nV ‘Week. 3EADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS, No. 98 Wiiiam Srreer, New York. Pr Three Times Dead. BY MISS M. E. BRADDON. CHAPTER I. I pon’r suppose it rained harder in the good } ne town of Slopperton on the Sloshy than it rained | de anywhereelse. But itdid rain. There wasn’t an umbrella in Slopper- ton that could stand the rain that came uring down that ovember afternoon between the hours of four and five... That rather dingy stream, the Sloshy, was s\wol- len into a kind of | dirty Meee and the graceful coal- barges, which adorn- ed ped pace Pree stri ° 8 chiatry lines and flut- tering linen which usually. were to be seen on their decks. Mr. Jabez North, assistant and usber at the Academy .of Dr. Tappenden, was not in anywise affected by either fog, rain,or wind. He was’not eold, or if, he was cold,.be didn’t mind being cold. He was sitting at. his aon, mending pens hearing six red-nosed boys conjugate the verb ‘‘ Amo,” to love —while the said boys were giving prac- tical illustrations of the active verb, to shiver—and the pas- sive ditto, to be puz- gled. ei not only a x young wa inie Jabez North (and he must have been a very. good young man, for his goodness was almost in.-every mouth in, Slopperton,indeed he was looked upon by many excellent old ladies as an incarna- tion of the ean pious), but he was rather a handsome. young man also. He had thin, delicate fea- tures, a pale, fair complexion, ‘and ~ women said, Jory beautiful bine eyes; only it was un- fortunate that ; these eyes, being, accord, / ing to report, of such ‘a véry beeutifal ‘col: * or, ‘had a shifting way with them, and never looked at you THEY DUG IT A GRAVE IN THE | long enough for you to find out their exact hue, or their exact expression either. he had what was called a very fine head of fair curly hair, and what some ‘people con- sidered a very fine head also—though it was a pity, it shelved. off on either side in the locality | wheré people placed the organ of conscientious- A phrenologist who came to Slopperton, ared John North to be singularly wanting in that small virtue, and also expressed » his . Copyrighted 1881, by BEADLE anp ADaMs. Also, COLD, SNOW-COVERED GROUND, Complete in this Number, f ice, Ten Cents, opinion that a parallel case of deficiency. in the entire moral region be had.’never met with except in the skull of a ver criminal, who invited a’ frien murdered him on the kitchen-stairs, while the first_course was being dished. But, of course, the Sloppertonians pronounced this professor to be an impostor, ani. his art a piece of char- latanism, as they were only too happy to pro- hounce any professor of any art: that was ever : distinguished: to dinner and foolish enough to show his nose in Slopperton, Sloppertcn. keliey- ed in Jabez. North, Partly because Slop- perton had in a man- ner created, clothed, and fed him, set him on. his’ feet, (p: tted him on the head, and reared) him under the shadow of Slop- » pertonian’ wings, to be ‘the ‘good and worthy individual be. was. The story was in this wise.. Nineteen . years before this bad ovember day, a lit- tle baby had been dragged, to all a pearance. drown out, of the .muddy waters ofthe Sloshy. Fortunately, he was less drowned than- dirty, and being sub- ‘jected to very sha treatment such a being rubbed down - with a jack-towel by the ‘Slop Humane rtonian ociety— this helpless infant set up a feeble squall, and evinced otber ‘signs of a return of life. He was found in a Slopperton river, resuscitated and tak- en by a Slopperton beadle to the Slop- rton work - house; e therefore belonged to Sloppertom. Slop- perton found: hima species of barnaele hard to shake. off. The best thing, there- fore, for, Slopperton to do, was to-put the best face on a matter, and out ofits abundance, rear this unwelcome little stranger... And, tru- ly, virtue has its re- ward; for, from work-house brat to Sunday-school teach- er; from = Sunday~- school teacher to .serub at Dr. Tappen- den’s academy); from, theo sepub . to, usher of the fourth-form- and from fourth- THREE TIMES DEAD. form usher to first assistant, pet toady, and fac- totum were so many strides which Jabez went over, as in seyen-leagued boots. , Now, as to his namé of Jabez North, itisn’t to be supposed that when some wretched drab throws her hapless and sickly offspring into the river; itis not, I say, to.be supposed that she puts his cardcase in his pocket, with his name and address in neat copperplate engrayed thérein. No; he was called by the Board of the Workhouse Jabez; first because Jabez was a Scrip- tural name; secondly, perhaps, because it was an ugly one, and agreed better with the cut of his clothes, and the fashion of his appointments, than Reginald, Conrad or Augustus might have done. The called him North also becausé he was found on thenorth bank of the Sloshy, and because North was an unobtrusive and commonplace name, appropriate to a pauper; like whose impudence it would indeed be to write himself down Montmorency, or Fitz Hardinge. Now there are many natures (God-created though they be) of so black and vilea tendency as to be soured and embittered by workhouse treatment. By con- stant keeping down, by days and days which grow into years and years, in which to hear akind word is to hear astrange language; so strange as to bring a choking sensation in the throat, and hot, unbidden tears into his'eyes. Natures there are so intimately wicked as not to be improved by tyranny; by the dominion, the mockery, and the insult of little boys, such as fourth form ushers have to endure sometimes; some natures, too, so weak and sentimental as to sicken without ove human tie; a boyhood without father or mother; a youth without sister or brother. Not such the excel- lent nature of Jabez North. Tyranny found him meek, it is true, but it left him much meeker. Insult found him mild, butitleft him lamb-like, Scornful speeches glanced away on him; cruel words seemed drops of water on marble, so powerless were they to strike or wownd. He would take an insult from a boy whom, with his powerful right hand, he could have strangled or thrown from the window with one uplifting of his strong arm as he threw away a bad pen. But he wasa good young man—a benevolent young man, giving in se- cret, and generally getting his reward openly. His lett hand scarcely knew what his right hand did; but Slop- perton always know it before long. So every citizen of the borough praised and applauded this model young man, and many were the prophesies of the day, when the pauper boy should be one of the greatest men.in that greatest of all towns, the town of Slopperton. The bad Novembor day emerged into a bad November night. Dark night at five o’clock, when candles, few and far between, flickered in Doctor Tappenden’s school-room, and long rows of half-pint mugs—splendid institutions for little boys to warm their hands at, being full of boiling and semi-opaque liquid, par ex- cellence milk and water—ornamented the school-room table. Darker night, still eight o’clock, when the boys have gone to bed, and perhaps would have gone to sleep; if Aecompaine, Major, hadn't a supper party in his room, with Danbury cakes, pigs’ trotters, peri- winkles, acid rock, and ginger-beer powders, laid out upon the bolster. ‘Not so dark by the head assistant’s desk, at which Jabez sits, his face ineffably calm, look- ing over a pile of exercises. Look at his face by that one candle ; look at the eyes, steady now, for he does not ‘iream anyone is looking at‘him ; steady and lumin- ous with a subdued fire, which might blaze out some day into a deadly flame. Lovk at the face, the de- termined mouth, the thin lips, which form almost an arch, and say is that the face of man to be con- tent with a life of dreary and obscure monotony ? As somewhat intellectual face; but not the face of aman with intellect seeking for no better employ- ment than the correcting of French and Latin exer- cises, If wo could look into his heart we might find the answers to these questions. He raises the lid of his desk; a deep desk that holds many things—paper pens, letters, and what—yes—a thick coil of rope—a strange object in the assistant’s desk, this coil of rope. He looks at it as if to assure himself that it is safe; shuts his desk auickly, locks it, puts the key in his pocket; and whem at half-past nine he goes up to his little bedroom at the top of the house, he will take the desk up with him under his arm. CHAPTER II. Tux November night is darkest, foggiest, wettest, and windiest, out on the open road that leads to Slopperton. A dreary road at the best of times, this road, and dreaviest of all in one spot, about a mile and a half out of Mopperton. This'spot is a solitary house, known as . Black Mill. It was once the’cottage of a miller, and the mill stands, though in disuse, The cottage has been altered and improved and made into 4 tolerable-sized house; a dreary, rambling, tumble-down place, it is trug, but still with some pretension about it. oceupied by a widow-lady, once the owner of a very lafye fortune, which had nearly all been squandered away by the dissipation of her only son. This son had long left Slopperton. His mother had not heard of him for years. Somo said he had gone abroad. Sho used to try and hope this; bu mourned him as dead. She lived in-modest style, with one old female servant, who had been with her since her marriage, and had been faithful through every change of fortune—as these common and unlearned creatures, strange to say, sometimes are, It happened that, at this very time, Mrs. Marwood (this was the name of the owner of the Black Mill) had just received the visit of a brother who had just returned from the Kast Indies with a. large fortune. This brother, Mr. Montague Harding, had, on his landing in England, hastened to seek out his only sister ; and the arrival of the nabob at the solitary house on the Slopperton road had been a nine-days’ wonder to the good citizens. He brought with him only one servant, a half caste ; his ‘visit was to be » short one, as he was about buying an It is, ment of that sometimes, whe! estate in the south of England, on which he intended to reside with his widowed sister. - The brother and sister are seated in. the little, warm, lamplit drawing-room at the Black Mill, this dark, November night. She is a woman who ‘has once been handsome, but whose beauty has been fretted away be- neath anxieties and suspenses which wear out the strongest hope, as water wears away the hardest rock. He very much resembles her; but though his face is that of an invalid, it is not much careworn. Be a8 speaking: ‘And you have not heard from your son ?’ “For nearly seven years, pense. Seven years of cruel sus- Seyen years during which every knock at yon- der door seems to have beaten a blow upon my heart. |’ Every footstep on yonder garden-walk ‘seems to have trodden down nfy soul.’”’ “ And do you not think him dead ?” 7 “TI hope and pray not. Not dead, impenitent; not dead, without my blessing; not gone away from me forever, without one pressure of the hand, one prayer for my forgiveness, one whisper of regret for all he has made me suffer.” “He was very wild, then, very dissipated?” “He was a drunkard and a gambler. He squandered his money like water. He had bad companions, I know, but was not himself wicked at heart. The very night he ran away, the night I saw him for the last time. I’m sure he was very sorry for his bad courses; he said something to that effect; said his road was a dark one, but that it had only one end and he must go on to the end, “And you made no remonstrance ?”” “} was tired of¢remonstrance, tired of prayer, and had wearied out my soul with hope deferred.” “*My dear Agnes! Aud this poor boy, tuis wretched misguided boy, Heaven have pity upon him and restore him! Heaven have pity upon every wanderer, this dismal and pitiless night!” Heaven, indeed, have pity upon that wanderer, out upon the bleak high road to Slopperton; out upon the shelterless Slopperton road, a mile away trom the Black Mill! The wanderer is a young man, whose gar- ments, of the shabby-genteel order, are worst of all fitted to keep out this cruel weather. A handsome young man, ora. man who has once been handsome, but on whom riotous days and nights, years of drunk- enness, recklessness, and folly’ have had their dire effects. He is struggling to keep a bad cigar alight, and when it goes out, which is about twice in five ininutes, he utters expressions which in Slopperton are thought very wicked, and consigns that good city, with its vir- tuous citizens, to a very bad neighborhood. He talks to himself between his struggles with the’ cigar. ‘“ Footsore and weary, hungry and thirsty, cold and ill; it is not a very hopeful way for the son of a rich man to come back to his native place after seven years’ absence. I wonder what star presides over my vagabond existence; if knew, I’d shake my fist at it,” he muttered, ds he looked up at two or threo feeble Juminaries glimmering through the rain and fog. ““An- other mile to the Black Mill, and then what will she say tome? What can she say to me?- What have I earned by such a lifé as mine but a mother’s curse?’ His cigar chose this very moment ofall others to go aut. If the bad Havana had been a sentient thing with Teasoning powers, it might have known better. He |- threw it aside into a ditch, with anoath. He slouched his hat over his eyes, thrust one hand into the breast of his coat—he had a stick cut from some hedge- row in the other~and walked with a determined though a weary air onward through slush and mire, toward the Black Mill, from which already the lighted windows shone through the darkness like so many beacons, On through slush and mire, with a weary and slouch- ing step. ; No matter. It is the step for which his mother has waited for seven long years; it is thestep whose ghostly echoon the garden-walk has smote so often on her heart and trodden out the light of hope. But surely the step comes on now—full surely, and for good or ill. Whether for good or ill comes this long watched-for step, this bad November night, who shall say? Ina quarter of an hour, the wanderer stands in the little garden at the Black Mill house. He has not cour- age to knock at the door; it might be opened by a stranger; ho might hear something he dare not whisper to his. own heart; that which would strike him down dead apon the threshold. Ve He sees the light in the drawing-room windows ; he approaches and hears his mother’s voice. : It is a long time since he has uttered a prayer, but he falls on his knees by the long French window, and breathes a thanksgiving. That voice is not still! ‘What shall he do? What can he hope from this mo- ther so cruelly abandoned? At this moment Mr. Harding opens the window to look out at the dismal night ; 5 he does 80, the young .man falls, fainting, exhausted, into the room, Draw a curtain over the agitation and the bewilder- scene. The almost brokenhearted mother’s joy is too sacred for words. The passionate tears of the prodigal son—who shall speak of the tears of a man whose long career has been One of reckleso-. ness, and who sees his sin writtenon his mother's face. ; pny * re * * * * The mother and son sit together, devouring each other's discourse for two long hours. He tells her not of all his follies, but of all his regrets ; his punish- ment, his anguish, hia penitence and his resolutions for the future.. Surely it was for good, and good alone, that he has} come over along and dreary road, through toil and suffering, to kneel here at his mother’s feet, and build up fair schemes for the future. ; The old servant who had known Richard from a baby, shares in his mother’s joy; after the slight sup per which the wéary wanderer is induced to eat, her brother and son persuade Mrs. Marwood to retire te rest ; and, left tete-a-tete, the uncle and nephew sit down to discuss'a bottleof old Maderia by the bright sea coal fire, : r _“ My dear Richard,’”’ the young man’s name is Rich- ard— Daredevil Dick’? he had been called by. his wild conpanions—“‘ My dear Richard,” says Mr, Harding, very gravely, ‘‘Lam about to say something to you, which I trust you will take in good part.” “Tam not sousedto kind words from good men, that I am not likely to take anything you can say amiss.” : “« You will not, then, doubt the joy I feel in your return this night, if Lask what are your plans for the future ?’” The young man shook his head. Poor Richard! ‘he had never had any definite plan for the future in his life, orhe might not have been what he was that night. “My poor boy, I believe you have a noble heart, but you havo led a wasted life. . This must be repaired.’? He shook his head again. He was very hopeless of himself. “Tam good for nothing,” he said; “Iam a bad lot. I wonder they don’t hang such men as me.’”’ “TY wonder they don’t hang such men,” He uttered this reckless speech in his own reckless way, as if it would be rather a good joke to be hung up out of the way and done for. “My dear boy, thank Heaven, you have returned to us. Now, I havea plan to make a man of you yet.” 3 Richard looxed up this time with a hopeful light in his dark eyes. He was hopeless at five minutes past ten; he was radi,nt when the minute-hand had moved on to the next figure on the dial. He was one of those men whose good and bad angels have a sharp fight, anda constant struggle, but whom we all hope to see saved at last. “T have a plan which has occurred to me since your unexpected arrival this evening,” continued his uncle, “Now, if you stay here, your mother who has a trick (as all loving mothers have) of fancying you are still & little boy in a pinafore and frock—your mother will be for having you loiter about from morning till night with noting to do and nothing to care for; you will fall in again with all your old Slopperton companions’ bad habits ; this isn’t the way to make aman of you, Richard.” Richard. very radiant by this time, thinks not. “My plan is, that you start oft to-morrow morning, before your mother is up, with a letter of introduction which I will give you to an old friend of mine, a met- chant in the town of Gardenford, forty miles from here. He will give. you a berth in his office, at my request, and will treat you as if you were his own son. You can come over here to see your mother a8 often as you like; and if you choose to work hard as & merchant's clerk, s0as to make your own fortune, T know an old fellow, just returned from the East Indies, with not enough liver tokeep him alive many yea who will leave you another fortune toadd to it. Wha do you say, Richard ; is ita bargain ?”” “My dear, generous uncle,"’ Richard cries, shaking the oldman by the hand, . Was it a bargain? Of course, it was. A morchant’s office—the very thing for Richard—he would. work hard, work night and day to repair the pust, and to show the world there was stuff in him.to make 4 man, and a good man, yet. f Poor Richard, half am hour ago crying out to be hung and put out of the way, now full.of radiance and ‘hope, while the good angel has the best of it. “You must not begin,as it were, your new life without money, Richard: J shall, therefore, give you all I have inthe house, I think I cannot better show my confidence in you, and my certainty that you will not return to your old habits, than by giving you this money.” . Richard looks,he cannot speak his gratitude. The old man conducts his nephew up-stairs to his bed-room, an old-fashioned apartment; in one window of which is a handsome cabinet haif-desk, half-bureau; he unlocks thi, and takes from it a pocket-book containing one hundred and thirty odd pounds, in small notes and gold, and two bills for one hundred pounds each, on an Anglo-fndian bank in the city. .