VOL, 42—No, 21.

cmt THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. &3<-

 

 

 

THE FUTURE.
BY SARAH K. BOLTON.

I cannot know when grass will grow
Above my grave;

What friends will stand, with empty hand,
And tears to lave

The daisies fair, that flourish there—
I love them best ;
Icannot tell if hill or dell
. Will give me rest,

I do not pine for marble shrine
Or graven stone,

Or fragrant bowers of costly flowers
By dear ones sown ;

But plant a tree to shelter me,
Of dainty green ;

The mountain-ash, whose berries flash
With ruby sheen.

And come, sometimes, when sunset chimes
Their chorus ring;

And with the birds your loving words
In concert sing.

And I shall hear the notes of cheer
From worlds above ;

For heaven is nigh to those who die
With hearts of love. -

-Oo~

[ HIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

| Street Haul:

A BOLD STROKE FOR A FORTUNE.

By the Author of ‘‘The Old Detective’s Pupil.’

(“A WaLL STREET HavUL” was commenced in No. 19. Beck
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER VIL.
OFF THE SCENT.

Though caught in, the very act of listening, Nick did
not lose his presence of mind, but, with great coolness,
exclaimed :

“So that’s your little game, eh? Well, you can’t play
it here, so Shake out your cvat-tails and dust!
look here, Johnny—just you steer clear of this next

‘ room, too, for that’s my game. Savey ?’

“What's your game?” demanded Wilshaw, in a tone

hovering between suspicion and anger. :
_ “Look here, now, Johnny!” exclaimed Nick, angrily;
“lower that gentle voice of yours, will ye? And never
mind what my game is; | don’t want any partner. I’m
goin’ to play a lone hand. and don’t ye forget it.”

Reassured by the words and clever acting of Nick,
Wilshaw shut the door and avanced into the room, with
a wicked smile playing about his mouth.

“So you don’t want a partner ?” he said, in a low tone.

“Oh, you’ve tumbled to it at last, have ye es said Nick,
sarcastically. “But I s’pose if you'd had br; na equal to
your cheek, you needn’t have waited to be vu.i.”

“You think I've got a good deal of cheek, eh ?”

“Yes, and a very hard one. None of that!—I’ve.got
the drop on ye!”

Wilshaw, having advanced to within afew paces of
Nick, had suddenly thrust his hand into the bosom of
his coat; but Nick, with a still quicker movement, had
drawn his pistol and covered the discomfited young man
before he could accomplish his purpose.

“It's no use,” said Nick, coolly; ‘‘I’m too fiy.
Say, Johnny,”
“what is your lay ?
ness—‘“‘a fly-cop? If ye are, by the hokey, you can say
your prayers before you try for my collar !”

Wilshaw laughed carelessly. ‘

“I’m no fly-cop. Drop your pop-gun, and let’s parley.”

“I can hold the pop-gun and parley, too. Talk quick
now. Who are you, apd what d’ye want ?”

“Tm nobody you know or ever heard of, and I came
here by accident—made a mistake in the room,”

‘Too thin. Why were you going to draw on me ?”

' “So as to make you do the explaining insteadjof doing
it myself? But see here—what’s the use of wasting time
like this? You're a crook, aren’t you ?”

«Johnny, Lhold the pop-gun, and censequently I do
the asking of questions. Digest that, will ye ?”

«That's all well enough; but if you ave a crook I’ve a
word tosay to you, and that is that [’m crooked, too,
and so is the party in there.”

“Do it up in cotton and lay it away in camphor,
Johnny. Crooked or not I’ve got the drop on you, and
you'll oblige me by throwing up your hands. I’m going
through you.”

“No, youre not.”

“Why not?”

“Because I won’t let you. You don’t dare shoot, and
you know it, so what’s the use lallygagin ?”

Nick seemed to consider ; then said:

“Youre very fiy. Ill tell you what I'll do. You get
out and keep mum, and we'll call it square.”

“Agreed, but I’m giving it to you straight when I tell
you I belong with the party in that room.”

“Go way |”

Lae.

“Then I’m barking up the wrong tree.”

“How so ?”

“I saw a young swell go in there; and just nowI
heard a gal singing in there, so I kind o’ «oncluded he
was spending the old man’s money, and thought I’d
like to Anger a little of it; butif you've got hi ain tow 1
won’t interfere.”

“He’s my game.”

“That's straight, is it ?”

‘Straight as a string,”

“Allright, Good-by, Johnny. I say, Johnny—ask the
ae aS us that French song again, will ye 2”

“T will.

And with all his shrewdness Howard Wilshaw, who |
really had entered the room by mistake, having just left |

Grace to make some inquiry of the head waiter, went
away without a shadow of suspicion of the man he had
caught listening.

