small
coil of rope, suitable to the purpose. He had provided
against the contingency which he had fully anticipated.
Standing on a chair, which the floor of
the closet could barely sustain, he worked overhead
with the dexterity of a sailor. He soon fastened the
rope, which he brought, to the centre of the iron
arms to which the four smaller ropes of the machine
were suspended, passed the cords through the grooves
of the block, and threw the ends to me. Coming
down from the chair, we secured it, with proper tension,
to the spike, leaving the drooping ends below;
then reascending, he fairly divided with his knife the
rope by which the machine was formerly sustained.
But he did not suffer it to slide below. On the contrary,
his purpose was to splice it above, and once
more restore it, as it had been, as soon as his own
survey below was complete, and he had effected all
his objects. His arrangements made, he dropped the
ends of his rope through the groove in the chimney,
along with that in former use; and taking with him
the lantern, between his feet, standing upright, proceeded
to let himself down. There was now no obstruction,
and the machine gradually sank with him.
For the first foot of its movement, we heard the sighing

sound of the rope very distinctly. We heard no
other sounds, for it was now discovered that the face
of the wall, all around, had been lined with woollen
stripes, which effectually prevented the chafing of the
wooden frame against the sides. Once down, Frederick
drew up the platform, upon which I descended
in like manner. We found ourselves in a deep damp
cell, floored with brick, several feet below the basement
story of the dwelling; which, by the way, was
raised some three feet above the surface of the ground.
Immediately beside us, as we descended, we discovered
that the lower story was penetrable precisely as the
upper—a discovery which, as we were also easily
enabled to find the means of entrance from below,
made our future proceedings comparatively easy.
But our researches did not stop here. Pursuing them
with earnestness, we found an outlet, by an arched
way, under ground, conducting from the dwelling,
through the garden, and into the precincts of other
habitations. There we followed, through damp, dark
avenues, snails and worms lying in our path, and
glimmering upon the walls, which were coated with
damp and slime. Our discoveries were wonderful;
and we found that we could make our way into the
other dwellings, fully fifty yards distant, by means
precisely similar to those by which the ghost had entered
that of Madame de Berniere. Frederick took
good note of these avenues, which he conceived to
have been the work of the Spaniards, when they held
possession of the city, and that they showed traces of
the Spanish Inquisition.[1] But we must not linger.
Having followed our labyrinths as far as they seemed
to lead, showing us the connecting links between several
houses, we returned, and once more reascended
to the secret closet opening upon the chamber of
Madame de Berniere. While here, Frederick Brandon
said to me—

“You think we have seen all; but look here. Do
you not see that there is no brick wall connecting with
the chimney of the adjoining house? Do you not
perceive that the wall of the adjoining house, as opposed
to our eye, is of wood, and corresponds exactly
with that opening to the chamber of Madame de Berniere?
Be assured, it is penetrable in the same
manner, and we shall be able easily to find the fastening.”

He did so, and was about to press the spring, when
he paused.

“The adjoining dwelling is a school-house—a school
for young ladies. It is occupied by an ancient maiden
lady, who is one of the teachers. It will be an awkward
thing if I open upon her chamber; and should
she detect me, the presumption will be against us with
regard to the use of these secret passages!”

He paused for consideration, but after a little while
said—

“I will risk it. I must get all the clues to this infernal
machinery.”

He did so, and found himself in a school-room, filled
with desks and benches; books lay about confusedly,
and it was evident that the room had been only recently
employed for the purposes of instruction.
Nobody was to be seen. The house was wrapped in
the most death-like silence. Frederick did not pursue
his researches in this quarter.

“Enough,” said he, “for the present. We may
find it necessary hereafter to look further. We have
done work enough for the night. These two houses
were evidently built at the same time. They were
probably owned by the same proprietor. They are
very old—I should think among the oldest of the permanent
abodes of New Orleans. They may have had
a common purpose; but these are not proper inquiries
at this moment. We have now other matters to engage
our attention. But before we proceed further,
let us have some refreshments. I am positively
wearied.”

Our box afforded us some eatables and a flask of
wine. Frederick ate very heartily, and drank freely.

