Complete in this Number, Copyrighted 1878, by BEADLE AND ADAMS. BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS, No. 98 Wini1am Street, New Yorr. PRICE 10 CENTS. “A Woman's Hand. — BY SEELEY REGESTER. AUTHOR OF ‘‘THE DEAD LETTER.” CHAPTER I. SHADOW LIFE. I wap figure eight on the brain. I dreamed it, whispered it, saw it on the wall, on people’s foreheads, counted it with the plates at table, with the stones of the pavement, the clouds in the air! Three weeks before, my uncle had been found dead in his library, fallen on the floor beside his table, a pen graspe It was apparent that he had died very sudden- ly, it was supposed, at first, from apoplexy, but, as it was soon ascertained, poisoned with prus- sic acid, whether purposely or accidentally, by | himself, or whether by the murderous will of another, still was an open question. He had complained, in the morning, at table. of a slight headache, olay. serious—or at least we had supposed not—and later, after walk- ing about in the ae in hopes the fresh air would dispel his s ne ailment, he had gone to his library, as was his practice, for a couple of 0. 46. hours in the forenoon. No member of the spasmodic effort of the perishing will, even household knew of any one’s having entered | while the man was fighting for a moment of the room save himself, as it-was the custom not | life. He had sunk and died with the pen in to intrude upon him while in his library. Be-| his hand, and this was all the record he had | side him, on the table, was a small salver, | made. holding a wine-glass which had been nearly| My uncle had justi returned from California, emptied of its contents—port, and in the port, | with sixty thousand dollars in gold—gold which that deadly potion which had done its work | had not, as yet, even passed through the mint, with such fearful swiftness. It mighthave been but which lay in dull bars of yellow richness, that he, being his own physician, had prescribed | just as it had been melted by himself in a rude for himself, and through inadvertence—for his | crucible, week by week and month by month of was always a dreamy temperament, and hisab- | his two years sojourn in the newly-discovered sence of mind a standing jest with his friends— | El Dorado. He had, in the very pride of his had dropped this horrible poison in place of the | conquest over the ill fortune which had banish- sulphuric acid which stood. not far from it upon the medicine-shelf in his laboratory. However, ent, were but conjecture. | soon as the first great shock of surprise | and consternation was over, and his dead | had been borne to an adjacent room, much at- | tention was given to a sheet of paper discover- ed lying upon the table. A scrawled, illegible line of writing, followed by a tremulous, irreg- ular figure eight, was upon its face, as if in a | hurried moment it had been seized to communi- — cate to the living some piece of intelligence | which the dying man deemed of interest or im- portance. tt had been evidently traced by a | ed him from home, friends and his dear studies, opened the iron-bound box and showed it to Huy ag i un I COULD NOT SPEAK NOR STIR; WHILE SHE, HER ALARM SUBSIDING, GAVE ME A SEARCHING LOOK.—Page 6. din his stiffened fingers. | this, and all other versions of the affair, at pres- | Lillian and myself the day after his welcome home. How Lillian had clasped her hands for joy! I, who read her sweet nature so truly, ew well enough that joy arose from no ra- acious love of money, for its own sake, but rom the consciousness that there lay the hard- ly-won treasure which was to free her dear father from the wretched embarrassments and anxieties which, for years, had rendered him miserable. Sixty thousand dollars then was a goodly for- tune, and Lillian felt that her father was re- stered to her, in his old self, as she flung her 2 THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY. arms about his neck, mutely congratulatin him with a kiss. _Yc3, \7hen the ten-thousand- dollar mortgage against the old homesteac) was paid off, and sundry other obligations dis- charged, there still would be a handsome sum remaining for the use of parent and child. And, dearest thought of all, her father now could re- sign the distasteful hardships of a country med- ical practice, and dovote himself to the more congenial pursuits of finishing ‘a partially-writ- ten treatise on the Nerves, Bnd continue his experiments in chomistry, which had promised to be so fruitful of :interesting results, but from which he had beon drivo-: by his necessities. But Dr. Meredith was dead—dead and buried! The whole country-sido had attended his fune- ral, moved by