“Got off easier than I thought I would when you put
your wicked face in here, Mr. Wilshaw,” said Nick to

imself ; ‘‘but I know for a certainty that if ever I should
fall into your hands, and you should know me for
Harvey Jones, you'd kill me with no more compunction
than you would a flea.” :

CHAPTER IX.
GRACE AND HERBERT.

Knowing it would be useless to remain in the room
any longer, and being, moreover, anxious tou examine
the studio, if possible, before Herbert reached it, Nick
left the room not long after Wilshaw.

He hurried at once to the studio, fearing he would be
too late, and so he found he was on arriving there.

Light was streaming under the door, and, listening,
he could hear the regular footfall of a man pacing the
room,

Entrance there being out of the question, he looked
about for some place to secrete himself where he could
overhear what he was sure would be an interesting con-
versation.

It seemed as if the adjoining room might afford him

“the desired'place. At any rate he could try It.
.yHe examined the door. It was locked; but that did
not.discourage him, if only it were nc* occupied at that
‘moment.

Itwas quite dark in the room. He knocked gently,
fearing to attract Herbert’s attention. There was no
answer.

“I guess I'll risk it,” he thought.

And with the noiselessness and skill of an expert
burglar he picked the lock and opened the door.

Closing it behind him again he drew his tiny dark
lantern, without which he never went from home, and
lighting it, glanced around.

he reom was absolutely bare of furniture, much to
Nick’s joy, for he was sure now of being unmolested.

The next thing was to learn how good a place it was
for listening. No light penetrated from the studio,
though a door opened on that side.

Nick turned the light of the lantern on the door. It
had a glass transom over it, and, unless it opened into a
wanes seemed as if it ought to communicate with the
studio,

He did not dare to pick the lock of the door, lest he"

should be heard by Herbert, so he sought some way of

reaching the transom.

A chair or table would have been convenient now,
but Nick was not to be balked for want of either.

He had noticed that the windows had inside wooden
Shutters. One ofthese he unscrewed from its place,
- and planted like a ladder against the door,

__ The end of the floor was kept from slipping by a short,
keen, broad-bladed dagger which Nick always carried,

and which he now thrust into the floor. "

Climbing on this improvised ladder he was easily
enabled to reach the transom.

He opened it very carefully, but was still unable to
see any light, though he could plainly hear the regular
footsteps.

Putting his hand through the opening he quickly be-
came acquainted with the cause of the darkness—a
heavy curtain fell in front of the door.

. Taking out his penknife Nick cautiously made a down-
ward cut. Then giving the sharp blade a turn he cut at
‘right angles to the first direction, and so made a slit

ih which enabled him to move aside a small piece ot the

“| everything, and told him where we were.

cloth, and so gain a perfect view of the studio and its
uneasy occupant.

Nick knew at once that the young man, so nervously
pacing the fioor, was Herbert Bedford.

‘Up and down he walked, up and down, every few
minutes looking at his handsome gold watch.

He was haggard and anxious-looking, and his disor-
dered dress proved that he had paid but little attention
to his personal appearance for some time.

For five minutes Nick silently watched the solitary
pacer ; then a light footfall in the hall caught his ear.

Herbert, too, must have heard it, for he stopped and
looked eagerly at the door. .<

A scratching noise ati the lock for a moment and the
door fiew open, admitting Grace Eldredge in her male
attire.

“Oh, Herbert!” she cried, with a half sob, ‘“‘whata
terrible thing this is !”

“You know what the papers say abeut me then?”

‘Oh, yes.”

“And your father gave them the information.”

«Yes, yes!” she was wringing her hands. “If I had
known what he was goingto dol would have braved
But after-
ward—I don’t know, Herbert—it seemed to me that I
could not publish to the world a story that would for-
ever rob me of my good name and honor.”

“You could not,” he said, gloomily.

“But I will, Herbert, before you shall suffer for a girl-
ish freak of mine. ‘1 will tell everything, and then”’—
she covered her .face with her hands and sobbed—‘‘I
will go hide myself from the world. You, at least, shall
not suffer.”

«You are a brave little creature, Grace ; but you don’t
suppose for a moment that I would let you do such a
thing. No. A disgraced man may live and be honest;
but for a woman, disgraced as you would be, there
would be no choice but between death and dishonor.
For myself, Grace, I do not care; but my father, my
dear, good father! This blow will go nigh to killing
him.”

“It shall not, Herbert,” cried Grace, fervently. ‘Say
what you will, I must tell where we were, and save you
this misery.”

«You shall not, Grace.”

“You cannot prevent me.”

“T will deny the truth of what you say, and plead
guilty, if they catch me.”

