that I want you to be happy with one who will be all your own. Heaven knows this house would be a desert without you!” She clasped his hands in both of hers. “You do care for me, then? You do, after all, prize your sister’s love ?”’ “Lucia, how strangely you talk! One would think you actually doubted me. Because I loved Florence, because I grieve for her, is no reason that I have ceased to value you, dear. Never think so for a mo- ment. For there is nothing upon the earth to-day so dear to me as you are!” He drew her to his bosom, and kissed her forehead and cheek, and wondered why she shivered and grew cold in his arms, and when she lifted up her head there were tears wetting her long lashes. But he attributed it allto a woman’s strange make-up, and did not comment on it. “Tf Florence was murdered,” said Lucia, slowly, ‘what would you do with the guilty party, if you could find him?” “What would I do?’ asked the young man, the -veins in his forehead swelling till they stood out like knotted cords. “What would I do? I would kill him, and think myself doing a sacred duty !”’ “Would not that be murder?” “No. It would be simple justice. Do you think “Please let us not talk about it, Edward. It is too sad and terrible. Has St. Clair left the city ?”’ “No; business he did not expect will keep him here some time longer. There is a noble fellow for you, Lucia. Brave and handsome,and young enough not to be gouty for some years yet. There is hardly a man among my list of acquaintances whom I more ardently admire than John St. Clair!” “Not even excepting your particular friend from Boston, Mr. Reade Courtney ?” asked Lucia, with a slight touch of sarcasm in her fine voice. “Well, Courtney is a gentleman. In that respect heis perfect. And you know he is handsome.” “And blue-bleoded. Yes. But in spite of it all he— well, never mind. [I have promised to withdraw the eharge.” ‘‘As you ought to,” said Edward, warmly. “There Was some inistake. Courtney was as far above any- thing of the kind as you are.” “Was he?’ asked Lucia, and the peculiar intona- tion of her voice made Edward look at herin sur- prise. “Of course he was. Lucia,itis useless to say so, but I would have been very glad to have seen you Reade Courtney’s wife.” “Thank you. I never had direction.” “No, I believe you. But he has his fiancee here with him: Have you seen her?’ “T have met them out driving. high-bred face she has, and a way of carrying her head which says plainly to every looker-on, ‘I am well-born. I am from Boston.’ ” “Now, Lucia, you are too severe. Miss Otisisa very beautiful and gracious woman, and Courtney ought to feel proud of her. And I dare say he does. And the mother is handsome and stately enough to have stepped from one of the canvases of the old masters, back into life and the world once more. I have never seen so graceful and§cultured a woman as Mrs, Courtney.” “No doubt she would be pleased to have found so warm anadmirer. When do these most worthy and exalted people return home ?”’ ” any aspirations in that A haughty, pale, ! and fetch him. It’s dull music talking to one’s self.” The old woman ate her supper, and cleared up the debris. The shades of night had fallen, and aeross the river the lamps were lighted in the houses. Old Kate lighted hers, and, after hesitating for a mo- ment, she placed it on the window-ledge. “Tt’s not likely that he’s anywheres round about,” she said to herself; “but still there’s never any knowing when and where he may turnup. I'll put the lamp as I used to, and if it should chance that he’s in the vicinity he’ll know I'm here.” Kate sat down over the smoldering fire, and rest- place, dozed uneasily, and started and muttered in her sleep. The fire went out, the room grew chilly, of twelve. And simultaneously a muffled rap sounded on the door of the room. A peculiar rap—first two slight strokes, then a third louder, and then one faint, like the two first. Kate sprang to her feet, aud drew back the bolt. [TO BE CONTINUED. ] intpitaciese tein EE [THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM |] A Wall Street Haul. By the Author of *‘The Old Detective's Pupil.” (“A WALL STREET HAUL” was commenced in No. 19. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ] CHAPTER XXXYVIII.