curiosity and that love of cxcite- ment which all the circumstances of this singu- lar case were so well calculated to arouse. Why had he died? and why, in dying, had he inscribed that singlo character to mystify, per- plex and haunt? Hundreds had asked them- selves and othor= tho question—but no ono with such terrible earnestness as I had asked it of myself, every day more searchingly. Hour by hour, minute by minute, through the sol- emn days, and through much of the night-time when sleep refused to visit my heavy eyes, I mdered over the ea That there was a taae and most vital significance in the charac- ters traced I only too ‘well knew. Not a pen- scratch of will or devise was found among his papers—not a line to indicate his wishes and purposes—not a shadow of information to tell us where was deposited the precious treasure which was to free the dear old home from the sheriff’s order of sale. Every drawer had been ransacked, every secret place of deposit search- ed, but not a trace of the hardly-won gold—not a hint of its existence. Had he hidden it away, distrusting all men, in some unsuspected burial-place? or—the very thought maddened me—had some one wrested the money from him, and he, in his despair— taken poison to end his misery over the ruin which must follow? EHight—eight—r1eutT! That was his last pre- cious communication, written with death tug- ging at his heart-strings: what did it mean? ree weeks flew by—weeks of unanswered inquiry—of the deepest sorrow to the house- hold—of. distress over the evil to come. ‘So abstracted in my visit and oppressed with them had I been that I had failed to discover the danger in which I was placed. These three weeks had brought a great change in the de- meanor of the community toward me. I awak- ened from my abstraction to read suspicion in eyes which were once kind—to feel that, in all Hampton, there were not a dozen persons who did not regard me as my uncle’s murder- er! Soa I was sitting in.my room, as I be- lieved for the last time. That da was in- formed by an anonymous note—whether from friend or enemy I could not tell—that the popu- lar Soceue aeeenet me would culminate, on the morrow, in my arrest, and I was advised to fly. It must have been the advice of an enemy, yet I was about to take it. I knew such a step would be ruinous to myself; that it would be like an- nouncing pti to be the guilty man; and, in case of my being followed and: discovered, that it would hasten my condemnation. Yet T had reason for this course so powerful as to decide me in its favor. It was midnight. Attwoo’clockthe night ex- Ps would pause a moment at Hampton on its ying journey to New York; I proposed to take it, in such disguise that the sleepy station-mas- ter should not recognize me, and before this country neighborhood began to buzz and stir in anticipation of the event of the day, I should be lost in a city wilderness, hiding myself in a crowd, safe for an hour or a day—after that all was vague. : On my table lay a letter which I had written to Lillian: ‘Think of me as you will, cousin Lil- lian. Iswear to you, by the memory of. your dead mother, that I am innocent. It is solel, in your interest that I-take the step I do. leave pay what little money I haye—three hun- dred dollars. Your father Pete it to me, as you know, toenable me toatitend a course of lectures. Itis yours by right. Bevery saving of it, for you do not yet realize what it is be both ae and friendless. The knowledge, I ear, will come to you too soon, in spite of my efforts to save you from it. God give you strength to face the future and me strength to work out the dread secret of my uncle’s death.” The clock in the lower hall struck twelve; no, + did not, but should have struck twelve. its sil- ver peal rung like an alarum through the in- tense stillness, and seemed such to my strained, excited ear. I was not aware that 1 was count- a chimes, but when a dull silence ensued after the hammer had tolled eight strokes, my pulse are as suddenly as the clock. ae es, as thesilence closed I was conscious that had been counting. It struck eight and no more Mind and nerves being already overstrained, this coincidence gave a new impetus to my fears, or terror, or dread—whatever may have been the feeling. Only eight! I thought I should suffocate, my heart stood still for such a time. I rushe to tho window for air. It was now the first of July—a hot, breathless night, although the moon rode high in the heavens, shedding a glory only less than that of day. The absolute serenity of the moon-flooded hea- ven calmed me. I began to say to myself— ‘““The clock has run down. In the excitement of this dreadful time ithas been neglected. There is nothing about that which cannot,be easily ac- counted for. I will go down and wind it up.” It was an eight-day-clock. My uncle always had attended to it himself. Since his death it had been wound but once; a servant, observing that it had run down, had attended to it. Of course it was only by the merest chance that, again neglected, it had lost the a to con- re its chime, and had ceased after eight slow strokes. : ‘When one’s mind is in-a state of preternatural or diseased activity, it will seize upon the slight- est thread to v ‘ave into the web with which it busies itsclf. 