But again, if he were in love with Miss Burt, his sorrow for the loss of Madeleine was for the loss of her fortune and not herself. This Fessenden refused to believe, but the more he refused to believe it, the more it came back to him. Then there was his new notion, that came to him at dinner, about Miss Burt. Carleton said she was the ingenuous, timid girl she looked, but Rob couldn’t believe it. Executive ability showed in that determined little chin. Veiled cunning lurked in the shadows of those innocent eyes. And the girl had a motive. Surely she wanted her rival out of her way. Then she had said good night to Schuyler nearly an hour before he went over to Madeleine’s. Could she have⁠—but, nonsense! Even if she had been so inclined, how could she have entered the house? Ah, that settled it! She couldn’t. And Fessenden was honestly glad of it. Honestly glad that he had proved to himself that Miss Burt⁠—lovely, alluring little Dorothy Burt⁠—was not the hardened criminal for whom he was looking!

Then it came back to Schuyler. No! Never Schuyler! But if not he, then who? And what was he doing in that incriminating interval, and why wouldn’t he tell?