“ Take this, Richard. Use the broken cash as you require it for present. purposes—in purchasing such an outfit as be- comes my néphew—and on your arrival in Gardenford place the bills in the bank for future exigencies. And a31 wish your mother to know nothing of our little plan till you are gone, the best thing you can do is to start before any one is up—to-morrow morning. ® “J will start at daybreak ; I can leave a note for my mother.” 5 ; “No, no,” said the uncle, “I will tell her all. You can write directly yonreach your destination. Now, you will think it cruel of me to ask you to leave your home on tlie very night of your return to it; but it is quite as well, my dear boy, to strike whilst the iron’s hot, If yow remain here, your good resolutions may be vanquished by old influences ; for the best rosolu- tion is but a seed, and if it doesn't bear the fruit of & good action, it is less than worthless—for it is a lie, and promises that what it doesn’t perform. I’ve a higher opinion of you than to think that you brought no bet ter fruit of your penitence home to your loving mother, than empty resolutions. I believe you have aé determination to reform.” “You only do me justice in that belief, sir. Task nothing better than the opportunity of showing that Lar in earnest.” Mr. Harding is quite satisfied, and once more sug- ests that Richard should depart very early the next Ye 2 “J will leave this house at five in the morning,” said the néphew, ‘a train starts for Gardenford about six, | i | ot Mx nahi — * sli is 2. ; “house stands, by a wall of consi: THREE TIMES DEAD, Tahall creep ont quiotly, and not disturb any one.’ IT know the-way out of the dear old house. Ican get out of the dra -room window, and need not unlock the hall-door, for I know that good stupid old woman, Martha, sleeps with the key under her pillow.” “Aht by the way, where does Martha mean to put you to-night?” “In the little back parlor, I think she said—the room under this.’” o They go down to this little parlor, and find old Martha making up 8 bed on the sofa. “You will sleep very comfortably here for to-night, Master Richard,” said the old woman; “but if my mistress doesn’t have this ceiling mended before long, there'll be an accident some day.” They all looked up at the ceiling ; the plaster had fallen in several places, and there were one or two cracks of considerable size. “Tf it was daylight,” grumbled the old woman, “yon could see through into Mr: Harding’s bedroom, for his worship won’t have a carpet.” " His worship said he had not been used to carpets in India, and liked the sight of Mrs. Martha’s snow-white boards, ‘ ‘ “And it’s hard to keep them white, sir, I can tell you; for when I scour the floor of that room, the water runs through, and spoils the furniture down here.” » But Daredevil Dick did not seem tocare much for the dilapidated ceiling. The madeira, his brightened pros- pects, and’ the excitement he had gone through, all combined to make him thoroughly wearied out. He threw himself into his uncle’s arms with a brief but energetic expression of gratitude, and then flung him- self, half-dressed upon the bed. « There is an alarm-clock in my room,’’ said the old man, “ which I will set for five o’clock ; I always sleep with my door open, so you will be sure to hear it go down. It won’t disturb your mother, for she sleeps at the other end of the house; and now good-night, and God bless you, by boy ?”” He is gone, and the returned prodigal is asleep. His handsome face has lost half its look of dissipation and care in the renewed light of hope ; his black hair is tossed off his broad forehead, and itis a fine candid counten- ance, with a sweet smile playing round the mouth. O! there is stuff in him to make. man yet, though he says they should hang such fellows as he. His uncle had retired to his room, where his half-caste servant assists at his toilet for the night. This servant who is a Lascar, and cannot speak one word of English (his master converses with him in Hindostanee), and is thought to be as faithful as a dog, sleeps in a little bed _ in the dressing-room acioe, a master’s bed. 8. So, on this bad November + with the wind howl- ing round the walls, as if if were an angry unadmitted uest that clamored to come in; with rain beating on fhe roof, as if it had a special purpose, and was bent on flooding the old house, there is peace and happiness and a cSt and penitant wanderer at the desolate old Black : 1. CHAPTER III. Mz. Janzz Norrn had not his little room quite to himself at Dr. Tappenden’s. There are some penalties attendant even upon being very good, and our friend Ja- bez sometimes found his very virtues rather inconyen- ient. It happened that Allecompain, Junior, was ill, of fever ; sometimes delirious ; and as the usher was such an excellent young person, beloved by the boys, and trusted Applierty yy the master, the sick little boy was put under his especial care, and a bed was made ‘up for him in Jabez’s room. © his very November night, when the usher comes up stairs, his great desk under one arm (he is very strong, this usher), and a little feeble, tallow candle in his left hand, he finds the boy very illindeed. He does not know Jabez, for ho is talking of a boat-race—a race that took Jace in the bright summer quite gone by. He is sit- ing up on the pillow, waving his little thin hand, and erying out at the top of his feeble voice, ‘Bravo red, red shall win, three cheers for red, go it red ; blue’s “peat, I say blue’s beat ; Georgey Harris has won the day. Harris. I've bet sixpennorth of T’ve backed Georgey b toffey on Georgey Harris ; go it red. : “We're worse to-night then,” said the usher; “so much ‘the better. We're off our head, and we’re not likely ic take much notice; so much the better.’ ds An is benevolent young man began to undress, To undress, but not to go to bed, for from asmall | horri 82 “a black scratch wig, and a countryman’s ‘slouchéd hat. Ho dresses himself in these things, and / own at pee table, with his desk before him. © The boy ram les on; he is out nutting in the woods with his little Sister in the glorious months gone by. Shake the tree, Harriet—shake the tree; they'll fall if you only shake hard enough. Look at the hazel- nuts, 60 thick you can’t count ’em. Shake away, Harriet, and take care of your head, for they'll come ‘down like a shower of rain.’* , i ‘The usher takes the coil of rope from his desk, and begins to unwind it; he has another coil in his little trunk, another hidden away under the mattress of his bed; he joins them altogether, and they form a rope of considerable length; he looks round the room; holds the light over the boy’s face, but sees no of con- sciousness of passing events in those bright and feyer- ish eyes. ; fsa He opens the one window of his room; it is'in the third story, and looks out into the play-ground, a large apace shut in from the lane in which the svhool- derable height. About ‘Half the height of this room are some posts erected for tica: they are about ten feet the wall of : house, and the usher looks at them dubiously, He lowers the rope out of the window, and attaches one fae takes out a dark smock-frock, a pair of leather ‘ai end of it toan iron hook in the wall—a very conven- ient hook, and very secure apparently, for it looks as ifit had been only driven in that very day. He surveys the distance beneath him, takes another dubious look. at the posts in the play-ground, and is about to step out of the window, when a feeble voice from the.little bed cries out—not in delirium this time: Z “What are you doing with that rope? Who are you? What are you doing with that rope?” Jabez looks round with, for so good a young man, something very thuch resembling a suppressed oath. “Silly boy, don’t you know me?. I’m Jabez, your old friend.” “ Ah, kind old Jabez, you won't send me back in Vir- gil because I’ve been ill, eh, Mr. North ?”’ “No,no, See—you want to know whatIam doing with this rope—-why, making a swing, to be sure.’’ “Aswing? Oh, that’s capital! Such a jolly thick rope, too! When shallI be well enough to swing, I wonder? It’s so dull up here. I'll try to go tosleep, but I dream such bad dreams,” “There, there, 1g a ep,’ says the usher in a sooth- ing voice. This 6, before he goes to the window, he puts out his tallow-candle, the rushlight burning on the hearth he extinguishes also; feels for something in his bosom, clutches this something tightly, takés a firm grasp of the rope, and gets out of the window. Acurious way to make a swing! He lets himself down foot by foot, with wonderful caution, and won- derful courage. When he gets ona level with the posts of the gymnasium, he gives himself a sudden jerk, and swinging over against them, catches hold of the highest post, and his descent is then an easy one, for the post isnotched for the purpose of olimbing, and Jabez, al- ways good at gymnastics, descends it as easily as an- other man would an ordinary staircase. He leaves the rope still hanging from his bedroom window, scales with ease the playground wall, and when the Slopper- ton clock strikes twelve/is out upon the high road; He skirts the town of Slopperton by a circuitous route, and in another half-hour is on the other side of it, bearing toward the Black Mill. A curious. manner of making a@swing, this midnight ramble. Altogether a curious ramble for this good young usher; but even good meu have sometimes strange fancies, and this may be one of them. One o’clock from the Slopperton steeples; two o’clock ; three o’clock, The sick little boy does notigo tosleep, but wanders, O, how wearily, through the past scenes in his young life. Midsummer rambles, Christmas holidays, and merry games; the pretty speeches of the little sister who died three years ago; unfinished tasks, and puzzling exercises, all pass through his wandering mind; and when ‘the clocks chime the quarter after three, he is still talking ; still rambling on in feeble accents ; still tossing wearily on his pillow. As the clocks chime the quart again; and five minutes afterwai into the room. > Not very good to look upon either in costume or countenanoe ; bad to look upon, with his clothes mud- bespattered and torn ; wet to theskin; his hair in mat- ted locks streaming over his forehead; worse to look upon, with his light blue eyes bright with a dangerous and wicked fire—the eyes of awild beast balked of his prey ; dreadful to look upon, with his hands clenched tury, and his tongue busy with half suppressed but terrible imprecations. — “All for nothing!” he mutters, “all the toil, the scheming; and the danger, for nothing—all the work of the brain and the hands wasted—nothing gained, noth- ing gained 1” : fe hides away the roRe in his trunk, and begins to unbutton his clothes. The little boy cries out in a feeble voice for his medicine. eae The usher pours a Seblespoantny, of mixture out into neue with asteady d, and carries it to the side. hag oe : The boy is about to take it from him, when he ut- ters asuiiden cry, ; “Whats the matter?” asks Jabez angrily. “Your hand—your hand—what’s that upon your hand ?”” a fin A dark stain, scarcely dry; a dark stain, at the sight sight of which the boy trembles from head to foot... ih Nothing, nothing; take your medicine and go to sleep, No, he won't take his. medicine; he will never take anything again from his hand. “I know what that d stain is. What have you been doing? Why did you.climb out, of the window with a rope?. It wasn't to make a swing; it must have been for some- thing dreadiul? Why did 74 Stay away three hours in the middle of thé night? I counted the hours by the church clocks... Why have you got those strange clothes on?. What does it all mean? I'll ask the doctor to take me out of this room; I'll go to him the rope is at work the usher clambers . this moment, for I’m frightened of you.’’ The boy tries to get ont of bed, as he speaks; but the usher holds him down with one powerful hand, which he place upon the boys mouth, at the same Keeping him from. stirring, and preventing him from ng out. ; , 4 oeWith his free right hand he searched among the bottles on the tebie by the bedside. ce He throws the medicine out of the glass, and pours out from another bottle a few spoonfulls of a dark liquid, labeled “ Opium—Poison.” ene a _“ Now sir, take your medicine, or I'll report you to the principal to-morrow morning.” . The boy tries to remonstra‘ but in vain; the powerful hand throws back his head, and Jabez pours the liquid down his throat. For a little time, the boy, quite delirious now, goes on talking of the summer-rambles and ‘the Christmas- games; and then falls into a deep slumber. Then Jabez North sets to work to wash his hands, A curious young man with curious fashions for .doing Feieeecrsbene, all, @ curious fashion of washing his nds. ‘ 7 ie He wishes them yery carefully in a small quantity of water; and when they are quite clean, and the water has become a dark and ghastly color, he drinks it, and doesn’t make even one wry iace at the horrid draught, “ Well, well,” he mutters,.“‘If nothing is gained by tome hte work, I have at least tried my strength and E now know what lam made of.’” Very strange stuff he must have been made of; very strange and perhaps not very good stuff, to be able to look upon thé bed on which the innocent and helpless boy lay in a deep slumber, and say. “At any rate, he will tell no tales.” : , No! he will tell no tales; nor even talk again’ of summer-rambles, or of Christmas-holidays, or of his dead sister’s pretty words, Perhaps he will juin that wept-for little sister in a better world, where there are no such good young men as Jabez North. That worthy gentleman goes down aghast, with a white face next morning, to tell Dr. Tappendon that his poor little charge is dead, and perhaps that he had better break the news to Allecompain, Major, who is sick after that supper, which in his boyish thoughtless- ness andthe certainty of his little brother’s recovery, he had given last night. “Do, yes, by all means, break the sad news to the poor boy, for I‘know, North, you'll do it tenderly.” & CHAPTER IV. DakEDEviL Dick hears the alarm at. five o’clock, and’ leaves his couch very cautiously, He would like, be-. fore he leaves the house, to go to his mother’s door, if it were only to breathe a prayer upon the threshold. He would like to go to his uncle’s bedside, to give one farewell look at the kind face ; but he has promised to be very cautious, and to awaken no one; 8) he steals quietly out through the drawing-room window—the same window by which he entered so strangely the preceding evening —into the chill morning air, as dark as night as yet. j ¥ There is a thick fog, but norain. Ho knows his way so well, that neither fog nor darkness are any hindrance to him, and he trudges on with a cheery step, and hia pipe in his mouth, toward the Slopperton Railway station. The station is half an hour’s walk out of the town; and when he reaches it, it is striking six. Learning that the train will not start for half un hour, he walks up and down the platform, looking, with his handsome face and shabby dress, rather conspicuous. Two or three trains for different destinations start while he is waiting on the platform and several people stare at him as he strides up and down, his hands in his pockets, and his weather-beaten hat slouched over his eyes—for he does not want to be knowm by any Slopperton people, yet awhile, till his position is a better one—and when one man with whom he had been intimate before he left the town, and seemed to recog- nize him, approached as if to speak to him, Richard turned abruptly on his heel, and crossed to the other side of the station. : ; If he could have known that such a little incident ag that, could have a dark and dreadful influence on his life, surely he would have thought himself foredoomed, and set apart for a cruel destiny. . He strolls into the refreshment-room, takes a cup of coffee, changes a sovereign in paying for his et, buys a newspaper, seats himself in a second-class car- e, and in a few minutes is out of Slopperton. ; here is only one other Finger in the & commercial traveler; and Ric! and he smoke t! pipes in defiance of the guards at the stations they pass, When did Daredevil Dick quail before any autho- rity? He had faced all Bow Street, chaffed Marlbor- Agee Street out of countenance, and ‘had kept the station-hotlse awake all night singing “We won’t go home. till morning.” : eA an It‘ is rather a°dull journey from Slopperton | Gardenford, and on this dark foggy November morn! ofcourse duller than usual. It was half-past’ six, ; dark, The station was lighted with gas, and there was a little lamp in the railway-carriage, but for which, the. two travelers would have not seen each other’s faces. Richard looked out of tlie window for a ‘few minutes, got up a little conversation with his fellow-traveler, which soon flagged (for he was rather out of spirits’ at. leaving his mother directly after their reconciliation! ‘and then, being sadly at a loss to amngse himself, toc out his uncle's letter to the ” e lant, and looked at the superscription. The letter was not sealed, but he did not take it from the envelope, “If he has said any good of me, it’s a great deal more than I de~ serve,”’ said Richard to himself ; but “I’m young yet, and there’s plenty of time to redeem the past.” Time to redeem the past—Ob, Pn Ric 3 dl He twisted the letter about in his hands, lighted an other pipe, and smoked till the train haley | Gardenford station. Another foggy November day set in, ahh ot ~ BEE ‘If Richard Marwood had been a close observer of men and manners, he might have been rather puzzled | the conduct of a short thick set mam, shab! 3 bs see oe nar platform viata. - the ie man was e ‘for some one to ve by this train, and as oaeay ee, one had arrived ; for the man looked perfectly when he had scanned with a glance, marvelously rapid. the faceof every passenger who alighted. But who this some one was the man wail for, it. rather difficult to discover. He aid hows to any one, nor a h any one, nor did he appear to have ‘purpose in being there, one an rt rapid glance at-all the travelers “A” very, minate ob- server might certainly