1 was obliged to repeat several times—“It is only because the clock has run down—I will go and wind it up,” before I could summon courage to cross my room, open m: door, and step into the dimly-lighted upper hall. I am sure that’ I expected to confront my uncle as I opened the door. I can hardly say whether I most hoped or feared to do so. Cer- tain it is that, had he been ee there, in whatever supernatural guise, I should have sa- luted him with the one eager question which was burning in my brain—should have asked him for the key to the cipher he had left. No spirit met me, nor mortal, as I trod the glimmering length of the shadow-haunted pas- sage, and descended the broad stairs with a ste as silent as if I had been one of the ghosts waltich I half-expected would rise to. confront me. The lower hall was much better lighted than the up- per. The wide doors at either end were half of glass, and the tall form of the old-fashioned time-piece stood fully revealed in the illumina- tion from without. A bright rift of moonlight lay across the foot of the stairs, as it struck through the parlor door, across the well-worn carpet. I had missed the ticking of the pendu- lum as soon as I opened the door, and was thus assured that my conjecture was correct—the clock had run down. Icould not reach to wind the piece without standing upon a chair, but as none was at hand I stepped into the parlor for one, with which I was returning, when a slight clicking sound ar- rested me, and I drew back into the shadow of the door. From where I stood I could see, without being seen. A woman came out of the library—that apartment so gloomily invested with the late tragedy—a woman whose tall figure I recogniz- ed even before the rift of moonlight fell across the pale, powerful face, with its flashing eyes and Neary brow. It was Miss Miller, Lillian’s governess. She was dressed in a long white night-robe; and her black hair hung over her shoulders, as if she had been in bed and had risen therefrom. As she paused to cautiously reclose the door, her face lit up with a smile, and she muttered, half-whispering, half-aloud— ‘‘T have the key for which they. would give so much.” 4 Then she seemed to float up the long stairway, she went so noiselessly and softly, disappearing in the upper shadows, To me she had the ap- earance of a sleep-walker, yet I believed her be awake and in her right mind. : Remembering many things which I knew too well, I cannot say that I was so much astonish- ed as startled at seeing her steal out of that room in the dead hour of the night. A thousand surmises stung me as with so many needles; but most I longed to know the secret of that softly- breathed assertion. Did she speak of the figure eight and its unread riddle? or did she refer to some material key, necessary to unlock some drawer or case in my uncle’s library, of some importance, perha ut insignificant, after all, as compared with the inference? I was tempted to rush after her and seize her by the hair or the throat and demand. an expla- nation of her self-revealed words. She and I were not good friends. It doubtless was she who first breathed the suspicion which had quivers strength as it spread, until now it was ‘iving me from home and Lillian. At least, I gave Miss Miller credit for having done me this “evil service. I was tempted, I say, to rush after her and wring the truth from her by violence; but a moment’s reflection showed me the hour had not yet come for me to strike—would never come, except by great patience and cunning— perhaps great suffering—on my aa IT must carry out my es of fight in order to’ gain lib- erty wherein to work. In a prison I could do nothing. It was not so much dread of confine- ment or ignominious death as it was the desire to keep myself free to work, which impelled me to flight. “I already had tasted the bitterness of ascorned life in seeing my friends turn from me; but I had still everything to live for as long as that communication of my dying bene- factor remained an enigma, and so long as my dear cousin—but of