—(CONTINUED.) “T ought to ask of you,” said Wilshaw, ‘‘a promise not to reveal what I am about to disclose to you; but do not interrupt me; I know that you are a gentle- man, and I will trust to your honor.” But I do not seek your confidence, monsieur.” “Tt does not matter. You have spoken of love to mademoiselle—I ought rather to say madame.” “How? What madame rt “Madame Wilshaw.” “Oh, mon Dieu! Then you are—” “The young lady’s husband.” “But she,” cried Nick, with an air of bewilderment: “she is with monsieur the baron, and he—oh, mon- sieur, this would be a sorry jest to play upon me.”’ “It is no jest, but the truth. I am her husband. Her father does not know it—nobody but you.” Nick smote his forehead with his hand, and assumed an attitude of despair, as he cried out: “Alas for me! Farewell! But hold! Monsieur, you have acted like an honerable gentleman, and I thank you. For your wife,’ he gulped, in a woe- “Tdo not know. Mrs. Courtney is pleased with Minnesota, and fancies the air agrees with her lungs, | which are supposed to be weak. delighted with everything. They may not ¢ for two or three months.” “And they are, where?’ | “At the Hotel Ryan. And St. Clair is there also. | They have got acquainted, and are making one party to visit all the places of interest hereabouts.” | “Very nice for all concerned,” said Lucia, with the | t | back | air of one that felt that she must say something. ‘Very. house is let. We shall have some new neighbors very soon.” “Let? To whom, pray ?”’ | “Well, you will be surprised. Do you not remem- | ber, at the carnival, being so startled by the resein- blance of a young girl you saw there to an old school | friend of yours? Youknow you faintedaway, or next | thing to it, because your triend was dead, and this | girl was so like her ?” “Yes, I remember,” said Lucia, drawing her breath in hard. ‘What of it?” “She will live in the Fanshane house, Lucia. I dare say you will be great friends. It is sonear us. Her father has rented the house.” j “Her father? And whois her father, may I ask?” “Her father is an eccentric recluse. And his name is Theodore Chester.” Lucia put her hand to her heart to still its wild beatings. It almost seemed to herthat Edward must hear, and wonder at its fierce throbbings.” “Theodore Chester !” she said, slowly. he come here ?”’ “To give his daughter advantages that she cannot have in the wilderness, I believe. He is a strange man, and at one time in his life he has met witha great sorrow, so I am told.” Lucia rese and held out her hand to her brother. “JT will bid you good-night, Edward, I am going up stairs. And I hope the dreams of to-night will be fair and pleasant.” He held open the door for her to pass through, and he thought to himself, as she swept away with the air of a queen, that in all the city there was not an- other so graceful and so fair. And she, the false, beautiful woman, climbing the velvet carpeted stairs, with the shimmer of silken robes around her, and the sparkle of diamonds on her fair bosom, she said to herself, as the cold chill of a dreadful apprehension fastened on her heart: “What sends Theodore Chester to St. Paul?’ And that reminds me that the Fanshane | “Why does | CHAPTER XLVIII. FOILED. The search for Rupert Vail seemed destined to be And Miss Otis is | | Stairway. fruitless. The arch villain had so long evaded jus- { tice that he had become a proficient at dodging, and the authorities were at their wits’ end. Mr. Smith, who had at one time felt almost sure ! that he was almost as good as captured, had profes- | sional pride enough to determine within himself that he would never give up the quest, and every clew | which offered, however slight it might be, was} promptly followed. And the result was nothing. It was believed by the police that the villain had | left the city by some one of the river craft, and that | he would not be heard from again; but Mr. Smith did | not coincide in their opinion. For reasons best known to himself, he believed that Vail was not far | from St. Paul. But where? That was the question | which puzzled him. Meanwhile, old Kate Flynn had been brought be- | fore a justice, and the number and variety of her | erimes had been detailed, and the witnesses called; | but when the whole thing was sifted, there seemed | to be nothing sufficient to hold her. And the woman | vas such a finished liar, that in no way could she be | made to criminate herself, and the justice was | obliged to discharge her for lack of evidence against | her. Theentire police force believed her guilty of | being in league with Vail, but there was no witness | to prove the fact, and the old woman was set free. Three hours later she was snugly ensconced in one of her old dens, close by the river side, in one of the most disreputable parts of the city. It was an old tumble-down tenement-house, where the poor and | the vile congregated, and where many a deed of blood and violence had cried in vain to the heavens above for punishment. The wretched hordes which clus- tered there. were one common brotherhood, preying upon the better classes of society, and they kept each other’s secrets. And this place had been in’ years past one of the haunts of Vail and his gang of despe- radoes. Old Kate got therusty key of herroom from a woman down stairs who had kept it for her, and climbed the rickety staircase to the corner room, next the river, on the second floor. A squalid room it was, with cob- webs across the windows, and dust lying thickly on the few articles of furniture. It was almost a year now, since. a certain dark transaction having been traced to this house, made old Kate deem it best to close her rooms and seek another quarter of the city. The affair in question, which has no connection with our story, had blown over, and there was little danger of its being looked into further. Kate opened a dusty shutter and let in the after- noon sun. The river swept along under the window, rolling sullenly around the rotting piers of an old wharf which reached out into the water, and here and there a boat crept along, loaded with lumber or merchandise. Across thé river the spires of West St. Paul glit- tered in the sunlight. Old Kate looked out, with her bleared eyes shaded by her hand, and something like a smile quivered on her lean, brown face. “Tt looks like home,” she said to herself. ‘’Pears like old times. ’Twas here I fust met the old man. ’T was here, by this window, looking out acrost to the hills yonder, that he told me I was as bonny a lass as | he should wish to see. He! he!” she laughed atthe memory. ‘That was a rare lie, and I knew it. T nevy- er was noted for my beauty, and a woman as has lived my life, when she gets going toward sixty, must be bonny—ha! ha! ha! Well, the old man was like the rest of the world; he was after the loaves and fishes. He knew [had money in the old stocking, and he knew that no matter how old a woman gets to be, she is never too old to think she’s a beauty foe the right man tells her so. And I did believe ™m, drinked it up; and then the deliriums got hold of him. But he was a rare one! I always said it—I stick to it!” She kindled a little fire in the rusty stove, and went _ out to the corner and purchased a slight supply of roceries. “Now, if I only had the cat, I should be fairly set - up in housekeeping,” she said, looking around on her _ menage with a certain sort of pride. “Poor Turk! he was as good company as a human being, and a good | dealsafer. And I will have him again. As soon as a things simmer down a little, I shall go to the woods And he got the money—blast him!—and he | begone manner, ‘she has been too good to me not to have punished my folly more severely. Give her my sincerest homage. Farewell!” “Oh, but you shall not leave me in such a mood. Come—we owe you my wife’s life, and believe me, you will ever be the most welcome friend to both of us. 3e my friend.” Nick shook his head sorrowfully, but in his heart he was saying: “By my soul, if his lovefor Grace has not made him actually open his heart to me. If he but knew me.” “Ab, but you must,” insisted Wilshaw, heartily, as | he locked arms with Nick and went down the broad “Certainly [ cannot, with the debt I owe you let you leave me without a promise to call on me to morrow.” “How can I appear before—before her again after my folly ?” “You have been guilty of no folly.’’ “T cannot trust myself. If I live, I must love her.’ “You will be her friend and mine. I will trust you. Think that she is my wife, and you will learn to feel differently toward her. Come, my friend, try my plan for a month. If it does not work, then I will say nothing to anything you may choose to do.” Only his perfect self control enabled Nick to pre- vent the exultation he felt from showing in his face. Here was Wilshaw giving him the freedom of his own and Grace’s apartments—for to be a friend meant to go and come as he chose. “T know myself better than you, monsieur, and if I | accept your proposition, I shall haunt you and your wife for the next month.” “That's right,’ cried Wilshaw, cordially. ‘Come when you will, and as often as you will. Now eon- fess,” he went on, laughingly, ‘‘that you are dying to know why I am not furious because my wife is with | the fascinating baron.” “Parbleu /” exclained Nick, seeing in an_ instant that Wilshaw was anxious to know how much he had discovered; “when you know what has happened to | py me you will be certain enough that I am, to say the least, curious.” “Ah! And what happened to you?” - The tone was light and jocular, but there was an uneasy gleam in Wilshaw’s eye that betrayed his Nick weighed the matter in his mind, and decided that the whole truth of what he had done would be best, since the baron might learn from the two men anxiety. | | that he had listened, and Grace would be sure to dis- | cover all the baron knew. Accordingly he told Wilshaw how, ina fit of jeal- | ousy, he had followed Grace, and then narrated the | singularencounter with the two strange guardians of | the jewel chamber. From the manner of Wilshaw’s listening it was | evident that he had had no knowledge of the cham- ber or its guardians. When Nick had concluded he said: “And you really saw Grace taking up handfuls ‘of diamonds ?’ “Upon my honorI did. She will say as much when | she tells you.” “And you heard her say ?”” “*With a used diamond’ or ‘a worn diamond,’ I forget which, ‘and a marked hand;’ and then I felt the swords.” “You overheard nothing more—— ?’ “Not a word.” “T am sorry,” said Wilshaw, looking relieved, how- ever, “for I have hardly patience to wait until my wife shall tell me all.” “You are more fortunate than I, forI suppose my euriosity must go ungratified,” “Not atall. We have trusted you with our greatest secret, and will have no hesitation in confiding this lesser one to you.” “T am ashamed of my curiosity. Do not tell me.” “But I would like to, as it will explain my wife’s singular conduct toward the baron.” “Tell me, then.” Nick waited with curiosity to hear what sort of plausible tale Wilshaw would be able to invent on the | spur of the moment. “Few families in America,” began Wilshaw, with an air of trying to recall facts, ‘“‘can trace themselves farther back than fifty years. They generally pre- tend to glory in their lack of ancestry; but, in fact, when afamily can go back a century or more, their pride in the fact is very great.” So I have heard.” “My wife’s family can go back in a direet line for four hundred years.” “That is good, even for this country,” said Nick, gravely, “though I can go back nearly a thousand years.” “But in my wife’s family there has always been preserved a diamond of rare value, which was given | to Sir Richard Eldredge by King Henry VIII., and has always gone into the keeping of the eldest child, and has been cherished as a sort of proof of family antiquity. Indeed, I may say, it has been guarded like a sacred relic.” “T can understand that,” and Nick nodded his head emphatically. “Well, two years ago nearly, my wife’s father had the stone stolen from him by burglars. He was al- most distracted. Grace and I were engaged to be married at the time, but such was the father’s frame of mind that he would hear of neither engagement nor marriage after his loss, declaring that nothing should be done until the stone was recovered.” “He was unreasonable.” “Yes; we thought so, too, and we were clandes- tinely married. That was a wrong thing, I know, but it was done hastily, though I can’t say that either of us have regretted it.” “T should think not.” “Since then we have done everything to recover the stone, for with it we knew we would dare to go to Mr. Eldredge and confess to him what we had done.” “Good! I see.” “We employed a detective—the most astute in the world he was called—and a few weeks ago he brought us word that he had discovered, in some way—he would not tell us how——” “These detectives are terrible fellows,” interjected Nick. “Very,” said Wilshaw, dryly. ‘Well, he discovered that the diamond had been sold to this Baron D’Or- ment.” “Ah! I see.” “Ts it not clear now?’ demanded Wilshaw. ‘She lets him make love to her in order to persuade him to sell her the diamond when she is sure he has it.” “He will not sellit. Suchaman will give it. He is madly in love with your wife.” -Wilshaw shrugged his shoulders carelessly, and said: “Then he may give it. Once we have it we will send him its price, and he may throw the money away if he wish. Ah! here