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 with a few…exceptions, are fools where the true…character of a man is concerned—that I will take you right into my confidence.”

Her speech lost its quality of syncopation; the whole expression of her face changed; and in the hazel eyes a deep concern might be read.

“My dear,” she stood up, crossed to Helen’s side, and rested her artistic looking hands upon the girl’s shoulder. “Harry Leroux stands upon the brink of a great tragedy—a life’s tragedy!”

Helen was trembling slightly again.

“Oh, I know!” she whispered—“I know—”

“You know?”

There was surprise in Miss Ryland’s voice.

“Yes, I have seen them—watched them—and I know that the police think”…

“Police! What are you talking about—the police?”

Helen looked up with a troubled face.

“The murder!” she began…

Miss Ryland dropped into a chair which, fortunately, stood close behind her, with a face suddenly set in an expression of horror. She began to understand, now, a certain restraint, a certain ominous shadow, which she had perceived, or thought she had perceived, in the atmosphere of this home, and in the manner of its occupants.

“My dear girl,” she began, and the old nervous, jerky manner showed itself again, momentarily,—“remember that…I left Paris by…the first