«Are you going to try to escape ?”

“Certainly, after I find out where father is; and that
is what I wanted to see you about. Has he been ar-
rested ?” 5

“No, he has escaped. A reporter was at the house
only a few days ago, and said so.”

*‘Where can he have gone, I wonder? Oh, Heaven! to
think of my father, who never so much as thought a
dishonest thing, a fugitive from justice! Heaven bless
him! And all because his love for an unworthy son led
him to try to save him from the consequences of his own
wickedness. Ah, if I were guilty, Grace, that thought
would drive me to suicide. If I could only find him, and
escape with him. He would believe me if I said I was
not guilty, and would respect my promise never to dis-
close the events of last night. You are a wild little

 

 

And |

But, [|
he inquired, with an air of curiosity, |
You’re-not”—with sudden fierce- |

creature, Grace, but you shall not forfeit the happiness
of your life by any such confession as you threaten to
; Make. Why, what would Howard Wilshaw say if he
| Should know where you went, and with whom? Frank-
| ly, Grace, I don’t like the man, but you love him, and
that is enough. He would never marry a disgraced
woman.”

“I know, I know; but how can I let you suffer for a
crime I know you are innocent of? It would kill me,
Hertert. I could never be happy. If you were to be
captured and put in prison, could I be happy? No, Her-
bert. I swear to you, if you will not let me bear witness
to your innocence, and you are convicted of this crime, I
wili write out the whole story, and then kill myself,”

-That is sheer folly, Grace. Besides, Iam not going
to be captured.”

“Do you think you can escape?” she asked, eagerly.

“Of course I can,” he said, confidently.

‘Have you any money ?”

#-Oh, -yes.”

“How much ?”

Herbert laughed recklessly, and answered :

“Five dollars.”

“Oh, Herbert, you know that will do nothing. Here
are a thousand dollars I was saving to fit up the studio.
Take it. I can never have any more pleasure here.”

poe

 

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“JOHNNY, I HOLD THE POPGUN, AND CONSEQUENTLY I DO
THE ASKING OF QUESTIONS.”

of the room. When she came out again, she had a roll
of bills in her hand.

“You will take it, won’t you, Herbert ?”

“Td rather not, Grace.”

There was a look of repugnance on his face, which
made Grace cry, beseechingly :

«Please, Herbert, do. It is only right, after I have
got you into the trouble, to do something to help you
save yourself.”

“Well, I will take it, and use it, if I find I need to.”

‘‘Where will you go ?”

“TI don’t know. To the house first, and find out from
Susie where father is. She may know. And f must go
at once.”

 

“Do be careful, won’t you, Herbert ?”

“I will; and remember what I say, Grace, you must
not tell the story of last night; for come what may, I
| Swear to youl will never reveal my part in it, nor per-
fe you to. Will you not promise me not to speak
| of it ?” '
| “If you insist so, I suppose I might as well promise ;
| but it does seem too bad that a little fun at a masque-
| rade ball should have such dreadful results.”

‘“T should not have yielded, Grace.

place for you. Another thing, Grace, why not give up
| going about in these clothes ?
caught, and then there will be a great to do over the
singular freak Of thé,millionaire’s daughter. It will be
no use, then, to plead, love of art as an excuse. The
world will excuse a great artist like Rosa Bonheur for
dressing like a man, but never pretty Grace Eldredge.”

“I will give up dressing so, and as soon as you are
gone will put on the garments of my sex.”

She spoke so humbly that Herbert laughed and said;

«There, Grace, that was said more like the quiet, shy
girl I used to know than anything I’ve heard from you
this many a month.”

“When I think of your dreadful position, Herbert, I
cannot help being sober.”

|
|

through somehow.
you again.”

hope you will succeed in escaping.
hard of me for my part in this, will you ?”

She broke down and sobbed like a little child,

“Don’t, Grace, don’t,” he said, soothingly. ‘I shall
never think anything but good of you, and even if I
wanted to, I don’t believe [ could remember you as any-
thing rut the daintiest, prettiest, merriest little imp-of
mischief in creation. Now don’t cry, there’s a good girl;
and don’t lose any time in getting off these clothes and
getting your proper ones on. Good-by, little lady.”

*Good-by,” she sobbed.

CHAPTER X.
A WELL-PROTECTED RENDEZVOUS.

“Well,” thought Nick, as he listened, ‘I’m glad he’s
ipnocent, and I’m glad I know enough to stand between
him and his folly, if it should happen that I cannot
help him from arrest. ButI must do that; and yet it is
even more important that 1 should keep on the trail of
this fascinating little fiend. Though I do believe she
is half in earnest in her solicitude about this victim of
Wilshaw’s,”

Turning the matter over in his mind as he listened,

when Herbert said his final good-by.