is the banquet-hall.” “T will not enter. I cannot remain after what has happened. — “T will not urge it of course.” “No,” thought Nick; ‘‘you are glad I cannot stay, ing her head against the woodwork around the fire- | the clock on a distant church tower struck the hour | ' and as I can see no possibility of it myself, I will go, | and endeavor to fathom this mystery in some other way.” CHAPTER XXXIX. “INHUMAN FIENDS!” |. Leaving Wilshaw at the door of the banqueting sa- | loon, Nick walked toward the cloak reom to get his | hat and cloak. | Not far from it, standing under an arched way, | were two men, engaged in earnest conversation. Both were upper servants, apparently; the clder of them Nick remembered, as he Jooked more closely, | was the major domo or general manager. Without any definite object, but on the principle | of always gathering in any stray bit of knewledge in | interesting places, he walked slowly, and with a pre- | occupied air past them, listening intently as he did so. “But, Philippe,” the elder was saying, in a tone of remonstrance. ‘You have not tried it one day yet.” “T have tried it long enough.” “Then, if you do not care on your Own account, think of me. Imay lose my place if you go off so i unceremoniously after I recommended you so strongly.” “Tf you like it here I should be sorry for you; but for me, I am not a dog that will submit to be kicked one moment inthe hope of haying a. bone thrown to me the next.” “He did not know it was you. Remember you have not been presented as his valet yet. I told him you were here and would wait on him to-night.” “T am sorry,” snid the young man, obstinately, “but I will not remain here. I go now.” “You are an ungrateful young fool. The next time I recommend a nan [ do not know I will deserve to be taken in. Go then and have the satisfaction of knowing that I have lost a good place through you.” “Tain sorry.” repeated the obstinate young man, walking away. “Fortune favors me,” muttered Nick, as he has- tened into the cloak room and hurriedly threw his things on. He rapidly traversed the vast halls, and before many minutes was waiting near the servants’ en- trance to the palace. Presently Philippe came out and hurried up the street. Nick followed, caught up to him, and accosted him. A conversation followed, and then the two walked off together. About an hour later Philippe presented himself at the servants’ entrance of the baron’s palace and was adinitted. He at once sought the major-domo, and taking that offended dignitary aside, said to him: “Monsieur Bailie, I have been thinking. I wrong. For myself, I would be glad to avoid this service, but when [remember that I soughtit, and caused you to commit yourself for me, I feel that I et for your sake, to stay. I hope you are satis- tied.’ Satisfied indeed! Monsieur Bailie could have hugged his master’s new valet; for however others might feel, he had no desire to leave an employ- ment where he could not help growing rich. “Good, Philippe! good!” he cried; “I will return this kindness some day. Monsieur the baron has not | asked for you. He is so overcome with having a lady | here—though she is but a plain American—that he keeps ordering new wines to be brought.” “Then he will be royally drunk, and I shall have a nice job.” “Not he; he can drink a hogshead.” “I would like to see this young American again. It seemed to me I never saw her like for beauty. Is there any way to see without being caught ?’ “Is there? Come and I will post yon in a good position.” Philippe was nothing loth, and from a safe place was soon watching the banqueters with curious gaze, They were divided into pairs, Wilshaw absorbing the attention of the aunt, and wickedly trying to per- suade her to sip of the various wines, and the baron ogling and leering at Grace, who bore herself with the same easy indifference and careless gayety that always characterized her. They had evidently exhausted their powers of eat- ing, and now, as the worthy Monsieur Bailie had said, the baron was drawing on his stock of wines. y His vulgar, pretentious air and coarse manners con- trasted oddly with the gorgeous surroundings, but re- fined, fastidious Grace seemed quite unconscious of any incongruity. Philippe noticed that the baron’s manner toward her was a singular mixture of deference and famil- ‘jarity; and Philippe, who fer certain easily under- | stood reasons took a great interest fn them, was led ; to make the following reflection: 5 | “Shé must have made some sort of bargain with | the bafon already,” i | And Philippe, who was indeed Guy well-discuised | Nick, burned to know what that /bargain was, and | how soon it was to be consummated. — | “Between Raoul D’Entraigues, the friend, and | Philippe, the valet,” he muttered, ‘it will go hard, | but I will soon bring this business to a head. Hello! | what now!” | The exclamation was caused by the entrance of a | lackey bearing a note for Wilshaw. The latter asked permission to read it, and then opened it. | Nick watched him closely, but not so closely that | he did not notice that Grace was also studying his ” vas upon his. The man shivered. Sarried away by the mad wave of longing that swept over his soul, he crushed the dainty, dimpled thing in his two huge hands, and, reckless of who saw, pressed kiss after kiss upon the round wrist. Grace laughed as she prettily struggled to free her- self, but through it all cast a swift look of agony at Wilshaw. . Wilshaw answered the glance with one of encour- agement, and then turned and plied her aunt with questions. But Nick could see that even the steeled scoundrel bit his lip, and darted a look of hatred and menace at the poor wretch whose offense was of his making. “Ts it not time, Aunt Laura,” asked Grace, a few moments later, ‘for us to be going home ?” “Not yet,” pleaded the baron. “Oh, it is after midnight!” said Grace, with a. sweet smile at him. He tried to move her, but she was firm; shaw and Mrs. Wilson rose to get ready. “At least,” cried the baron, ‘‘you will not forget your promise to let me drive you to Fontainebleau to-morrow morning.” “No, I will go, and I promise for my aunt and Mon- sieur Wilshaw.” The baron looked at them as if he would have been better pleased if the promise for them had not been given; but he said nothing, for, in spite of her laughing air of carelessness, Grace held him in awe. He turned to a lackey, and roared: “Darkey! What do you gape at? Did you not hear the lady say she waited for her wraps ?” The man jumped as if a physical as well as moral kick had been administered, and hastened away ‘Bring them, bring all the things to the drawing- room,” roared the baron. : This was the moment Nick had been waiting for. He slipped from his hiding-place and ran to the cloak-room. “Parbleu, my lad,’ he exclaimed to the lackey, “but monsieur the baronis angry! Here, take thou the ladies’ wraps and hasten; I will carry the gen- tleman’s coat and hat.” The lackey growled under his breath, but did as he was bidden, while Nick followed with Wilshaw’s things. . The baron stared a moment at his new valet, but, as Nick had counted on, was too much engaged in the delightful occupation of aiding Grace to give the Strange servant more than a passing thought. Nick, with the sedate celerity of a trained valet, helped Wilshaw on with his overcoat, and even car- ried his attention so far as to button up the garment, AESronHy not seeing that he endeavored to stop im. Then, with a bow, Nick glided away in true valet style. A style which seemed to say, “I am a servant, it is true, but not a liveried one!” Seeking a quiet spot Nick rapidly drew from his sleeve an envelope, and took out of it a letter. “Ah!” he muttered, ‘father was right when he said a good detective must know all trades, particularly dishonest ones; and I thank him for making me an expert pickpocket.” He unfolded the letter and read it quickly. in English. “Successful! Found them. and Wil- It was The three left eld place for new one. They are watched by a disguised man. [know him. Nodanger in L. now. Bob has disap- peared. Jake watches the three and the man. Dan- ger in Paris. The man who fell overboard was not drowned, Aim dead beat. Will sleep at old room to- pees see youin the morning. Suspect every- ody. The meaning was clear enough, but Nick could al- most have laughed aloud. What did he care how much they had discovered so that his dear wife was safe ? s “In my next case,” he said to himself, with a smile, “T will take very good care that Ethel takes the stay at home part. Poor Randone! if he knew he had been detected he would pluck his hair out in despair. And that is not all. The clever rascal, Hossick, puts this and that together, and comes to the conclusion that since the captain is in the game now, he must have been before, and was probably instrumental in saving me. Ah, but I