"w ..\ «um-n. -v-. «nan-u. v v .' s.:l~n'r...—a§m;=.-.ua-.1:... “.52....” : p. .. . t I. .;. r- v. t . . g. V. . . 1;. I V’ \ '1. VA 1' '- . ‘1. . A: - r ._ s . 3’5 _ ‘j _. .. f, t. In .3. r ;, al.- iw‘y.Vh,,V-hs, “Do so, please,” and as the captain left the room, Major Bond continued; “I cannot for an instant believe, Colonel Miles, that Varney would be guilty of such a breach of discipline and honor.” . “No, no, not be! But he has been remiss and allowed himself to be imposed on in some way; that is apparent. ' “It is certainly a most mysterious affair as it now looks,” answered Colonel Miles. ‘ In a few minutes Captain Varney, his face pale, and an angry light in his eyes, returned to the room, followed by two sol- diers. ' “These are the sentinels, sir, one being on duty at the prison, the other at the main gate, the only one allowed to be opened after sunset," said the captain, and the two sol- diers stood at attention to know why they had been summoned before their com- mandant. CHAPTER XXX. THE Two SENTINELS. BOTH of the scutincls were tine-looking men, with frank fflCt'S and the mien of per- fect soldiers, which they had been for the years they had served in the army. . . If guilty, they (lid not show it in their faces, so Colonel Miles thought, though he said nothing, and was a silent spectator of what occurred. The adjutantwas on hand, and the major-‘8 clerk to take testimony, and Major Hugh Aubrey, Captain Wilber Wheatley and Lieu~ tenant Leonard Marcy had been sent for by Major Bond to hear the testimony, while Doctor Denmead was there as a witness. “What is your name, my man?” asked Adjutant Totten of one of the men. ‘ “ William Weston, sir, B Company, —‘—th Infantry.” “ And your name, my man!” “ George Ramsey, sir, D Company, —-—th Infantry.” “ You were both on guard duty last night?” “ Yes, sir.” ., “ Which one of you held the fort at the stockade prison, over the prisoner, Scout Herbert Alvey ‘2” 7‘ “ I did, sir,” answered Weston. All eyes were upon him, but he did not flinch, and the adjutant asked: “ What were your hours on duty there?” “ I went on, sir, at eight P. M ” “ Do you know whether the risoner was in the cabin when you went on uty ‘2" “ Yes, sir, he was.” “ And when you came off?” “ He was there then, sir.” “ What reason had you for knowing this?" The man hesitated, then said: “ I saw him, sir.” “ You saw the prisoner?" “ Yes, sir." “ How could this be, for the cabin was locked, as well as the prison stocxade gate?” ‘ I suppose now, sir, I may speak, as I was told not to do so until questioned this morning?” and the sentinel cast a glance of inquiry toward the group of officers. " Yes, my man, speak out and tell what you know,” commanded Major Bond. “ I saw the prisoner, sir, when he was brought to your quarters here, and taken back again.” This seemed to be a most startling reply, and Major Bond demanded sternly: “When he was led out, you say, to be broughtto my quarters?” " Yes, sir.” “ This was not done.” “ I beg pardon, sir, but I was the sentinel on duty, sir, when the prisoner was taken out and when he was brought back.” “ I gave no such orders.” The prisoner looked surprised, and it seemed to suddenly dawn upon him that something had gone decidedly wrong. “Who was it—“ But the major stopped his question, as Colonel Miles laid his hand upon his arm and said in a low tone: “ Never mind yet, who the officer was, but, find out just what was done.” The major bowed, and assuming the questioning, asked: “ Do you say that the prisoner was led out of the prison ?” “Yes, sir.” “ You need not say by whom, but, what was done?” “ The officer came, sir, and gave the countersign. and recognizing his rank, Igavc the required salute. “ He had the keys of the prisoner's mana- clcs, told me to go in and fetch him out, which I did, and he marched him in front of him over toward headquarters here, or in this direction, for the moon had not risen then and it was very dark there in the tim- ber, sir.” “Well?” “The oflicer told me to keep my post, which I did, and in half an hour—it may not have been so long—he returned with the prisoner, and went in with him, himself, and put the irons on him, barring the door and gate after him.” “ You are sure it was the prisoner he took back ?” “ Yes, sir.” “ Think!” “ YVell, sir, as I said, it was very dark there; but it certainly looked like the prisoner, for I saw his hat and coat, it seemed." “ Did anything else occur?" “Only, sir, that he told me not to speak of taking the prisoner away, unless I was questioned abOiit it to-day." “ And that was all?" “ Yes, sir.” “ Now, George Ramsey, you were on duty at the main gate last night at the time Weston speaks of?" “ Yes, sir.” “ Did any one pass in or out?” “Yes, sir, a cavalry courier passed out with dispatches for Fort l\"—— he said.” “ \Vho was he?” “Icould not tell