He sprang lightly from his perch, and running to his
door threw it wide open and waited.

In one hand he held a gag of his own device, which
was suited to just such quick, silent work as was neces-
sary now.

Herbert was less quick than Nick, but he opened his
door and came out a few moments later.

‘Shutting the door, he started briskly off. Nick waited
until he was a little past the door-way, and then with
an agile spring was on him.

With one sinewy arm he pinned Herbert’s arms to his
side and lifted him clear from the floor, while at the
same instant, and before a sound could escape his lips,
he had thrust the gag into his mouth.

Not a sound had been made, and despite the young
man’s desperate struggles, Nick was not more than two
minutes in binding him and shutting him upin the
empty room. He then pulled his dagger from the floor
and ran softly down the hall and out of the building.

While listening he had made use of the time to alter

 

his disguise, so that he now looked like a rough of the
worst type.

It was not a fig |
| furniture.

You may some time be |
| He tried the larger and found it locked.

Nick finally came to a conclusion, and was ready to act_

 

 

| free of access, Nick passed ¢arel
Nick saw her go behind a screen in the farther corner |

| was not to be deterred by any o

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1a

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As he had supposed, Grace had no intention of don-
ning her female habiliments again, but having waited a
reasonable time, came out of the house the same jaunty
young swell she had gone in.

She did not return to the restaurant, but was silently
joined at the corner of Fourteenth street and Broadway
by Wilshaw, who walked by her side around the block
to the corner of Thirteenth street and Fourth avenue,
where both stepped into a waiting hack, and were rap-
idly driven over to the east side of town without a word
having been spoken to the driver.

So seldom does a carriage go terough that part of the
city at night that Nick. had little difficulty in ‘following
it a a safe distance without fear oflosing it among other
hacks.

At Tompkins square the driver drew up, the two oc-
cupants of the hack stepped down, Wilshaw paid the
man, and he drove off, while they crossed the park to
Avenue B.

“Wilshaw is a master-hand at this sort of thing,”
thought Nick, ‘‘and I must be careful, for I don’t doubt
he crosses this open park, with its electric lights, for the
very purpose of finding out if he is shadowed.” :

“OH, HEAVEN! TO THINK OF MY FATHER, AN INNOCENT
MAN, A FUGITIVE FRON JUSTICE!”

That, probably, was his purpose, but it availed him
very little, for Nick jumped upon she car going through
Avenue A, and gotoff at Seventh street, never losing

| sight of the two figures crossing the park, and skilltully

shadowing them as they turned into Avenue B.

Down town they went at a brisk pace, and never
stopped until they turned into Delancey street.

Nick knew he was being taken into the very worst
section of the city, but that did not trouble him, for ne
knew every nook and corner of if.

At the corner of Delancey anf Clinton. they stopped
and waited until two men passed them with an almost
imperceptible signal.

Then they turned and followed, going through two or
three dirty alleys, and finally vent into a dingy, ill-
lighted liquor saloon. ;

“Its no use to follow in thers,“ thought Nick, “but
I'm not going to be balked so easily.”

The building was an old-fashioned wide one, with a
peaked roof. '%

Excepting for the dim lightinthe saloon the whole
house was dark and without sign of habitation.

On one side was an old junk shop; ou the other a
wretched tenement.

Knowing that the tenement-hguse would be open and
Sly. through it into the
back yard.

The fence between itand the

ext one was unusually
high, but Nick had made up hi

mind to cross it, and
minary obstacle.

He measured it with his eye, gnd, high as it was, felt

| confident of his ability to jumpfnd catch the top with

his hands. After that the rest Would be easy.

Stealing softly to the further ‘end of the yard he
gathered himself together, and wibjA prodigious bound
caught the fence top. az

Two seconds later he was peeringyover into the other
yard, andin as many moré wag ipAt, prepared to risk
his life if need were, but deteryined to gain some of
the secrets of the mysterious cotfplé he had shadowed.

Not even in the back of the hdpse was there any sign
of life, not so much as a glimmePpf-light from the floor
on which the saloon was.

Feeling the need for the Wiest caution. and im-
pressed with the idea that he ¥as‘about to unearth a
Startling mystery, Nick ad¥a
house. :

Not a sound came from it

It Was a dark. night, but
and at once made up his nie
possible. ros

Feeling for the keyhole We cai
and heard the bolt slide batk;
found it would not yield.

“Bolted,” he murmured.