that no more here. In a fow moments I retraced my steps, I did not wind the clock, for fear that another might surprise me, as I had her; but, after waiting un- til she had time to regain her apartment, I went to mine and hastily finished my few prepara- tions for departure. With a workin; ’s ‘blouse over my coat, and a broad-brimmed straw hat, I considered myself sufficiently disguised for the journey. If the station-master should recognize me, he had no power to detain me, and he probably would give no alarm before morni The ride.to the city would be only of about three hours’ duration; and, once merg- ed in that vast sea of human beings, I hoped to avoid recognition. In those days, photography slept gee and the one daguerreotype of my features which hitherto had graced the parlor etigere I had that day confiscated and destroyed, so that the police —who doubtless would be placed on my track —would have no. better knowledge of my per- sonal appearance than could be gathered from verbal description. . Long before one o’clock I was entirely ready. It would take me but fifteen minutes to walk to the station; yet I was so oppressed by the con- flicting emotions which crowded upon me, as well as by the heat of that sultry but brilliant midnight, that I could no longer remain in m room, With the traveling-bag which held all cared to take with me from Meredith Place, I again descended the’ glimmering staircase, and, staring up.at the silent clock, which seemed to have paused in its ceaseless duty to mark the hour of my flight, passing the closed library door with a shudder, I softly unfastened the rear door of the hall and stepped out into the garden. Tiger lay on the steps, but allowed mo fo pass, wagging his tail just enough to betray his friendliness and his sleepiness. Brave old fellow; he was not wise enough to understand what the world was saying of me, and he loved me still. I did not.at once go out upon the road. I had an hour to spare, and ‘‘something in my feet” drew me on to the arbor at the end of the large old-fashioned garden. It was my cousin’s fa- vorite resort in the doug summer afternoons; and, too, as Isat there, 1 could see the muslin curtain faintly fluttering over her chamber- window. The arbor was draped with roses now in their fullest bloom; the warmth of the night called out their richest perfume, and they a peared to throb in the lustrous radiance whic surrounded them as my heart throbbed in think- ing of Lillian. f ut this was no moment for a young man’s fancies to bloom. I had nothing to do with the flush and sweetness of life—alas, nothing! All was stern and hard—an awful reality of sorrwo and danger. My reputation gone, my life in ril—it was not of this I so bitterly pondered, resolved to work, to wait, to scheme, to watch, never to let go my hold on the slender thread of one small fact until I had worried and shaken the truth from it. I had a clue—a spider’s thread, indeed, but stilla clue, to the mystery of my uncle’s sudden death; though none what- ever to the meaning of the figureeight. If I lived, both of these should be made plain as day; my cousin’s fortune should be restored to her, and I exonerated in the minds of our acquaint- ances. I had sat in the shadowed arbor about ten minutes when I heard Tiger give a low growl; _but he did not repeat it, and [ had almost for- eien it, when I saw descending the broad gar- en path, now in light, now in shade, as she “moved beneath the mountain-ashes which lined the way, the same woman who had appeared in the hall, her tall form towering to a supernatu- ral hight as she came down the vista with her white night-dress trailing behind her and her hair ereene beneath her waist in dark masses. Not that she was really much above the average hight, but her mite er gliding step, and the flickering light made her an peat so. My first impulse was to rise as I saw that she approach- edimy retreat; but I could not escape her obser- vation should I now attempt to leave it, and with a muttered word of wrath at this (to me) dangerous and unpleasant renconter, I awaited her. Presently she stood in the open arch which admitted the arbor. I shrunk back in the shadow of the vines as much as possible, but the full splendor of the moon streamed down upon her, so that I saw her with every fold of her garments and line of her features vividly mark- ed in the pale light. She seemed to be looking directly at me with wide-open, glittering eyes, but I was soon convinced that she did not see me. Her gaze was more as if she looked through and beyond me. I saw that she was walking in her sleep.’ Was it her conscience, like that of Lady Macbeth, which brought her out of what should be repose, to walk abroad with those staring eyes and features set in a bere pe of blank gloom and horror? I judged her h ry as she had already judged me. Now, indeed, I held my breath with an inten- sity of interest, for it was not im ble that this somnambulistic person was about utcon- ton he to place in my very hand the wished- or thread. For a time, which seemed to me long, but .which could not have been more than one or two if | } | | j | | ; 3 A WOMAN'S HAND. minutes, she stood at the entrance, her eyes looking straight before her, seemingly at me. Her face was colorless, her brows contracted, her whole look almost fearful. Then her,eyes began to wander about the place, uneasily, but still as if she saw things which were not there, instead of the objects before her. She slowly raised her hand, and with extended fore-finger made several movements, as if counting, Then she searched the floor of the arbor with her eyes, and again moved lips and fingers as if counting the stones with which it was paved. My blood tingled in my veins as Isawa change come over her countenance—a gleam broke through its stony gloom. There grew a change in what at first seemed the meaningless move- ments of one who slept; I watched, with bated breath, as she advanced within, again seemed to count with fingers and lips, and suddenly dropping on her ane began to tug at one of the flat, square stones, which, as I have said, paved the arbor. Of course, with her unaided woman’s strength she could not remove it. I longed to go down beside her and assist her. I, recognized an object in her efforts. I could hardly refrain from thrusting her aside and tearing up the stone in the fierceness of my own curiosity. The thought that if I were mistaken. in my conjecture, all would be lost, should I awaken the governess at this crisis, restrained me. Finding she could not lift the stone, she took a pair of scissors from a ribbon about her neck and slowly pried out the earthjand mortar about it. The work seemed tome endless, Per- sistently, but with annoying deliberation, she worked away; I almost touched her where she knelt beforeme; I did not believe that she would succeed in loosening the block with the little in- strument so ridiculously inadequate to the task she had ree Cautiously I drew forth my watch—but I need not have feared disturbing her; she remained unconscious of my proximity; it was a quarter past one. She worked on; it was half past one. At two I must be at the station. When my impa- tience had reached a feverish hight, she ran the tiny lever deep down beside the stone; the ailipaaaaipes as she pried up the mass; but the stone moved, and gaining a firmer hold with her fingers she pulled it slowly from its place and: peered into the cavity thus made. I also stooped and peered. If ever in my life I ex- pected anything it was to see the missing box —the box containing my uncle’s gold—which had disappeared before or at the time of his death. y head almost: touched hers, our breaths mingled, I gave a low ery when I beheld only the hardened, undisturbed earth,—no box, nor marks of recent disturbance. | The gover- ness did not hear my ery; she plion the broken scissors into the ground with fierce impatience, but there was nothing there save the soil which yielded to her strokes. : “That boy is cunning !” she whispered, ‘‘ too eunning! too cunning!” she pw the , stone back, fitted it to its place, with her handkerchief brushed, away the loose gravel and dirt, arose to her feet, and looking a and doubtfully around the pavement, muttered: ‘‘ 1 must count again. I did not begin right.” That instant I heard the whistle of the ap-) proaching train, through the still night air, at! the village next to Hampton, where it did) not stop, and I knew that I ‘but six minutes to use in gaining the station. Was she going now, | or would she er her experiments. further? Yes, she turned to leave; and as she glided out into the moonlight, I darted past her, down. to the gate at the bottom of the garden, out, upon the road, where, running as fast as my traveling- bag would permit me, Iwas just in time to gain | a foothold on the platform of the last car, prob- ably unnoticed by the station-master. CHAPTER IL. THE HAUNTED ARBOR, Iwas nosooner seated in the flying train than all my plans were changed. fore the con- ductor reached me I had foregone my resolution to seek a hiding-place in the city, and contented myself with purchasing a ticket to the first stop- ping-place. garding, me as some coun outh, seeking employment from village to vil- layout he thought of me at all—the conductor gave me my ticket and change, and I had