in the dark, sir, for the moon hadn’t risen.” “Did he give you the countersign?” “He did, sir.” " Describe him.” “ He seemed like a large man, sir, and rode a big gray horse.” “You have this on your report, Captain Varney?" “ Yes, Major Bond; the sentinel reported g2, me the going out of a courier to Fort "l was somewhat surprised that a soldier, not a scout, should be sent, but made no comment.” “ You can go, George Ramsey,” said the major; and then. turning to William Weston, he continued: “Now, my man, remember that what takes place and is said here, you are not to speak of outside, until I deem it necessary to release you from your bond of secrecy.” “ Yes, sir.” “ You spoke of the officer’s rank who visited your post last night?” “ Yes, sir.” “ You knew him then?" “ Yes, sir.” “Who was that officer?” There were a few seconds of hesitation, and then the soldier said in a low tone: “ Major Richard Aubrey, sir.” CHAPTER XXXI. THE DENIAL. THERE was not an officer present, save one, who did not utter an-exclamation of surprise mingled with indignation, when Private \Villiaiu Weston named the one who had come to the cabin pen, and freed the prisoner, as being Major Dick Aubrey, as he was known in the army. No man stood higher in his gallant career as a thorough soldier, an officer and a gentle- man. He had a reputation unstained by a single hint of wrong; he was» the idol of his men, the good friend of every man in trouble or suffering, the comrade most popular With all of his brother officers. For him to have done that of which he was accused was amazing in the extreme. Colonel Miles was completely astounded, for Major Aubrey had long been his friend: Major Bond, to whom he was next in command at Fort Flag, simply glared at the soldier in utter dismay. The one exception to the officer who ut- tered an exclamation when Weston spoke the name of the person who freed the pris- oner, was Major Dick Aubrey himsalf. He had slightly changed color at the charge, but then smiled serenely and made no re 1 . pilll eyes were upon him, however, and apparently nettled by thelook of some of his fellows, he asked: , “ Does this charge stand against me, Major Bond?” “The soldier makes a distinct charge against you, Major Aubrey.” “ Am I to understand that it is to be con- sidered, sir, for a moment?” " You are too good a soldier, Major Aubrey, to believe that it can be lightly pass- ed over. “The prisoner has escaped, and did so last night. He could only do so by the con- nivance of some oflicer who would be obey- ed b r a sentinel on duty. “ his man has told a straightforward story, and he says that he obeyed your or- ders. “Now, I feel that there must be some mistake—that he has simply mistaken the officer, knowing you as I do, and- that some one has tried to appear like you—in fact, impersonated you. “ It is for you to disprove the charge, and until you do the accusation stands against you. Major Bond had spoken feelingly and to the point. Major Aubrey saw that he had said only. what wasjust, and there was no doubt but that Colonel Miles and the other oflicers pre- sent believed as he did. “ May I question the man, sir?" “ When I have done so, yes.” ‘ Then turning to the soldier, Major Bond continued: “ Weston, you have made a very serious charge against an officer of high rank and un- blemished reputation.” “ I am sorry, sir, but I obeyed the orders given me, feeling then that I was doing but my duty, for I looked upon the officer as Major Aubrey.” “ At just what time was this?” “ Soon after I went on post, sir.” “ It was very dark, you say?” “ Yes, sir.” “How did you recognize Major Aubrey, then?” - “ He wore a cloak, sir, and his slouch hat, which no other officer has one like about the fort, slr, while I saw that he had a mustache and imperial." “ Your company was one of the late arri- vals at the fort, so you have not become very well acquainted with Major Aubrey’s appear- ance, I believe.” “No, sir; but he is the only oflicer with a mustache and imperial, and I judged by that more than anything else, that it was Major Aubrey.” “ And the voice?” “ Since he has spoken, sir, the voice seems different. Last night I had no doubt but what I was obeying Major Aubrey, but now i have.” “ You would not swear to it then, that it was Major Aubrey?” “ Last night, sir, I would unhesitatingly have sworn to it, but now I would not, and if it was some one masquerading as Major Aubrey, I am very sorry to have made the charge I did; in fact, I would rather suffer the consequences myself, than to have wronged him.” .. “You can question the man, Major Au~ brey,” Major Bond announced. “ Thank you, sir; I have nothing to ask him, for I feel that he has told the truth in believing that I was the one be obeyed. “As to my having done an act so treach- erous to every duty as an officer, and so im- pugniug