He next examined the win
probable reason why no light pee

“istening ear.
ad see the back door,
BY by it itthat were

iously picked the lock,
© on trying the door he

zy, and discovered the
ated it. Heavy iron

| shutters closed it on the inside.

|
|
}

 

 

“Oh, well, don’t be troubled about me. I will pull |
Good-by ; | don’t know when I'll see |

“Good-by, Herbert”—she held out her little hand—‘‘ |
Please don’t think |

 

Baffled there, he stepped bai
as the gloom would permit, the ]

In another moment he had s
drawn himself to the top ot the #nce,

Standing upright on it, he réached over and caught
the projecting ledge of the oe One window.

Half swinging, half springing, Re was, in another sec-
cond, standing on the cornice of:the door below, while
his hands held with precarious gfip on the stone ledge.

With one hand he turned the siats of’ the shutter and
peered in. Either the room was dark, or, like the one
below, was protected inside by iron shutters.

He could determine that by opening the outside shut-
ters, which he did at some risk $f falling off.

Yes, there were iron shutters ‘here.

To many another this would have been a final dis-
couragement. Not so to him.

In the precautions taken to insuré secrecy, he only saw
the greater reason for penetratilig the mystery that had
come before him.

“T must take a risk here or give it up,” he said to him-
self; ‘‘and giving up is not in my line.”

He drew from his pocket a lokg, thin, stiff blade, and
with it pushed back the Wwinday poten. Then opening
the window softly, he gently preged the iron shutters,
to determine how they were fast6ned.

To his joy and surprise they yielded, and in another
moment he had softly entered the house.

lt was too dark to gain the faintest notion of where he
was, but closing the shutters, he drew out his little lan-
tern and with it cautiously illuminated the room in
which he stood.

It was asmall, square room, completely destitute of

c, and studied, as well
per windows.
ung upward, and had

Two doors, one larger than the other, opened out of it.

i

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DESPITE THE YOUNG MAN’S DESPERATE STRUGGLES, NICK
SUCCEEDED IN BINDING HIM.

Putting away his lantern, he picked the lock, only to
find that the door was bolted.

Every evidence of anxiety to prévent intrusion only
added zest to the young detective’s pursuit.

He turned from the large door to the smaller one, and
finding it also locked, applied hig instrument,‘and soon
felt the bolt shoot back.

Still the door did not yield, but there was a peculiarity
in its resistance that made him tage the direction of
his pressure, when, to his satisfaction, the door slid
back and disclosed an empty closet.of considerable size.

CHAPTER XI.
CAUGHT IN A TRAP.

An examination of the closet disclosed nothing to
Nick, and he would have withdrawn to make a further
effort on the other door, when he heard a footstep
startlingly near him, and he waited expectantly.

The sound came from beyond the wall of the closet,
but was so distinct that Nick knew the partition must
be very thin,

~pautiously toward the

 

“Vere’s the matches?” he heard a rough voice, with
an unmistakably English accent ask.

“Here they are,” came the answer in Wilshaw’s voice.
“Light up, quick, and let’s have the particulars, Is the
man dead or alive ?”

“Halive. ’"E’s not the sort to die h’easy, ‘e ain’t,

y—

“There, that'll do, Bob; I don’t want any long-winded
yarn about somebody you once knew that nobody could
kill. Has Hossick done anything yet ?”

“You cut a cove short, you do,” grunted Bob.

“Then don’t talkso much. What about Hossick ?”

‘* Hi don‘t talk ven dere’s vork,” said Bob, sulkily.

“Who said you: couldn’t work ?” cried Wilshaw, with
angry impatience. ‘‘Do you suppose I'd have anything
to do with you, you sullen fool, if you couldn’t work.”

“Now, don’t git mad, hold man.”

‘What about Hossick ?”

“Well,” muttered Nick, ‘‘he’s evidently boss.”

«E says a8 ow the bills his hall right.”

‘Any fool might know that.”

“Jest vot Hi thinks, thinks Hi, ven ’e told me that, old
man.”

“Will you shut up, you everlasting idiot! What——
The fiends, be thanked, here’s Hossick, himself. Hos-
sick, you’ve come just in tiine to prevent me from
breaking this garrulous old fool’s head.”

“Don’t get mad, cap; don't get mad,” answered a gay,
jaunty voice. ‘Bod is trying, I know, but-I will say for
him that for anything between a jimmy and a bludgeon
he hasn’t an equal. And if he does talk a bit tiresome
among friends you might kill him before he’d squeal to
an enemy.”

“Hand hive as good a right to talk as anybody,”
grovled Bob.

‘About the bonds. Hossick.”

“I've gone through the lot, and they’re worth all of
twenty-tive thousand.”

“Twenty-five thousand!”
thought.

‘Twenty-five thousand, was Bob’s equally wondering
exclamation. ‘Vy 7

“There now, Bob,” said Hossick, blandly.
rE for you; give it up, my boy. give it up.”