half an hour to reflect upon what was before me ere the train again paused. When it did, I de- scended, it whirled on, andI was left, to success or failure, as the case might be. I found my- self on the edge of a large town with which I was somewhat Fa of going to a hotel, or otherwise exposing myself to those who might recognize and report me, I walked, 4. on to the main street, only to strike off again, leave the town, cross fields and woods, to come upon a back-country road or lane where l knew I might walk all day without danger. feeling myself comparatively safe here, as the sun came up, I chosea snug fence-corner, where, with my head on my bag, slept away much of the fatigue of the night. I was a the clear, sharp whistle of a farmer, who eyed me closely as he passed by to his morning’s work. It was novel to me, and not to shrink from any one’s observation; but I felt that it was something I should become accus- ‘amiliar; but I had no intention — tomed to,’ ‘‘Mornin’,” said he, cheerily, as if he saw nothing very desperate in my face. ‘“Good-morning, sir. Could you tell me where I could find and pay for some breakfast? I’m traveling cheaply, you see—by my own convey- ance—as poor men have to do.” Ismiled as I said it, and he, waking to sym- pathy with a brother, workman, jerked his thumb over his shoulder, saying: “Over. yon is my house, 1 guess wife ’ll give ye something to eat” —and she did. When I was again on the road I had gone but alittle way, when another farmer came, along with a hay-wagon and.offered to take me up, as oe as he was going. I climbed toa seat beside nm, “‘ How far is it to Hampton?” I asked. ‘Leven mile. Going there?” ‘Going through there, £ suppose.” “Great times there just now. I was over to Hampton yisterday with some butter’n eggs, and I heard talk of the murder of the big doctor there. S’pose you hain’t heard on’t, if youdon’t belong in these parts. ‘They say his own nephew pisened him to git his money.” “He must, be a hard.case!” “Oh, awful! allays was, they i ges people talk of lynching him, You see, his uncle did everything for him, and he jist. turned ’round an’ murdered him, and stole the gold which ought to belong to his uncle’s wife an’ daugh- r ‘“What did they do with him? and what did he do with the gold?” “They hain’t done anything with him yit,— but they will. What he’s done with the gold is amyst’ry. ‘Twas all in.a box. He must ’a’ buried it, not thinkin’ he’d be suspected, and cal- culating to wait until he’d a chance to. make oif with it. . They say the Doctor died so sudden he hadn’t no time to tell anything, but he tried to write somethin’, they can’t make out what, only there’s a figger, and nobody knows what it means.” ‘‘ Curious,” I remarked, mechanically. My companion, continued to discuss the en- prossing subject while I sunk into silence, scarce- y hearing what he said, My mind reverted to the calamity which had overtaken Meredith Place; to.its effect upon myself and others. The rough words of the farmer brought all_ more vividly before me, . The terrible-day rolled back upon me with.a crushing weight—the day of the murder.. As I have said, Doctor Meredith had been home but three weeks—busy weeks to him, as he was looking over his papery, getting ready to settle his accounts, pay off the mort- gages due in July, and renovate the old place. t was a beautiful, sunny day, the 16th of June. Miss Miller’s trunks stood, Swap Eee in the hall, waiting the morrow’s stage. Iwas to leave the fcllowing Monday... Lillian and I were walking back and forth on the porch, she in one ne ot most brilliant moods, I in one of my most stupid. : uddenly, as she teased and jested with me on my. stubbornness and silence, scream after scréam es the house,,so sharp, so wild; they: filled the air with a nameless terror. Lillian caught my arm, — Together we rushed into the Those piercing shrieks came from the library, where, pressing in at once, we saw my uncle dead upon the floor, his young wife standing over him, unconscious of everything in the first shock, crying out in that dr ‘ul man- ner. Immediately Miss Miller, drawn by her screams, joined us, the servants came pouring in, a contused, helpless group. - “It must be apoplexy—and. heart-disease,” = Se Miss Miller; ‘bring water—open his Vv “Tt is vain,” I said, as I obeyed her, “‘my uncle is dead,’ Let me pass over the succeeding hour, Phy- sicians came, but they had nothing to do just then but to administer to the wildly-distressed wife and daughter. Miss Miller proved the strength of her nerves and resolution.. She did all that could be done to calin the house- hold and keep, it in order. Neighbors came in; the