my honor as a man, I have only to say that my record must stand against it in denial. . “ Allow me, sir. to tender you my sword and consider myself under arrest until the charge is sustained or disproven.” CHAPTER XXXII. Tina: (titiiisoN Aunow. \ViiEN Buffalo Bill was again lowered into the river cavern, to go upon his lone trail after the Specter Woman, he could but feel that he was taking big chances. There stood the soldier’s horse which he had borrowed, to sacrifice instead of his own noble steed. Its comrade had been swept away to death in the Colorado. His pard Kit Kirby was suffering from a dislocated shoulder, which, although reset, must yet be painful, but lucky for him it had been no worse an injury. ' The Sergeant, rigged out in the chief of scouts’ hat and buckskin coat, wasimperson- ating him; the little band of soldiers'was on its way back to the fort, so the daring man was left alone, in that weird. wild, almost inaccessible place. He had on Lieutenant Grayson’s fatigue cap which that officer had loaned him, to re- place his sombrero, and so, saddling his horse, be packed his traps on him and went ahead through the darkness of the cavern, feeling his way and leading the animal be- hind him. Going over the distance a second time he felt that it was all of half a mile before he came out of the tunnel-like cave into the canyon beyond. ’ , “The cavern was found by way of the canyon, not by the river, unless Some one was swept down by the current and landed there,” his thoughts took form. rapids in less than five minutes, for I noticed how the body of that unfortunate horse was thrown fairly into the air as it. struck them. “Now, here is the canyon, and it. has a look like what the gateway to Hades must resemble.” ’ So mused the scout, as he stood where the cavern opened into the canyon, or rather, chasm in the solid mountain of rock. It was not ten feet in width, and had, beyond doubt, been made by some convul- sion of nature splitting the rocks in twain. Above the scout’s head the rocks tower- ed several hundred feet, massive, frowning, impassable to human feet. . Still leading his horse, Bu ifalo Bill moved on at a slow, cautious pace—wishing to re- counoiter his way well, for he was not sure of what he might encounter. Hanging to his saddle-horn was the long, beautiful white lariat, which had been at- tached to the horn, securing him fast to in- ter-cavern rock, and thus saving the life of the venturesome scout. This act, with the rescue from the Indians a few nights before, could but convince Buffalo Bill that the Specter Horsewoman was anxious to befriend him, for who but she had thus made such good use of the white lariat? ' “ That Specter carries the best lariatI ever saw, or rather did, for I have fallen heir to it, now. - “ I wonder if she carries firearms, too? " If she fired that arrow at Major Court- ney, I must look out, for she can shoot dead center, that is evident. “But, Why seek to kill him and yet to save and serve me? “ Oh! I suppose it is what the boys call my luck,” and with this disposition of the matter in his own mind, the. scout continued on his mysterious tramp over the unknown trail. In places the canyon widened to a hundred feet or more, again narrowing to allow of just space enough for the scout and his horse to pass. ' Here and there a little soil had been wash- ed down from above, and then the scout looked for a traihsign, but, in every instance, to his surprise he found" none, so it must be inferred that no person or horse had recently been there before him. For over a mile he continued through this chasm, or rift in the great range, the cliffs above towering at times hundreds of feet above him; then, as he passed a bend, he came out against the base of a stupendous cliff, but in a wholly different canyon, run- ning at right angles with the one he had been exploring. “ Even the entrance to this chasm I had just traversed Nature has hidden, for one might walk by in this greater canyon and never see where the one leading to the river begins. . “Now, which way?" a 'He stood looking up and down the canyon into whichhe had emerged from what was really but a slit in the mighty ran c. The greater canyon was severe. hundred feet in width just there; there was a sign of vegetation upon the cliffs above, and soil had wasth down into it, forming plots of grass and clumps of small trees, in laces. But, suddenly, the eyes of Bu alo Bill fell upon something almost at his feet. It was a. crimson arrow with black fea- there, and the sharp steel point! “This is like the arrow fired at Major Courtney, as near asl saw that one in the dark. “Yes, and here are letters cut into it— S. S.