““But——”

“Oh, well,” there was a despairing resignation in Hos-
sick’s voice, “if you want to argue the question and say
you know more about these things than I do, why, lll
let you attend to ’em, that’s all.”

“Hi don’t say hany such a think, Hossick, you know
as ow Hidon’t. Vot Hi do say -

“If I’ve not given satisfaction, cap,” interjected Hos-
sick, sadly. “I'll give up this part of the job. Til turn
the bonds over to you before morning.”

«You'll do nothing of the sort,” said Wilshaw, warmly.
“T think I’m the head of this affair, and I’m satisfied. If
Bob don’t like it he can do the other thing.”

Ho, look ’ere, now,” expostulated Bob, humbly, vot’s
the sense rv

“No, sir,” said Hossick, obstinately. “I go in for satis-
fying everybody. WhenTI don’t I drop out.”

“But don’t Hi say as ’ow Him satisfied. Blowed if a
feller kin say anythink.”

“T would shut up if I were you,” said Wilshaw.

“Oh, yes, you vould,” growled Bob.

“There boys, cried Hossick, ‘‘I didn’t mean to start a
row. Your hand, Bob. No hard feeling, oldman. I’m
too touehy, 1 know. Cap, you needn't look sour at Bob.
He’s all right. He never did pretend to be much on
head, but his heart’s all right. You'll never find him
going back on his pals, eh, Bob ?”

“Hi could be scragged fer them as treats me right.”

“So he would, cap. I know him.
those arms, cap! And that chest! They don’t grow
that kind in this country, now, do they, cap.”

“No, they don’t,” admitted Wilshaw. ‘And, of course,
Hossick, you know Bob best. There, Bob—there’s my
hand, too. No hard feeling now, eh? We'll leave Hos-
sick his business, and you yours, and me mine, and no
interfering, eb ?”

“Hi don’t want to hinterfere. This cove’s satisfied.”

“A little whisky On it, cap, what d’ye say ?”

‘Suits me.” ;

Glasses and liquor were evidently at hand, for Nick
could hear the clinking, and then a chorus of

“Here’s at you!”

«Unless {’m mistaken,” thought Nick, ‘‘there are two
high-toned rascals in there trying to cheat an ignorant
one. Maybe I can make some use of this little game. 1]
must get a look at these new men.”

“How about the girl?” asked Wilshaw, a moment
later,

was Nick’s wondering

“It’s too

SexLooN
{ - ert |

‘IT’S NO USE TO FOLLOW IN THERE,” THOUGHT NICK;
‘“‘BUT I'M NOT TO BE BALKED.”

‘“‘Now you've got me,” ansured Hossick. ‘Of course
it’s all wrong, and we ought to get hold of her as soon as
possible.
maybe you could get—you know—to go see him.
would be the cheese.
she’s running loose.”

“You're right; ['ll send her to-morrow. What is it?”
He was evidently speaking to some new-comer. ‘All

That
You see we're not safe as long as

| right, Pll be back in a few minutes, Hossick.”

There was a silence of some duration, and Nick had
begun to grow anxious when he heard what seemed like
the tiptoeing of some one—probably Hossick—from the
room.

A few moments later he heard Hossick say :

“While we're waiting for the captain, Bob, give us that
song of yours about the ‘Jolly Miller’.”

«The captain’ll be mad if Hi make any noise.”

“Not he, Bob. You don’t know him yet. Come, strike
up.”
«Oh, if you says So, vy ’ere goes.”

And Bob in a hoarse, thundering voice started the
song, Hossick beating time noisily on a table.

“I don’t like this,” thought Nick, uneasily.
only a blind to cover something else.
have been discovered ?”

He crept cautiously from the closet, and listened at
the door.

Somebody was certainly there, for he could hear the
stealthy drawing of bolts.

He was so anxious to avoid having it suspected that
he was working: on the case that he first thought of es-
caping at once. :

He ran to the window and threw the iron shutters
open.

The windows were closed, and the outside wooden
shutters as well.

This was proof positive that his entrance had been dis-
covered ; and without loss of time he turned, pistol in
hand, and was making for the door just as it opened.

He crouched instantly to the floor, and tried to pierce
the darkness with his keen eyes.

Nothing could he seen, however, though his intent
ears Caught the faint sound of some person breathing.

Presently the singing in the adjoining room ceased,
and a death-like stillness reigned throughout the house.

Nick waited with every sense on the alert for some
eee to betray the position of his hidden antago.
nist.

None was made, and even the faint sound of breath.
ing was stilled.

Yet Nick did not move, for he knew his enemies
must be waiting for that very thing.