enjoy such a game of wits!” And he really rubbed his hands with pleasure at the thought of being pitted against foes so hard to overcome. He had replaced the letter in the envelope, and as soon as he heard the party leave the drawing-room he ran in and dropped the letter where Wilshaw had stood, and then hastened out and waited. The event proved his wisdom. : In a few minutes Wilshaw came hurrying back and swept the drawing room with a keen glaneée. An “ah!” of relief and satisfaction escaped him as his eye fell on the envelope and he sprang forward and secured it. (TO BE, CONTINUED.) Laie eee NAPOLEON’S HABITS. In camp, and during his early campaigns, Napo- leon feared no fatigue, braved the worst weather, slept under a wretched tent, and seemed to forget all sare of his person. In his palace he bathed almost every day, rubbed his whole body over with eau de cologne, and sometimes changed his linen several face. It was aface that could keepits owner’s secrets well, however, and all that could be seen on it was | a sudden hardening of the lines of the mouth. | He read the note slowly asecond time, and then | glancing up, caught Grace’s eye, and gave her a} quick sign imperceptible to any but Nick. She answered it by a slight nod and a look of atten- tion. Then he made a few rapid, seemingly idle, mo- tions with one hand, and when he had finished she did the same. As Nick watched them, cold beads of perspiration stood on his forehead, and a look of agony distorted his face. “Piends! $99 Inhuman fiends!” he groaned. CHAPTER XL. NICK RUBS HIS HANDS, Wilshaw and Grace had held a conversation in the swift, silent language of mutes. F Nick, an adept in that wonderful sign-language, had at once grasped in full the terrible significance | even a night-lamp. of the communication made by Wilshaw. “From London. He has done it. Sate there. Danger | here. Can you do it to-night?’ “No. answer. “He has done it.” The thought flashed to Nick’s heart and seared it like a flame. What was the one thing Hossick would do to insure safety? Kill his wife! And with her Mattie! But—oh, the horror of it!—would he not know now that Ethel was cognizant of all, and would he not kill her too? For a moment his head whirled and he lost his presence. of mind. He collected himself by a terrible effort, and en- deavored to give the situation calm consideration. Why imagine the worst?) Why not wait and learn what really had been done? But how learn that? He could telegraph to Captain Randone. Yes, but at that hour of the night, even supposing the brave Frenchman had not shared the possible fate of the three women, it would take long to obtain an answer. Besides, he would be obliged to lose sight of Wil- shaw, and, under the circumstances, he could not do that, even for the little time necessary to go to the telegraph office. Was there no other way to obtain the desired in- formation ? Yes, by reading the note in Wilshaw’s pocket. How could he get that ? There were two ways—by force and by cunning. Force would be the easier, and in his then mood the more congenial plan to Nick, for he longed to take the cold-blooded scoundrel by the throat and choke out his life. Butit would not do; he must not betray himself yet. He must resort to cunning, and ‘that, with a man like ‘Wilshaw, would be difficult, particularly difficult for Nick, in his present frame of mind. He would get the note, then, before Wilshaw left the palace; or, failing in that, would dog him until he did see his chance to obtain it. The party seemed inno hurry to leave, and Nick vas given time to calm himself. He watched Grace and the baron closely, but al- most mechanically. He saw the bewitching creature employ the most seductive wiles to fascinate and enthrall the rough brute who was already nearly crazed with the pas- sion that devoured him. He saw him lean over the beautiful siren until his breath must have fanned her peach-like cheek. He saw her quickly overcome repugnance, and then redoubled winsomeness. He saw him whisper eagerly, saw her laughingly answer. He was beseeching, she was putting him off with mirthfulness and jests. Nick forgot his liking and admiration for her good qualities and loathed her. She was sinking every pure and womanly attribute to draw on this besotted brute, and so whet his de- sire that to make her his wife he would yield up his wealth. Nick knew that was why she was putting forth her wonderful powers of