—-and a piece of paper wrapped around it, too!” He unfolded the slip of paper and read, Written with a red pencil: “ You were warned before. ’ “ The death of your comrade followed. “Again you are warned to give up this trail. “ Turn to the right and you will find your way back into the trail you know. “You are watched. Beware!” (To be continued—commuted in No. 652.) n“ Will the Coming Man Sleep? AN assertion by a prominent medical au- thority that‘the early rising theory is a mis- take, and that the vital forces do not’ come fully into play until midday, is refuted by another writer, who says that he would like to acquiesce, but cannot conscientiously do so in the light of scientific evidence to the contrary. , Little can be deduced from the habits of the lower animals. he thinks, as these are to be judged wholly according to circum. stances. The question of sleep should be considered in view of the necessities of civilized life. All animals, human and other- wise, having sight, sleep primarily because of the alternate recurrence of light and dark- ncss. Primitive man, having no artificial light, slept from nightfall to daybreak, for the simple reason that‘there was nothing else for him to do. With each advance in the quality of lights, however, the human race has exhibited a tendency to stay awake longer and to do more work at night. Fu- ture developments, among which is the pos- sibility of light without heat, may con- ceivably make man independent of the light of day for the carrying on of business. In that case, the fittest man will be he who can keep awake lon goat and get through most work in the twenty-four hours. Even now, all the hours of the night and day be ing available for work, the man who prefers a long,r sleep is at a disadvantage. If the Darwinian theory be correct, he will die out and be replaced by a more active type with an organization adapted to the new conditions. The writer considers the amount of time spent in sleep by the average man nothing short of dreadful. Twenty-five years of life are often thus wasted, he says, all because of the alterna- tion of night and day. He concludes that, though it will take many generations for this change to be effected, the races of men will tend to lose their faculty for sleep, and that, with night turned into day, there is no physiological reason why they should not. It is only a small portion of the nervous system that sleeps. The bodily functions go on continually. \Vhy not the intellectual functions as well? he asks. “To' be swept by means death in the . OUT OF THE SOUTH- nv GEORGE E. BOWEN. The south wind sings a song to me Of scenes that live in memory, So softly dimmed by happy tear I scarce may viewjhem through the years, Until the song the south Wind sings Bears me away on willing wings Into a. world my boyhood knew, Wherelife was real, dreams were true. The song the south wind sings today Has led my fancy far away From ding desks and bonds of care To fields 0 peace, and there I Wear A long-forgotten suit of Joy J ust fitted to a baref0ut boy, \‘Vith patches dearer to my heart Than all the frills of fashion’e art. The south Wind, singing. steals the mask Of stern resolve that fits my task—- A soulless duty commerce claims Above all other human aims, I breathe again! and gently rose The yielding turf—oh, happ nessl And I am singing, laughing, too, For this is life and dreams are true. The south wind softly, sweetly sings And to my heart such comfort brings, 0f meadows green, of purli‘ng rills Among the evaluating hills, My courage fails when traffic calls—— Front tall, smoke—hidden, selfish walls- I am a coward, through and through, And only these dear dreams are true. The Doctor’s Plot; The Ex-Army Officer’s Ruse. BY J. D. BURTON. CHAPTER XXXII. WHERE THE Doe'ron MADE ms MISTAKE. Fon one second Mr. Richland’s face was a blank. The astounding imp‘ti’dence of the man sitting there under the low of his own lights, by the warmth of h s own fireside, and deliberately attacking him with an as- sertion which exceeded all limits of possi- bility, took his breath for a second, while his comprehension of the reality of the charge came slowly. Indiguation and amazement came with it, struggling into every line of his smooth, florid face. ' Mr. Richland was never much given to de- monstration. His was both a generous and noble spirit, but it was not a quick or clever one. This accusation was the furthest from any which might have gained credence with him, and except for his bewilderment it had no other result than to arouse his indignant furprise. “ Upon my word, the man is surely madl" ejaculated Mr. Richiiind, with a half-pity- ing, half-angry stare into the sallow counte- nance, sneering and forbidding, with the crafty eyes not meetin his own honest ones, but still watching furtlrvely ever change of the banker's face. “ You sure y are mad- Doctor Dallas, to come with such a flimsy‘ shameless attempt at imposition. Under,~ stand, air, that my Wife is above all rec proach.” “I