Suddenly, however, a glare of light was thrown full in
his eyes, blinding him for a moment. And before he
could recover a low voice said, fiercely :

“One move, and you are dead !”

(TO BE CONTINUED.]

> @—~<

- Words of Wisdom.

THAT experience teaches fools, is a lie; for the man
who profits by his experience is the wise one. Wiser
still is he who profits by the experience of others. The
fool profits not by his own experience or that of others.

DIGNITY does not consist in possessing honors, but de-
serving them.

No eloquence is so efficient as the mildness of a kind
heart. The drops that fall gently upon the corn ripen
and fill the ear; but violent storms beat down the grow-
ing crop and desolate the field.

GRAND temples are built of small stones, and great
lives are made up of small events.

To be able to fix the thoughts or the attention exclu-
sively upon one subject, and to keep them there with-
out wavering as long as is necessary, is a most impor-
tant element of success in every occupation,

BE pleasant and kind to those around you. The man
who stirs his cup with an icicle spoils the tea and chills
his own fingers.

THE great high-road of human welfare lies along the
old highway of steadfast weli-doing.

NURTURE your minds with great thoughts,
in the heroic makes heroes.

A HOMELY truth is better than a splendid error, :

“This is
Can it be that I

To believe

And just look at |

 

I didn’t dare go see the old man. but I thought |

 

THE WAY OF FT,
BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

This is the way of it, wide world over:
One is beloved, and one is the lover ;
One gives, and the other receives. |
One lavishes all in a wild emotion,
One offers a smile for a life’s devotion ;
One hopes, and the other believes.
One lies awake.in the night to weep, re
And the other drifts into a sweet sound sleep, |

One soul is aflame with a god-like passion,
One plays with love in an idler’s fashion ;
One speaks, and the other hears.
One sobs ‘I love you,” and wet eyes show it,
And one laughs lightly and says, ‘I know it,”
With smiles for the other’s tears.
One lives for the other and nothing beside,
And the other remembers the world is wide.

This is the way of it, sad earth over ;

The heart that breaks is the heart of the lover,
And the other learns to forget.

For what is the use of endless sorrow ?

Though the sun goes down, it will rise to-morrow,
And life is not over yet.

Oh! I know this truth, if I know no other,

That Passionate Love is Pain’s own mother,

-o~<

(THIS STORY WILI. NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOE-FORM.]

A LATE REPENTANCE

OR, Bs
The Little White Hand.
By MRS. MARY A. DENISON.

(‘A LATE REPENTANCE” was commenced in No, 4. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.}

CHAPTER XXf.
HOW SHALL I UNDECEIVE HIM ?

The room to which they repaired was fsoline’s, in
which she generally sat to read or sew. Adjoining that
was her bedroom, from which led her dressing-room.
Every appointment about this suite was perfect. The
walls were frescoed in blue and gold—the gold so pale
and faint that it seemed to well out of the blue. All the
furniture was in pale blue satin or brocade—the deco-
rative part in fine satin-wood. F

Isoline still held her letter out of sight. Laura tried
to lead to the subject, but Isoline kept to her secret.

“Do you know I've just fancied that you are sweet on
Lieutenant Stanhope ?” queried Laura, at last, driven to
desperation.”

«7 !—on that little puppy, of all things!” cried Isoline,
explosively. ‘‘Why, Laura, you must be out of your
wits!”

«Well, if you could have seen yourself just now! I
was asked by at least one if the lieutenant wasn’t mak-
ing a declaration !”

“What fools they must be!” exclaimed Isoline, say-
agely.

“Yes, that’s what I have found the people in society
to be,” replied Laura, demurely. ‘But, for all that, you
did turn as white as a sheet. I happened to be looking
your way, and for a moment I thought you would faint.”

‘“‘Hlow very kind of you to be observing me so closely !’”

“Not at all,” said Laura, ignoring the irony. “We

/ can’t help oureyes; they wild see things that others

would rather they wouldn't.”

“Why, what else did they see? Pray tell me.”

“Nothing much; only that the lieutenant gave youa
letter.”

“Well, yes, he did—a letter from one supposed to be
dead and gone. What wonder I was somewhat un-
nerved ?”

“Dead and gone!”
finger with the start she gave.

Laura ran the needle into her
The blood spirted out,

| and came near staining the white satin of Isoline’s dress,

She wrapped her handkerchief about it. ‘Dead and

| gone !” she repeated, mechanically.

“Yes.
well tell you.
wreck.” {

‘Saved from the wreck!” came in detached ywords
Laura sank down as she spoke—farther and Yarthe
down. Slowly her face blanched. All the bright colo:
went out of her lips. She grasped atthe chair from
which Isoline arose. She felt the cold come into her
heart; saw the room go slowly round and round; and
presently sank her whole length on the floor.