fascination. And then, when the fool’s money was obtained, she would laugh at him with her husband. But the baron was sincere enough. His adoration of her was of a day’s growth, but it had become the overmastering influence of his existence. He grew passionately urgent and his voice became husky and pleading. : But Grace only laughed softly, and, as if by acci- Will have to wait until morning,” was Grace’s | | years’ submersion, are in the most perfect state of | preservaton. LO | 3 | the logwood state thatit is even better for dyeing times in the day. When traveling, he did not care | what sort of lodging he had, provided that no ray of light could get into his bedroom; he could not bear His table was supplied with the daintiest dishes, but he never touched them. His favorite fare was grilled breast of mutton, or a roast fowl, with lentils and haricot beans. He was very particular about the quality of bread, and he drank none but the best wine, and very little of it. Hetook a small cup of coffee after his breakfast, and the same after his dinner. He ate very fast, and rose the mo- ment he had done, without troubling himself as to whether those admitted to his table had had time to dine. He spoke in a loud voice, and when in a merry mood his peals of laughter could be heard from afar. He was fond of singing, although he had a bad voice, and never could sing an air in tune. $< SEA-WATER AS A PRESERVATIVE. The capability of sea-water as a preservative is shown by the fact that among the articles recovered from vessels sunkin the harbor of Vigo, Spain, in 1702, there have been recovered specimens of log- wood and mahogany that, notwithstanding their 184 Dyers who have experimented with purposes than the wood now imported. The mahog- any, too, is very fme and solid, one log twelve feet long and twenty-two by thirty-two inches square being subsequently worked up in the shape of furni- ture and walking-sticks as mementoes. The chief object of imterest, however, is an ancient pulley block four and one-half feet high and three feet broad, with four solid copper sheaves eighteen inches in diameter. It isof solid oak, and was probably used in hoisting heavy articles of merchandise or the anchors. The wood is perfectly preserved, but an iron band is completely corroded away, while the copper wheels are but slightly oxidized. 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In size and plumage it is about like an English sparrow, and gets its name from the fact that the little fellow, who is very fond of honey, being unable to obtain it for himself, will lead men to the places where the wild bees have hidden their stores of rich wild honey. Whenever this bird sees a man he will fly close to him, hovering around, utter- ing a twittering sound; then he will go off in the direction of the place (generally a tree) where the honey is, flying backward and forward in a zigzag fashion. Then back he will come, twittering in the Same manner, as if to say, ‘‘Come along; [ll show you where itis.” These actions are repeated until the tree is reached, when the bird will indicate it very plainly by flying to it and_ hovering around it. While the bees are being smoked out and the honey taken up, the bird will hover in the vicinity until the Job is done, when of course his reward comes in the shape of a feast in the fragments that are left. 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REE A puzzle for any body to blow on untilshown how itisdone, Rolls thrills,or makes * an ear-piercing note that can be heard for miles, Blowitand hand it to afriend and he can’t geta sound sonia outofit tosave hislife. Letsof Fun in it. Usctul for many purposes—to stop a horsecar, omnibus or stage, call a dog, make signals in the night, call help from a distance,in fieldorworkshop. Is small, and can be carried in the vest pocket or hung onthe watch-chain. To introduce the Illustrated Companion, large 16 page G4 col. story paper, the best published. Cutthisoutand send 6 cts in stamps for postage and we willsend you this Trick Whistle, 48 page Illustrated Book, the Illustrated Com- panion Story Paper, Premium List & Catologue All FREE Send now and get the best Illustrated Story Paper FREE, EH. F. NASON, Publisher, 111 Nassau St.5 N. ¥. ARE YOU MARRIED ? If you are NOT, you should at once join this Society, which pays its members $1,000 or $2,000 at marriage. 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