“I must eat and drink,” said he, “whenever engaged
on such labors as have lately troubled me. For
twenty-four hours at a time, when thus employed, I
can eat nothing; but the moment I reach a certain
stand-point in my progress, where I can look and feel
that my feet may be surely put down—when, in fact,
conjecture becomes conviction—then my appetite

comes back to me, and I have the vigor of a score of
Indians on a long scout.”

He did eminent justice to our repast. This over,
he said—

“Now, William, the question is, what is to be done
with this ghost? Simply to lay him, will not answer.
I confess, my feeling is such as inclines me rather to
lay him out! When I think of the suffering he has
caused my poor Marie, to say nothing of myself, and
of that base and selfish malignity which has made him
labor to destroy all our hope and happiness in the
future, I feel that I could put him to death with as
little remorse as I would crush the adder who awaits
me in the pathway. I have been thinking that it
would be a proper plan to take him in the very act of
villany, and make a ghost of him in fact. It seems
his ambition to appear one, and it would be retributive
justice only to make him so in reality.”

“But who is he, Frederick? You know him!”

“Yes, as well as I can know anything which, perfectly
assured of, one yet lacks the necessary proofs.
But the question is not, who is he? Let him perish, if
he so pleases, without a name. It is no crime, surely,
to kill a ghost. A crime is committed in the dark,
the criminal unseen, unknown; but the bolt falls truly,
nevertheless, since it is at the moment when his crime
is doing; and it is only when judgment is over, and
execution done, that you hold the light to his face to
ascertain whose dog it is that has been shot. Now
can I so arrange it that this scoundrel shall be taken
and executed at the very moment when he is about to

play the deceased husband in my lady's chamber—
the mask of death upon his face, the robes of the grave
about his limbs—tricked out to the full in all his ugly
and accursed devices? I could so manage the ropes
that he pulls, that he should draw the noose about
his own neck, inextricably, and lose all power of
escape with the very efforts which he makes to do so.”

“Can you do so?” I asked.

“Easily. I can work such a snare as shall halter
and hold him suspended in his secret closet.”

“Do it!” I answered thoughtlessly: “It will be
poetical justice, if not common law.”

But Frederick shook his head.

“He would deserve it, truly; and it would be only
an appropriate form of justice; but, as I think of
Marie, I dare not. The horror of such a sight, and
such a thought, even if she did not behold the sight,
would never depart from her imagination. It would
be a deadly spectre forever before her eyes. My
passions—could I think of myself only—would, I feel,
prompt me to something of the kind. But, remembering
her, I must content myself with detecting and exposing
the wretch!—Nay, I dare not even expose him
—except to herself, and possibly to one other besides
yourself.”

“Indeed! And why not?”

“For the best reasons. If my suspicions are rightly
entertained, the ghost is no other than Father Paul
Roquetti, Marie's confessor!”

“Is it possible!”

“I am sure of it! I felt sure of it from the first.

I knew that he was my enemy on the first occasion
when we met; and the proofs have been accumulating
ever since. Marie is a devout Catholic; will be slow
to believe even in the errors of some of its priesthood;
and will dread lest the world should confound him
with his church; an error of judgment of which the
world is too commonly guilty. I must guard against
giving her pain, and my discovery, though rendered
perfectly conclusive in her eyes, must yet forbear exposing
the offender to any unnecessary shame.”

“But you do not mean to say that the scoundrel
shall escape entirely?”

“Far from it. But I do not mean to punish him
myself, or to make him suffer the penalties of the law.
The secular arm shall not touch his head, if the ecclesiastical
authority will take up the matter honestly.
That the Catholic Church here is quite prepared
to do so, I am satisfied. The venerable head of it,
in this place, is too wise and too good a man to suffer
the offender to escape through any idle fear that his
sins will be visited upon the church to which he
belongs. Priests are but men. They err, like all of
us. They have the same passions and infirmities—
they are even more exposed to temptation. Heaven
knows what a host of priestly offenders are every day
published in our newspapers, from all the Protestant
churches in the country. But who thinks of charging
the faith with the faults of the priesthood?”

“And what now?” said I, seeing Frederick moving
to the secret passage.

“I will not snare him by the neck, William, but I

will so contrive my snares as to leave him without
escape. But I can do no more to-night. It nears
the small hours. I will but put things as I found
them, and pick up and remove my own traps. After
that, we will depart. We shall lodge together.”