conclusions.

Welbeck was dead. His property was swallowed up, and his creditors left
to wonder at his disappearance. All that was left was the furniture of
his house, to which Mrs. Wentworth would lay claim, in discharge of the
unpaid rent. What now was the destiny that awaited the lost and
friendless Mademoiselle Lodi? Where was she concealed? Welbeck had
dropped no intimation by which I might be led to suspect the place of
her abode. If my power, in other respects, could have contributed aught
to her relief, my ignorance of her asylum had utterly disabled me.

But what of the murdered person? He had suddenly vanished from the face
of the earth. His fate and the place of his interment would probably be
suspected and ascertained. Was I sure to escape from the consequences of
this deed? Watson had relatives and friends. What influence on their
state and happiness his untimely and mysterious fate would possess, it
was obvious to inquire. This idea led me to the recollection of his
pocket-book. Some papers might be there explanatory of his situation.

I resumed my feet. I knew not where to direct my steps. I was dropping
with wet, and shivering with the cold. I was destitute of habitation and
friend. I had neither money nor any valuable thing in my possession. I
moved forward mechanically and at random. Where I landed was at no great
distance from the verge of the town. In a short time I discovered the
glimmering of a distant lamp. To this I directed my steps, and here I
paused to examine the contents of the pocket-book.

I found three bank-notes, each of fifty dollars, enclosed in a piece of
blank paper. Besides these were three letters, apparently written by his
wife, and dated at Baltimore. They were brief, but composed in a strain