“Why, Laura, have you no more spirit?” were the
first words she heard, consciously.

*“What—what is the matter?” she murmured, trying
to sit upright.

“Why, youfainted away when I told you Dunnisten
was alive.”

“T wonder,” she murmured, still speaking in a drowsy
voice, ‘if you had been down there in that terrible,
swirling grave; if you had partedin the midst of the

I see you will have it, and I suppose I may as
Mr. Dunniston was saved from the

| blinding waters—their roarin your ears, their thunder
| deafening you—and the remembrance came over you as

it did over me at those few words you said—if you
would not have fainted, too.”

“Perhaps, I dare say. Forgive me, Laura, I didn’t
think of that. Here, let me bathe your forehead. I was
very thoughtless. Are you better now? There, sit up
here while I] read my letter—for the letter is from him,
dear, from his own hand—and though I was very angry
with him once, yet | am anxious now to see what he has
to say for himself. You did not know that he had
come into the title, did you? I don’t suppose he knew
it himself till after his arrival. I can imagine why he
has not written before; and any way, I am not sure E
shall forgive him.”

“From hin /—the letter from him!” gasped Laura—
her lips dry, and her mouth fixed, while her fingers wan-
dered nervously over the sofa pillows. “Has he—said—
anything—about—me ?”

“Why, how doI know? I haven’t even looked inside
the letter; and—why, Laura, what is the matter with
you ?”

‘‘Nothing—only—I don’t feel very well. Oh, will he
tell her, 2as he told her, that I forged that letter ?” she
said to herself, writhing in agony.

“Lie down while Tread. Jt would be very strange if
he didn’t say anything about you, parting with youas he
did. There, now.”

She shook the pillow, and forced her friend to lie
down. Laura would have made good her escape, but
she really had not the power. Her limbs failed her; her
temples throbbed; her head felt dull and sore. With alt
this, that strong, overmastering love, that she could not
conquer—that she had prayed might leave her—for one
who, if his confession were proved true, was not worthy
of any honorable woman's love, still conquered her rea-
son. If he were alive, she held his secret ; with that,
she might make her own terms—if he had only spared
her in this letter.

Meantime Isoline read with burning cheeks, and eyes
that in their splendor outrivaled the flash of the dia-

{ monds at her throat.

“He only speaks of you in this way,” she said at last;
“for I can’t show you the whole of this letter.” And she
read : ;

‘I saw the last of your friend, Miss Laura Veschoff.
She stood on the deck with me, and 1 did my utmost to
save her, by tying her to my arm with a woolen scarf;

| but when the mast fell we were parted, and I have since
| thought she must have instantly gore dOwi, Sie was

avery charming girl, and ladmireti her, even lovedher
—as your friend,’ : \ LA

“You see, he underlinestiat; “you mustn’t be jeals
ous,” she added, laughing’

Jealous! if that-was what Laura felt at_ that moment,
then the fangs of a tiger would have been more merciful.

“But only think, Laura,” continued Isoline, drawing a
long sigh, ‘‘the letter I received was a forgery! Did you
ever hear of anything so contemptible? Why, it came
near costing me my life. Who could have done it ?”

“Some enemy,” murmured Laura, faintly.

“Of course. He says he knows very well who was its
author; but as the hand that penned it is now cold in
death, he forbears to disclose the name. That shows
him to have a fine sense of honor.”

“Very,” said Laura, still writhing, and drawing her
breath with difficulty. ,

“But if everl meet him IJ’ll get it out of him,” con-
tinued Isoline, a sense of triumph in her voice. “So
pe ; you see, I really am in correspondence with a
ord.’

Laura bit her lip.

‘Well, now, do you feel well enough to go down, dear ?”
asked Isoline. ‘They will miss me, particularly as it is
almost time for supper.”

“Let me stay a while; I’m a little dizzy yet,” mur-
mured Laura,

“Certainly; but had I not better send Stratton up?
She will bathe your head.”

“No, no—in merey! There, I didn’t mean to be quite
so dramatic; but I have been so startled—and that
dreadful scene came up before me with such vividness,
T’li be down as soon as I feel better. ’

“Very well; then I'll leave you; but come down soon ;”
and Laura was left alone.

The first thing she did was to groan audibly. Then
with a frantic gesture, she clasped her hands over her
head, with one long, wild wail of anguish, all the more
bitter that it was partly suppressed. -

“Living !” she cried, writhing and trembling, “living!
and he thinks me dead!—how shall I undecelve him ?
And, oh, that terrible interchange of confidence !—could |

he have meant it? I have heard that men willfully in=
vent such stories, sometimes even when they aredying,

where they wish to wound, And he would deny it now