am uite as sane as yourself, Mr. Richland. ou might be pardoned thinkin r me otherwise if I had come with an unbascil assertion only, but I have the pleasure of announcing myself an eye-witness, an ac- tive agent, I may say, to a share of what the accusation embraces. I can very positive- ly swear to the identity of the present Mrs. Richland with a patient I had under my care, seventeen years ago. She was the only daughter of my friend and patron lately dc- ceased, Matthew Gregory.” Mr. Richland leaned forward in his chair, a quick change flashing into his face, his lips parting; his sober second thought was therein time to check the impulse which would have led him to speech. Let the man bring forward his charges, absurd and pre- sumptuous as they may be. He was very evidently determined to be heard, and it would be time enough to summon William Thompson, to put him out forcibly, if need be, when he understood where this groundless revelation wusintcnded to lead. ” You were about to deny that,” said the doctor, drawing a quick inference from the other's manner. “You were not kept in ignorance of your wife's relationship with him then, and that should be one point to- ward your concession of the whole truth. I certainly assure you that it is truth, and I can prove so much of it that Ithink you will not refuse to concede the rest. If you doubt my word you are quite at liberty to call in the lady herself and see how she will face the facts I have to tell. I had the pleasure of wringing a tacit admission of it from her, not very long since. If you want perfect satisfaction, by all means let Mrs. Richland have a hearing also.” “You must know that you have made very un ualified and preposterous charges,” said the ankcr, in the slow, heavy way of a man assured in his own stand, but per- plexed by the movement of an enemy. “I could not think of subjecting Mrs. Richland to the simple annoyance of refuting them. You have attempted to perpetrate a most atrocious slander, and my advice to you is to drop the matter before you further com- mit yourself. I am willing to overlook this much of Whatever malicious intention has led you so far.” “ But I have no desire that you shall over- look it, Mr. Richland. ltcll you in sober fact that the lady you have supposed to be. your wife was the wife of another man liv. ing when you married her. I tell you more, that she is the mother of a child who lives today, whom you have ,had in your very house, whom you have known as Wilma \Vildc. “l dare say it never occurred to you to wonder what was the strong interest your wife found in the girl. You had no reason to susipect, of course, a fact of which the lady herself was in ignorance until a short time since, but the maternal perception is strong and subtle and far-reaching, as surely this proves. _“ I repeat, your wife has never been your Wife, and \Vilma \Vildc is her daughter, acknowledged by her, as I shall prch to '011.” Mr. Richland breathed a silent inspiration of relief. Not wavering nor convinced by so much as a line, such a positive, minus. takable assertion necessarily resulted in the extreme of annoyance to him, but this the iloctor’s last words had materially light- enct . ‘ Lunatic or villainous schemer, whichever he might be, Dr. ('raven Dallas had surely overreachcd himself. \Vilma, his own wife‘s wswv -ov-y-rv~ child—\Vilma, the'daughter of a‘ma consummated before he had ever met . and existing still when she had taken it of closest fealty to him! Carefully as might have concocted the remainder of plot, in making that declaration, Dr. Dal had surely committed himsplf. " In that moment Mr. Richland had a gut“ ful if vague and incomplete conipreheus of what wise orderings are those of the scrutable Providence rulin all. ' Not many days since he lad been incli to regret the chance that had resurrected , knowledge this unknown and unsuspe father of Wilma, who would "claim he} whenever found; it had a selfish reg springing from his own warm affection 1“ the irl, and his own intentions regardi‘ the uturc. Now with this atrocious tempt to fix a base scandal upon them, very fact which had been a source-of seamen ly acknowledged dissatisfaction would serve", to refute it. What better testimony than that of \Vilma’s father to offer a Irainst whats. ever cunningly-wovw deceit r. Craven Dallas might have in readiness? , He could almost smile in anticipation of the doctor’s entire defeat, but that his indi ' nation was too deeply touched to admit of t. That same indi nation Was very perce tibly reflected in his ace turned coolly incrc ulou’l upon the other. r “ You haVe been guilty of attempting the basest of subterfuges, one calculated to in. tiict the very deepest injury. I presume there can be no doubt of your motive, and the desire to extort money never led to a more Villainous