dociors, with others, examined the body and took note of the room—soon with a minute; terrible and searching interest—for al- most the first, thing they found was a wine- glass, partially emptied of its contents, in the bottom of which was perhaps a spoonful of port wine, emitting an odor speaking at once to the experienced physicians of prussie acid. This discovery. was carefully, withheld from Lillian and Inez. The room was thoroughly in- vestigated, and placed under lock and key. For the first. tew hours it was universally thought that Dr. Meredith had committed sui- cide. Those engaged in the matter looked for some written contession or explanation. As I have said, nothing was found but that tremulous figure eight scrawled upon the sheet, as if the doctor, in the very act of swallowing the deadly draught, had felt it do its work too swiftly to allow him to finish it, and he had dropped the glass and grasped the pen, urged by an all- omereal desire to leave some message to his ends, ‘When they had a little more leisure to reflect upon it, the men engaged in the investigation began to-ask themselves what possible motive Dr. Meredith could have for committing. sui- cide. - His affairs were ina most prosperous con- dition, his health was good, he was happy in the society of a young wite—how improbable that he should have flung life away, at its most goid- en moment! They whispered together, rolled their eyes about, scrutinized every member of the household, lingering with most suspicious looks upon myself, the poor, relative, and upon the little foreign lady, the bride of a few weeks, the black-eyed Cuban girl with her southern temperament of fire and honey, Probably they saw little in either of us,to confirm ,their’vague surinises, and they gradually settled down to the conviction that the doctor had poisoned him- self through carelessness. Hislaboratory kad a good store of poisons—he was always dabbling in dangerous | things—making curious experi- ments—perhaps at last he had fallen a victim to his own curiosity or inadyertency. In. fact, at_the coroner’s inquest.the verdict was that Dr. Meredith had come to his death, in allhuman probability, from the careless use of prussic acid. There the matter might. have rested in the minds of the community, had not the edy been followed by the startling discovery of the disappearance of the box, which. contained all the treasure which the doctor had brought from California. He had kept this box in his own bed-cham- ber, where Lillian and myself had examined its contents but, two. days previously; we knew the closet where it stood, and led the executors to the spot. without_a thought of the dismay which awaited us, when the door was broken oben, Bue key being lost and no box was to be ‘oun This second stroke of fate added anew to our trouble; not so much to Lillian’s, for she was too wrapped in grief, and too ignorant, of the uses of money, to feel the force of the blow. 1 comprehended all it,meant. Poverty, absolute poverty, for these two. young creatures. Mere- dith Place would be sold over their heads in less than a month. Noshelter, no support awaited them. _ Oh, that I had the energy, the talent, the opportunity to make and keep a home for them! I felt instinctively that if Lillian’s fortune was lost, Arthur Miller would. desert -her, and,. be- lieving that she loved him, I feared, that. ske would sink under so much wretchedness. ‘*T must find that box! I must find that box!” I said to myself day and night.° ‘‘Oh, if I could unravel the mystery of that figure eight!” In some manner I had it impressed on my mind that there was some connection between that figure eight and the missing gold. I had no earthly reason for thinking-so, yet the idea was like fire burning in my brain. As days passed I was constrained to see some- thing new in the manner of all who approached me. Instinctively I knew the cause of it. Finally. Arthur Miller, with a cool audacity for which i knocked him down, told me that it was the gen- eral belief that I had, stolen the gold and mur- dered my uncle. He would advise.me, as a friend, to leave the country, for he looked, every hour, to hear of my arrest: adie As I say, I knocked him down..,,He could af- ford to brush the dust off his coat with a smile; he was speaking the truth, for once, and he left me to the bitter consciousness of it, | , Of course they would suspect me/ was I not an idle fellow?, Had I not been an adventurer? Could any one tell any. good.of me?.,Was not my father a wicked and. dissipated man before me? Did not the village still remember when I came, ragged and rough, to my uncle’s;—that benevolent man, who, had warmed: the viper in his bosom only to be stung to death at last?.. . I could imagine just w. they were sayin and thinking. Oh, ! Lillian would hear, this, before long: Would she, too, suspect and “oT had! locked for safe kee) the sheet ey up, for safe keeping, t! i] of paper with the qoure eight. upon ity bub Lsaw it always, as plainly as if I held the page in my hand, Was that e the key to the crime and mystery? I must decipher it! Ruin impended over me—ay, worse ve impended over her I loved—over Meredith Place! : “Dying, look” —so much of the scrawled mes- sane it had been easy to decipher. Oh, that, the fai sight, the cramping muscles had but re- tained their vigor a, moment longer, thatthe re- mainder of this solemn testament might be made plain! Look, where? Ifthe box had been stolen by the one who poisoned him, then, of course, my uncle must have been unaware,of its where- abouts, and the message could not. have related to that. Still, I felt that it did refer toit. The doctor had been a person with many si ways and habits; he might have taken a fancy that his fortune was not ‘safe, and himself had hidden. it.in,some unfindable spot; unaware of the catastrophe impending over him. This idea was so hnprobable that I could:never entertain it for many consecutiye moments, ever returning from every speculation on the subject to the same dull feeling of despair. ; So. entirely was I lost in’ these reflections that.I groaned aloud, forgetful of my companion, till he jogged my elbow inquiring if I were in pain, when I started, to find myself in company 4, ee ee with a stranger, jolting along over the rough country road. “My head aches,” I said, in answer to his question. ‘I tooka nap on the dew this morn- ing and have neuralgia, to pay for it.” “Must be more keerful of yerself, young man. You'll grow more prudent as you grow older. But I turn off here—yonder’s the road to er A ton; youre about six miles from there now. If they catch that Joe Meredith, I’m going to bring my wife and children and come over to see him hung. Iv’ll be satisfaction to see such a rascal got out o’ the way. Good-by, stranger Hope vow ll get over your neurolagy.” “He'd cure with a hempen einen to my neck, if he knew who I was,” thought I, as he turned his horses’ heads, while I jogged on to- ward Hampton. I was now in the vicinity of home, so that 1t behooved me to be careful in meeting people on the road; and I took to the fields and woods, slowly making my way, by uninhabited routes, until I found myself in the glorious old woods which bounded the north and east of the Mere- dith estate. I will state my reasons for so abruptly aban- doning my flight to the city and returning upon my course. © incident of the preceding night appeared to me of sufficient importance to war- rant my changing my plans. I believed that Miss Miller had, or thought she had, a clue to the mystery, and I resolved to place myself as a spy over her movements. Difficult as it might seem to enact the part of spy, when I was oblig- ed to keep myself concealed, there would also be advantages in my position. The woman was an artful and talented one; I never had, in a three years’ residence under the same roof, pretended to understand her; I knew that she was afraid of, while she hated me; and in my absence she might betray herself and her purposes in a hun- dred ways upon which she would not venture under my observation. However, it would be necessary for me to have an ally: In the woods where I now skulked, stood a cottage peeat stm to the estate, inhab- ited at present only by an old woman whose son had worked the farm the previous summer, but had now gone West to try his hand on land of his own, His mother was to come to him when he was fairly settled and able to send for her. In the meantime, through my good nature, in the doctor’s absence, she had been allowed to occupy the cottage rent free; she was also a _re- cipient of many a tid-bit from the kitchen, while L a double claim upon her gratitude by hav- ing assisted her son to emigrate, and by assidu- ously nursing her through an attack of rheum- atic fever. Ihad chopped wood and built fires for her with my own hands, had steeped many a cup of tea for her, and rubbed her creaking old joints till my own muscles ached. For all this she had been garrulous in protestations of grati- tude, I was now about to test its quality. Lingering in the vicinity until assured that she had no visitors I oe te the open door to find Gram’me Hooker knitting peacefully, her old face bathed in the July sunshine. -“Doetor Joe! be that you?” _ She always called me Doctor Joe, though I was hardly entitled to the dignity of the pre- *