endeavor. it has failed as it deserved to do. I hope it will not be necessary to assure you in yet more unmi takable terms.” ‘ , There Was menace in both voice and face,“ which Dr. Dallas did not fail to note, but , the fact in no way lessened his complete serenity. “By the powers! it is a pity to mar such perfect trust, such entire belief in that thing which never had any existence, a woman a. good faith. You are not by any means alone in finding yourself a victim of long and deep deception, Mr. Richland. I am not departing from the truth in any single statement of mine, as the result shall show- a result which I invite, and one I fancy you will even consider worth money to stop be; fore the evening is over. ' ‘ “ Three years before you fell in love with the present fair mistress of this fair mansion, , , that interesting experience had its precedent in her life, and she was even more easily wooed and won than in your subsequen' short and successful courtship. She was. married to a wild onng military student, who called himself aymond Leigh. It was: not his'own name, however, but that fact does? . not affect the validity of the marriage. His real“ name was Bernham. Ah, possibly you it) have received some hint which leaves in statement already seeming less absur ." The banker had given a great start, his ruddy face turned pale. The of that sallow, sneering countenance o that quietly impressive yet mock n iy umphant tone, and the sudden drag it ward of the name which had been " ~ rw with his own stronghold endorsing? bleed, avehlm a start and a stunt! ‘ of hav ng lost some important part from it hitherto unshaken trust. Dr. Dallas m ‘ gained an advantage which he was quick ' ollow up. -. . “They married in secret, and lived in crct for a little time, but my old frie Gregory was more than equal to the portio of caution exercised by the young people He had intended his daughter for a conven life, and it had been a clashing of two stron wills between them, and she had first rests and then conquered in a way Matthew Gregory was apt neither to forget nor for~, give. He found them, and he found means to separate them; what means, it is safe- to infer that no living person very well knows. ' "Young Bernham’s commission and or- ders-came in time to prevent an explanation and reconciliation, if such might have been made, and a few months later came the re- port of his death. She believed it, you can give your wife credit for that, Mr. Richland; but, unfortunately for your case now, in- stead of meeting questionable honor, death upon the battle field, Lieutenant Bentham had thrown up his commission and taken himself to that Eldorado~the mining dis~ tricts of California. “Life in the mines has a wonderful fascination with it, and it is not so strange that he stayed there, quite as good as dead to people here, so far as his own intervention was concerned.” Mr. Richland had listener] with a dread and a sickening fear weighing upon him. He would have liked to throw the be back in the man’s face; he wanted to proclaim his ,- - ’ own unshakcn belief in his wife, and he could only sit Weighted down by that chill- ' ing apprehension, his gaze held by the cold, crafty lights of the gray eyes turning tho'ii'ii full of their mocking triumph upon him ' now. \Vith an effort he broke the spoil upon him and arose, with a purple flush 551‘? coming into his face, and his voice sound- ,‘ ing hoarse and unnatural to his own cars. i “It is a basn fabrication, all of it. -, How” dare you attempt to impose it upon ff me? “I have dared more with less assurance, before this. Mr. Richland. Try mo in re gard to this if you dare. I am willing to ' substantiate my own statements. If you : doubt still, or if you wish further assurance, ‘ by all means ict Mrs. Richland speak for here 1 self. I can bring awitncss to prove the date of her real husband's death—«not a willing ,v witness, perhaps, but who will not dare to. refuse. his testimony." '- ' CHAPTER XXXlll. ('(lN'l‘lL‘lHllTlUNN. «‘ Mu. liu'ui..\xu, his hand on the lmckbf his chair, stood staring in a bewildered way upon llr. Dallas, easy and contidcntroppo: site. The date of her real husband’s death; and if there were truth in any of this when - able story he. had been hearing, that other husband was alive and expected every mo- ment there in that Very house! What hor- rible delusion did the doctor labor under since he could render such a. vivid im~ pression of it with all these contradictions rising to confuse? M Mr. Richland could make nothing of it. And while hestood,not speaking, the library door Was thrown back. “ (‘aptain Bernham and Mr. Lenoirl"th¢ footm’an announced, and ushered them in cording to the orders. which had been left with him an hour before. ' ‘ ’ The banker turned his pale. face, and L0. noir pressed forward,witli an exclamation 015 alarm.