have detected iu ‘a light interest in the movements of Richard Marwood'; and Yes, murd 3 his cut from ear to ear,’ eas toatino aed ee “there must be some 4m 3 THREE TIMES DHAD. when that individual left the station, the stranger strolled out after him and walked a few paces him down the back street that led trom the station to the town, Presently he came up closer to him, and a few minutes afterward, suddenly and unceremoniously hooked his.arm into that of Richard. : “Mr. Richard Marwood, I think ’” he said, “1am not ashamed of my name,’’ rvplied Daredevil Dick, “and that is my name; perhaps you'll oblige ame with yours, since you’re 80 uncommo: friendly.”” And the young man tried to withdraw arm from that of the stranger, but the stranger was of an affec- tionate turn of mind, and kept his arm tightly hooked his. : “O! never mind my name,” he said; “ you'll learn that fast enough, I dare say; but,” he continued, as he caught a threatening look in Richard’s eye, “If you want to.call me anything, why, call me Jinks.” “Very well, then, Mr. Jinks, since I didn’t come to Gardenford to make your acquaintance, and as now, having made your acqnaintance, I can’t say I care siuch about cultivating it further, why, I wish you a very good morning !” As he said this, Richard wrenched his arm from that of the stranger, and stole two or three paces forwaad. “Not more than two or three paces, though, for the #ffoctionate Mr. Jinks caught him again by the arm, aud a friend of Mr. Jink’s, who was ut the station Yrhen the train stopped, happening to crossover from tie other side of the’ street at this very moment, cwught hold of the other arm and poor Daredevil Dick, firmly pinioned by those two new-found frieads, Sa with a puzzled expression from one face to the ather. ; : “Come, come,” said Mr. Jinks, in a soothing tone, “the best thing you can dois, to take it quiety, and ome along with me.” ““O! Tsee,”? said Richard, “ here’s a spoke in the eel of my reform; its those cursed Jews, [suppose ve, got wind of my coming down here, Show us your writ, Mr. Jinks, and tell us at whose suitit is, and for what amount. I’ve got a considerable sum of money about me, and can settle it on the spot.’ “Ol you have, have you?’ Mr. Jinks was so sur- prised. at this last. speech of Richard's that he was Po eed take off his hat, and rub his hands through hi is hair three times, before he could recover himself. *O1” he continued, staring at Richard till the young nan alinost expected to see hiseyes drop out on the pavement, “O! you’ye got a considerable sum of money about you, have you? Well, my friend, you’ra éither very green, or you're very cheeky; and all I can is, take care how you commit yourself. I’m not a sheriffs officer. If yon had done me the honor to ecko up my nose, you might have knowed it (Mr, ink’s olfactory organ was a decided snub), and I ain’t agoin’ to arrest you for debt,” “Ot very wall, then,” gaid Dick, “perhaps you and your affectionate friend, who both seem to be afflicted with an oyer allowance of the original adhesiveness, will be so obliging as to let me go. J’ll leave you a of my hair, as you’ve taken such a wonderful fancy to tne.” : “And with s powerful effort, he shook the two strang- ers off him; hut Mr. Jinks caught him again by the arm, and Mr, Jink’s friend, producing a pair of hand- eufis, locked them on Richard’s wrist with railroad ity. 2 a i i Tow, don’t you try it on,” said Mr. Jinks; “I didn’t want to use this, you know, if you’d have come etly. I’ve heard you belong to a respeotable ly, 80 thought I wouldn’t ornament you with these here objects of bigitry”’ (it is to be presumed Mr. Jinks meant ie) ; “ but it seems there’s no help for it; 0 come along to the station, we shall catch tho ‘ht-thirty train, and be in Sloppertown before ten. 5 1nq) at won't come on till to-morrow.” _ Ric looked at his wrists, from hia wrists to the face of pee men, with an utterly hopeless expression of - sar se he said, “or drunk or dreaming? Ae fou peat we cake 120 Wad ty elcgipecten ? enat ii. ; ant me oppe at in- jt? Who's dead?” Jinks put his head on one side, and contemplated his priaonee with the eye of D hasiiolidens, “Don’t he come t t dodge stunnin’?”’ he said rather to himself than to his companion ; who by the by throughout the affair, had never once spoken. “#Don't iw he do it bea ?. Wouldn't he be a first-rate actor up at the Wictoria, yterin London? Wouldn’t be. pr! in the |B ted Ones,’ and Gonsalyo the -G@uiltless?” Vy,’! sai . Jinks, with intense admira- , ‘he'd be worth his two pound ten a week, 8 half-benifit. every month, to any manager “As Mr. Jinks made thoge complimentary remarks, he and his friend walked on, Richard, puzzled, be- wildered, and unresisting walked between them to- ward. the railway station ; but presently Mr. Jinks con- ded to reply to the prisoner’s questions in this “You want to know. what ipavess 2 Well,an inquest on a gentleman -what’s been barbarously murdered. 0 know who’s deadl Why your uncle is the gent as has } murdered. You want to know why to take you back to Slopperton. Well, be- EE ; cause you coOmr 9d the murder.’ oe ee Ned alee fot crea Rett tava Vet tkemuahaue nia interice ‘or ‘S| me} t ughou rview Hace he had Her cae seemed frightened ; out e here Montague Hardin .. My e e i i Pade is yeat twelve last night dl ; norning he was found murdered in his eons Pe ot the cabinet in his room open, and nd | threa hundred pounds.” rifled of a pocket-book known to contain upwards of “Why he gave me that pocket-book last night. Gave it to = Ihave it here in my breast pocket.’ “You'd better keep that story for the coroner,” said Mr. Jinks, perhaps he’ll believe it.’ “Tmust be mad, I must be mad,” said Richard. They had by this time reached the siation, and Mr. Jinks, having glanced into two or three carriages of the train about to start selected one of the second class, and ushered Kichardinto it. He seated himself by the young man’s side: his silent and unobtrusive friend seated himself opposite ; the guard locked the door, and the train started. ; Mr. Jinks, quiet friend was exactly one of . those people adapted to pass in a crowd. He might have assed in a hundred crowds, and not one of the hun- eds of people in any of those hundred crowds would have glanced aside to look at him. You could only describe him by negatives. He was neither very tall nor vory short, very stout nor very thin, neither durk nor fair, ugly nor handsome, but just such a@ medium betweengthe two extremities of each, as to be utterly common-place and unnoticeable. If you looked at his facé for three hours together, you would in those three hours find only one thing in that face, the least out of the common—that one thing is the expression ofthe mouth. It is a compressed mouth, with thin lips, which tighten and draw themselves rigidly together when the man thinks—and the man is almost always thinking; and this is not all; for when he thinks most deeply, the mouth shifts, in a palpable degree, to the left side of his face, This is the only one thing remarkable about the man, except, indeed that he is dumb, but not deaf, having lost the use of his speech in his youth. Throughout Richard’s arrest he has watched tho proceedings with unswerving intensity, and he now sits Spvontty him, thinking deeply, with his compressed thin lips drawn on one side. The dumb man ‘isa meré scrub, one of the very low- est on the police force; a sort of out-sider and employee of Mr. Jinks the Gardentord detective; but he is use- ful, quict and steady, and above all, as his patrons say, he is to be relied on, because he can’t talk. 5 He cen talk, though in his own way, and he begins to talk presently in his own way to Mr. Jinks; talks with his fingers {his fingers which by-the-by, make’a very dirty alphabet), with arapidity which seems marvel- ous, “QO hang it!’ said Mr. Jinks, after watching him for a moment, “‘ you must do it alittle slower, if you want me to understand; I’m not an electric telegraph.” I don’t suppose hisinferior had mistaken him for that improvement in science, but hé nodded and began again with his fingers, very slowly. This time, Richard too, watched him, for Richard knew this dumb alphabet. He had talked a folio of nonsense with it, i ys gone by, to a pretty girl ata boarding-school, between whom and himself there was a platonic affection, to say nothing ofa high wall, and broken glass bottles. Richard watched the dirty alphabet. First, two grimy fingers laid flat upon the dirty palm, . Next the tip ofthe grimy forefinger of the right hand upon the tip of the grimy third finger of the left hand, O; the next letter is T, and the man snaps his rie wordis finished, Not. Not what ? Richard finds limself wondering with an intense eagerness, which, even in the bewildered state of his mind, sur- prises him. E The dumb man begins another word. G—U—I—L. Mr. Jinks cuts him short. “Not guilty! not fiddlesticks! What do you know about it, Ishould like to know! Where did you get your experience! Where did you get your sharp prac- tice? hat school have you n formed in, I wonder, that you can come out so positive in your opinion ; ‘and what’s the value you put your opinion at, I won- der? I should be glad to hear what you’d take for your opinion ?” Mr. Jinks uttered the whole of this speech with the most intense sarcasm for Mr. Jinks is a distinguished detective, and prides himself on his acumen; and is, therefore, very indignant that his sub and scrub should dare to express an opinion, om “My uncle murdered |” Sean “my poor, kind, benevolent uncle! Murdéred in’ cold blood! Oh it is too horrible |” ‘The scrub’s month was very much on one side as Richard muttered this half to himself. ' “Am I suspected of the murder?” f “Well, you see,” said Mr. Jinks, “there’s two or threo things tell pretty strong against you. Why were you in such s hurry, this morning to out and run to Gardenford ?”” “My uncle had recommended me to a merchatit's office in that town; see, here is the letter of introduc- tion; read it." “No it ain't FR Tce said Mr, Jinks; “the letter's not sealed, I see, but I musn’t read it: howsumdever, you can show it to the coroner. I’m sure I should be very giad to see you clear yourself, for i've heard you be- long to one of our good old country families, and it ain't quite the thing to hang such as you.” Pour Richard! his reckless words of the night before came back to him, “I wonder they don’t hang such fellows as I am.” ' “ and now,” says Jinks, “as I should like to make all things comfortable, if you're willing to come along uu with me, and my friend here, why I'll mova faced Lescelete, heoatée they’re not quite so ornamental | “That’s awkward,’ said Jinks, “ for J haven't s lighy The filled the two pipes, and lighted the one y . Pp ‘Ps ’ Now, all this time, Richard had held his uncle’s let- ter of introduction in his hand, and when there was some little difficulty in lighting the tobacco from the. expiring lucifer, he, without a moment’s thought held the letter over the flickering fame, and from the burn- ing paper lighted his pipe. In a moment, he remembered what he had done, The letter of introduction ; the one piece of evidence in his favor! He threw the blazing paper on the ground, and stamped on it, but in vain; in spite of all his efforts, a few black ashes alone remained. “The devil must haye possessel me,” he exclaimed ; “T have burnt my uncle’s letter.” “Well,” said Mr. Jinks, “I've seen a great many dodges in my time, and I’ye seen a many knowing cards ; but if. that isn’t the neatest dodye, andif you ain’t the kpowingst card I ever did see, blow me.” “T tell you that letter was in my uncle’s hand ; writ- ten to his friend, the merchant at Gardenford ; and in it he mentions having given me the'very money you say has been stoien from his cabinet.” : “O, the letter was all that, was it? And you’ve lighted pm pipe with it. You’dbetter tell that little story efore thecoroner. It willbe so very conwincing to: thejury.” i The scrub, with hismouth very much to the left, spells out again the two words, “ Not guilty 1!” 0,” says Mr. Jinks, “you mean to stick to your opinion, do you, now yot’ve formed it ; wpon my word you're too clever for a country town practice. I wonder they don’t send for you up at Bow Btreet; with your tale Cee be at the top of the tree in no time, I’ve no ou at . During the journey the thick November fog had been gradually clearing away, and at this very moment, the sun broke out with a bright and sudden gleaming upon the threadbare cout-sleeve of Daredevil Dick. “Not guilty! cried Mr, Jinks, with sudden energy. “Not guilty! why, look here. I’m blest if his coat sleeve isn’t covered with blood.’’ Yes, on the shabb;, worn-out coat, the sunlight revealed da?k and ghasti: stains; and stamped and branded by those hideous marks as a villain and a murderer, Richard Marwood re« entered his native town. CHAPTER V. Tux Sloshy is not a beautiful river ; unless, in mud is beautiful, for itis very muddy. The Slosh; is a disagreeable kind of compromise between ariver ant acanal. It islikea canal which (after the manner us the mythic frog and ox) had seen ariver and swellea itself to bursting in imitation thereof. It has quite a knack of swelling and bursting, this Sloshy ; it over- flows its banks and swallows up a house or takes an impromptu snack off a few out-buildings, once or twice atyear, It is inimical to children, and hag been known tosnck into its muddy bosom the hopes of divers families ; and has afterward gone down to the distant sea, flaunting on its breast Billy’s straw hat, or Johnny s pinafore, as a flag of triumph for having done 7 little amateur business for the gentleman on tho pale Orse. It has been a soft pillow of rest, too, this muddy breast of the Sloshy, and weary heads have been known to sleep more soundly in the loathsome, dark, ne mine. bed, than on couches of down, , keep us from ever even whispering to our hearts that our best chance of peaceful slumber might be in such a bed. F An ugly, dark, and dangerous river—a river that te always telling you of trouble, and anguish, and weari- ness of spirit; ariver that,tosome poor, impreasion- able, mortal creatures, who are apt to be saddened by : Sona or brightened by a sunbeam, is not healthy to ook upon. ; I wonder what that woman thinks of the river? A badly. woman carrying @ baby, who walks ih a slow and listless step up and down, by one of ite banks, on the afternoon on the day on which the mur- der of Mr, Harding took place, : : It is a very soli! spot she has chosen, on the fur- thest outskirts of the town of Slopperton ; and town of Slopperton being at best avery {ugly town, ugliest at the outskirts, which consist of two or threa straggling manufacturies, a great eon Jail—the stoni- est 0: BeoA I a—a fringe of shabby houses, some new andonly h: uilt, others ancient and half-fallon to decay, which hang all round Slopperton like the rage that fringe the see ofa Saat’ garment. The woman’s baby is fretful, and it may be that the damp, foggy atmosphere on the banks of ‘the Sloshy ia scarcely calculated to engender aither te or amidble temper in the bosom ofinfant or adult, The woman hashes it impatiently to her breast, and looke down at the little punny features with a strange, un- mother! lenge Poor wretch | perhaps she seareety thinks at littleload asa ehild; she may remem- ber it only a3 4 shame, a burden, and a grief. She has boen pretty ; 6 bright country beauty, perhaps, & a. ago; but she isa ded, careworn-loo "creature now, with a pale face, and hollow circles round the eyes, She has played the only game a woman has to Bit, Wie ett e only atake a woman has to 4 « re ee he will com”, or ee ras. wear out my heart through another long, Jong day. Hush, hush ! aeif my trouble was #ot bad enough as they’re sometimes useful ; and, as I’m going to light eee He iss my pipe, why, if you like to blow 4 elond too, yon mee Aneel the fretfnl bady, bat that young Ae cimteinite atu ae tleman is en tat etiouts ti’nivcan, aad has ‘ ‘8 unlocked and removed the | just floored a bandgul of ts ee pee handcuffs and produced his and tobacco; Richard eis on this dingy. of the. Bloshy a did the same, and took fro: pocket @ matchbox, in | little . public-house, . very, oldwashioned, which there was only one match . though surrounded with Rewly-begun houses, hi = ae } | ‘| S ‘obild have been exposed to that piercing fog for an hour and more, as he is more than an hour after his appoint- Slooks on the river, and by this window the woman sat; | Jabez placing himself on the other side of the table, -. The tretful baby has fallen asleep, and lies quietly in _shame in her tone. of the Sloshy, which, as the tide rose, washed with a -perhaps you'll tell me what you want with me; my & deliciously-lively hole, and such a charming neigh+ this neighborhood, endo?’ we ote fied fe .. “I hoped a better end than that, Jabez; I hoped gaid he; and, with a gesture o: “ puild in hours of play. thorough determ - woman might he Bible truth, and had never known that word to be be-. - other living creature on the earth, of every duty that . knew to man and Heaven—I did not think when. the - he meant it honestly, or if it was not a cruel » ive to look up to you as a father, and be a comfort and THREE. TIMES DEAD. 6 dt .is a ttle one-sided, pitiful place, orna- mented with the cheering announcement of “A @lass of Gin for a Penny.” It is a wretched e, has never seen better days, and. never opes to see better days. The men who frequent it are @few stragglers from a factory near, and the colliers whose barges are moored in the neighborhood. These shamble in on dark afternoons, and play in a little, dingy parlor, with dirty, dogs’-eared cards, at all fours, scoring their points with beer-marks on the sticky tables. Not a very attractive house of entertainment this; but it has an attraction for the woman with the baby, for she looks at it wistfully, as she paces up and down, fumbles in her pocket, produces two or three half- pence, just enough, it seems, for her purpose; for she #neaks in at the half-open door, and in a couple of min- utes emerges, in the act of wiping her lips As she does so, she almost stumbles on a man, wrap- ped in a great coat, and with the lower part of his face mufiied in a thick handkerchief. “I thought you would not come,” she said. “Did you? Then you see you thonght wrong. But you might have been right, for my coming was quite a hauce; Ican’t be at your beck and call night and day.” “T don't npn you to be at. my beck and call; I’ve not been to get so much attention or so much ard from you as to expect that, Jabez.’” vo man started, and looked round asif he expected to find all Slopperton at his shoulder; but there wasn’t . creature about. ‘ _ “You needn't be quite so handy d my name,” he waid,‘ there’s no knowing who might hear‘you. Is thera #nyone within?’ he asked, pointing to the. public- house. “No one but the landlord,’’ “Come in, then; we can talk better there, this fog “pierces one to the bone.” He never seems to consider that the woman and tho ment. He leads the way through the bar into the little par- “I don’t like children,” said he... “I get enough of children, af the Doctor’s. Children and Latin gram- mar—and the end so far off yet”—he said the last words to himself, in a gloomy tune. . . * But your own child, Jabez, Your own.” “ As you say,” he muttered. She rose from her chair and looked full at him—a long, 1088 See which seemed to say, ‘‘ And this is the man I loved; this is the man for whomIam lost.” If he could have seen her look: but he was stooping to pick up a card from the ground—his house of cards was five stories high, by this time. ‘‘Come,” he said, in a hard, resolute tone, ‘you've written to me to beg. me to meet you here, for you were dying of a broken heart; that’s to say, you've taken to drinking gin (I dare say it's.an excellent peng, to nurse a child upon), and you want to be bought off. How much do you expect? I thought to have a sum of money at my command to- day—never you mind how, it’s no business of yours.” He said this savagely, and as ifin answer to 8 look of inquiry from her; but.she was standing with her back turned to him, looking steadily out of the window. “TI thought to have been richer to-day,” he continued, “but I’ve hada disappointment ; however, I’ve brought as much as I could afford ; so the best thing you can do is, to take it and get-out of Slopperton as soon as you can, so that I may never see your wretched white face again.” He counted out four sovereigns on the sticky table, and then adding the sixth story to his card house, he looked at the frail erection with a glance of triumph. “And 80 will I build my fortune in days to come,” he muttered... i ‘ Aman who had entered the dark little parlor very softly, passed. behind him and brushed against his shoulder at this moment ; the house of cards shivered an«t fell in a heap on the table. Jabez turned round with an angry look. “What the devil did you do that for ?’’ he asked. The man gave an apologetic shrug, pointed with his fingers to his lips, and shook his head. “O,” said Jabez, ‘deaf and dumb! So much the for; there are no colliers playing at all-foura to-day, and the dogs’-eared cards lie tumbled in a heap on one of the sticky tables, amongst; broken clay pipes ana | beer stains. This table is near the one window which , the woman's lap. i “What will you take?”) 9). “A little gin,” she answers, not without a certain “Zo. you've found out that comfort, haye you?” He pet this with & glance of satisiaction, he cannot wepress: ett: 4 ; Ry What other comfort is there for such as me, Jaber ? It a at first to make me forget; nothing can do that now, but ’’—— f aa She did not finish this sentence, but sat looking, with a hopeless, dull, and vacant stare at the black waters hollow noise against the brickwork of the pathway lose to the window. { bua “ Well, as I suppose you didn’t ask. me to meet you here for the sole purpose of making miserable speeches, time is precious, and if it wer’n’t, I can’t. say I should mu¢h care about stopping long in this place; it’s such “Tlie in. thie neighborhood—at least—I starve in * Oh, now we're coming toit, said the gentleman, with a very gloomy face, ‘we're coming to it—you want gome money. That's how these sort of things always Jong ago, when I shovahtiyen loved me ?— «Ob, we're going over ae TOBA again, are we 2” weariness, hea took up the dog’ a cards onthe sticky table befora him, and began to build a house with them, such as children express better than this action his ution not to listen to what the to say; but for all that, she went ore You see I was a foolish country-girl, Jabez, or I might have known better, I had been accustomed to ‘take my father and my brother's word of mouth as Nothing could Med. Idid not think, when the man I loved with all my heart and soul—to utter forgetfulness of reat man I) 80 much, said this or that, to ask him if and & wicked lie. Being so ignorant, 1 did not think of that, and I hat, to. i wife, as you swore [ should be, and that this helpless little one, lying here, might an honor to you.” . ; ; “To be a-comfort andan honor to you.” The fro‘ iu! ‘pabo awoke at the words, and elenched its tiny fists with aspiteful action. ; If the river, as a thing eternal in comparison to man; | 4f the river had been a prophet, and had had a voice in its waters wherewith to prophesy, I wonder whether it would have cried: i i “A shame and a dishonor—an enemy and an avenger dn days to come.” EF B-spas ny *‘Jabez’s. card house had risen tothree stories ; he took: the dog’s-eared cards one by one in his white hand, with a slow, deliberate touch that never faltered. The woman looked at.him with a piteous but tearful lance; ‘from him to the river; and back again at | Sloshy. better.” The strange man seated himself at another table, on which the landlord placed a pint of beer, took up a newspaper and seemed absorbed init; butfrom behind the cover of this newspaper he watched Jabez with a furtive glanee, and his mouth, very much on ono side, twitching with a perceptible nervous energy. All this time, the woman had neyer touched the money; never indeed turned from tho window by which she stood; but she now came np to tho table, and took the sovereigus up, one by ono, | “ After what you have said to me this day, I would see this child starve, hour by hour, and die a slow death botore my eyes, before I would touch one morsel of bread bought with your money. I haye heard that the waters of that river are foul and poisonous, and death to those who live on its bank ; butI know the thoughts of your wicked heart tv be so much more foul, and so much bitterer a poison, that I would go to that black river for pity and help, rather than to you.” Asshe said this, she threw tie sovereigns into his face with such a strong and. violent hand, that one of them, striking him above the eyebrow, cut his forehead to the bone, and brought the blood gushing over his 6y6s. | i ‘The woman took no notice of lia pain; but turning back to the window, threw berself into a chair, and sat mooddily staring out at the river, as ifirideed she looked to that for pity. The dumb man helped the landlord to dress the cut on’ Jabez’s forehead. It wasadeep cut, and likely to leave a scar for years tocome. - F ‘Jabez didn’t look much the better, either in appear- ance or teniper, for this blow ; he did not uttera word to the woman, but began, in-a hangdog manter, to search forthe money which had rolled away into the corners ofthe room. Hecould only find three sover- eigns, and though the landlord broughta light, and the three men searched the room in every direction, the fourth could not be fuund; 80, abandoning the search, Jabez paid his score, and strode out.of the place with- out once looking at the woman. : “T’ve got off cheap from that tiger-cat,’’ he said to himself. “(but it has been a on's. work, What.can I say about my ent face to the Governor?” He looked at his watch, a homely silver one, attached toablack ribbon. ‘ Five o'clock; 1 shall be at the Doctor's by tea time: Lean get. into the gymnasium the back way, takea few minutes’ turn with the poise and ropes, and say the accilent happened in climbing. They always believe what Lsay, poor dolts!” _ ‘ His figure was soon lost. in the darkness and the fog. ‘ . | _ 80 dense a fog that no one noticed or saw the woman with the fretful baby when she emerged from the pub- | lic-house, and walked along the river-bank, leaving even the outskirts of Slopperton behind, and wandered on snd on till she came to where dismal pollerd willows stretched dark and ugly shadows, like the bare arms of withered hags, over tie dismal. waters of tho lonely O rivet, sometimes so pitiless, when re devourest youth, beauty, and happiness ; wilt thou bepitifuland tender to-night, and take a poor wretch, who has no mortal pity,'to peace and quiet in thy breast ? O merciless river, so oftem bitter foe to careless hap- piness, wilt thou, to-night, be a friend to reokless mis- ery and hopeless pain ? i ta God made thee, dark river, and God made the wretch who stands shivering on thy bank; and, maybe, in his boundless love and compassion for the creatures of his hands, he may have pity even for those so lost as: to. seek forbidden comfort in thy healing waters. _ CHAPTER YI. ” Yon don’t sek to look at the child, Jabez,” Taxnp had not been since the last general election, ‘than five minutes: in five minutes numb aie when, Slashington, the liberal member, had been re- turned ‘against strong conservative opposition, in & blaze of triumph.and a shower of rotten eggs and cab- bage-atumps—there had not been sincé that’ great day such such’ excitement in Slopperton as there was on the discovery of the murder of Mr. Montague Hard- ing. A murder was always a great thing for Slopperton. When John Boggins, weaver, beat out the brains of Sarah, his wite, first with the heel of his clog, and ulti- mately with a poker, Slopperton had a great deal to say about it—though, of course, the slaughter of one “hand” by another was no great thing out of the fac- tories, But this murder was something out of the common, Uncommonly cruel, cowardly, and unmarly, and, moreover, occurring in a respectable rank of life. Round that lonely house of “The Black Mil” there was a crowd and a bustle throughout that short, day on which Richard Marwood was arrested. Gentle- men of the press were ther¢, sniffiug out, with miracu- lous acumen, particulars of the murder, which, as yet, were known to none but the heads of the Slopperton police-force. ” The head officials of the Slopperton police, attired in ‘plain clothes, went in and out of the Black Mill from an early hour on that dark Novemberday. Every time they came out, though none of them ever spoke, by some strange magic, a fresh report got current among the crowd, anal Of one thing the crowd was fully convinced; that was, that those grave inen in plain clothes, the Slop- perton detectives, knew all, and could tell all, if they only choose to speak; and yet I doubt if there was, be- neath the stars, ore than one person who truly knew the secret of the dreadful deed, — « ‘ “T don’t like to leave him, sir.’ ’ ; “But if it’s for his good, my dear.”? “Yes, yes, sir, you’re very kind. I will go—Ican run all the way—and you won’t leave him while I’m gone, will you, sir?” { “No, my good girl, I won’t. There, there; here’s the prescription ; it’s written in pencil, but the assistant will understand it. Now, listen while I tell you where to find the surgery.” He gave her the direction, and with a lingering and mournful look at her lover, who still slept, she. left the house, and darted off in the direction of Slopper- ton. - “Tf she runs as fast as that all the way,” said Jabez, as he watched her receding figure, “‘ she willbe back in less than an hour.” “Then she will find him either ‘dead or better,” re- plied the doctor. Jabez’s pale face turned white as death at this word ‘* better.” ‘* Better !’’ he said. covery ?”’ “There are wonderful chances in this race between life and death. This sleep may be a crisis. If he wakes, there may be a faint hope of his living.” Jabez’s hand shook like a leaf; he turned his back to the doctor, walked once up and down the room, and then asked, with his old calmness : “ And you, sir, you, whose time is of such valne to so many sick persons ; you can afford to desert them all, end remain here, watching this man ?” “ His case is a singular one. andinterests me; besides, Ido not know that I have any patient in imminent dan- ger to-night. My assistant has my address, and would send for me were my services peculiarly needed.” “J will go out and smoke a cigar,” said Jabez, after a pause; “I can scarcely support this sickroom, and this terrible conflict between life and death,” He strode out into the darkness, was absent about five minutes, and returned. “Your cigar did not lest long,’ remarked the doctor; “you are 4 quick smoker. Bad tor the system, sir.” ‘*My cigar was a oad one; Ithrewitaway.” . Shortly afterward there was a knock at the door, and a ragged vagabond-looking boy, peeping in, asked: ‘Is Mr. Saunders, the docter, here ?’’ “Yes, my lad; who wants me?” i “A young woman, up in High Fields, sir, what's too! poison, they say. You're wanted very bad.”’ “Poison! That’s urgent,” said Mr. Saunders; “ who sent you for me ?”’ 7 The lad looked w’th a puzzled expression at Jabez, standing in the shaaow, who, unperceived by the doc- tor, whispered something behind his hand. “Surgery, sir,” answered ine boy, still looking at Jabez. 4 . : “Ol! you were sent from the surgery, I must be off, for this is, no doubt, a enotr case. I must leave ow; if he wakes give him two spoonfuls of that medicine, there ; I could do no more if I stopped myself. Come, my lad, you can show me the way, I suppose?” ; “Yes, sir.” : : ; “Come along, then,” said the doctor, and he hurried after the boy, and in a few moments was lost in the darkness, and far out of the ken of Blind Peter. Five minutes after he had gone, Jabez went to the door, and after looking out at the squalid houses, in none of which was seen the vestige of a light, gave a long, low whistle. - ‘A figure crept out of the darkness, and came up to where he stood. It ‘was the old woman his grand- “Ts there any chance of his re- ‘| mother. “All's right, dreary,” she whispered ; ‘Bill Withers has got everything ready ; he’s awaiting down by the well yonder ; there's not a mortal about, and I'll keep watch. You’)l want Bill's help: when you're ready ‘for him, you’re to whistle softly three times running—he’ll know what it means—and I’m gojtg to watch while he helps you. Haven't I managed beauti- ful, deary ? and shan’t I deserve the golden sovereigns ou’ve promised me? They was guitieas always when was young, deary ; nothing as good. now as it used ‘to vane ae aaa : “Don’t let us’ have any chattering,” said Jabez, as he laid a rough hand uvon: her arm—*‘‘ unless you want to wake everybody in the place,” * 7 : : “But I say, deary, is it all over? Nothing unfair, you know ; remember your promise.” ’ : “All over? yes half-an-hour ago. If you hinder me here’ with’ your talk the girl will be back before we're ready for‘her.’” 0") © os _ “Let me come in and close his eyes, deary,” eu cated the old woman ; ‘‘his mother was my own child, Let me close his eyes.” _ “Keep where you aré or I'll strangle you.” growled her ‘dutiful grandson as he shut the door upon his venerable relation and left her mumbling upon the threshold. eee , Jabez strode up to the bed on which his brother lay ; Jim at this moment awoke from tlie restless slumber and opening his eyes to their widest extent looked full at the man by his side. He made an effort to speak pointed to his lips and stretched out his hand toward the bottles on the table, made signs to his brother. These signs were a supplication for the cooling and effervesc- ing mixture wiidl always allayed the burning heat of the fever. f ’ _ Jabez never stirred. “ He ‘has’ awoke,” he mur- mured, ‘‘this is the crisis of his life, and of my fate.” The clocks of Slopperton ohinied the quarter before eleven. “The dyiug man muttering with painful difficulty,’ sald: “It's @ black gulf, lass—a black and pitiless gulf— and I'm fast'stnkiey into it" sea There was no friendly hand Jim to draw you back ftom that téfriblé gulf; the thedicine atood untouched upon the table; and, perhaps as guilty as the first murderer, your twin-brother stood by your bedside. CHAPTER XIV THe clouds and the sky kept their promise, and ag theclocks chimed the quarter before twelve, the storm broke over the steeples of Slopperton. Blue lightning-flashey lit up Blind Peter and attendant thunder-claps shook him to his very foundation; while a violent shower of rain gave him such a washing down of every flagstone, chimney-pot, and doorstep, as he didn’t often get. Slopperton in bed couldn’t go to sleep, and Slopperton not in bed didn’t seeni to care about going to bed. Slopperton at supper was nervous as to handling glittering knives and steel forks, and Slopperton going to windows to look out at the Jightning, was apt to withdraw hur- riedly at the sight thereof, Slopperton in general was depressed by the storm, thought there’d be mischief somewhere, and had a fancy something dreadful would happen before the night was over. In Dr. Tappenden’s quiet household there was con- sternation and alarm; Mr. Jabez North, the principal assistant had gone out early in the evening and had not returned at the appointed hour for shutting up the house. This was such an unprecedented occur- rence, that it had occasioned considerable alarm; es- pecially as Dr. Tappenden was away from home, and Jabez was, in a manner, deputy-master of the house. The young woman who looked after the gentlemen’s wardrobes sat up to keep the housemaid company, who sat up awaiting Mr. North’s return. : “T hope,” said the housemaid, “nothing ain’t hap- pened to him through the storm. I hope he hasn't been getting under no trees.” - The honsemaid had a fixed idea that to go under a a ho a thunderstorm was to encounter immediate eath. " . “Poor, dear young gentleman,” said the lady of the wardrobes; *‘I tremble to think what can keep him outso. Such a steady young map; never known to bo aminute after time either, I’m sure every sound L hear makes me expect to see him brought in on a shutter.” “Don't now, Miss Smithers,” cried the honsemaid, looking behind her as ifshe expected to see the ghost of Jabez North pointing to a red spot on his left breast, at the back of her chair. “I wish you wouldn't now. Oh, I hope he ain’t been murdered; it’s only three years and a half ago since a man cut his wife's throat, down in Win ll Lane, because she hadn't put no salt in tie saucepan when she boiled the greens. _The frighttul parallel between the woman who_boil- ed the greens without salt and Jabez North two hours after his time, struck such terror to the hearts of the young women that they were silent for some minutes, during which they both looked ata thief in the candle which neither of them: had the courage to take out—— their nerves not being equal to the possible clicking of the snuffers. soe pe anes “Poor young man?" said the housemaid, at last; “do you know, Miss Smithers, Ican’t help thinking he has been rather low lately.” , Now this word “low ”’ admits of several a tions; so Miss Smithers replied, rather indignantly. “Low, Sarah Ann! not ‘in his language, I’m sures. and'as to his maneérs, they’d be a credit tothe noble- man that wrote the letters.” ’ 7 “No, no, Miss Smithers, I mean his spirits ; I’ve fan- cied lately, he’s ‘been a fretting about something ; per- haps he’s in leve, poor dear.” pany eS ie 2, O08 Miss Smithers colored up ; it was getting interest- ing. ‘Mr. North had lent her “ Rasselas,” which she. thought a story of thrilling interest ; and she h his stockings and shirt-buttons in order for three years. Such things had Meepaiee. and Mrs, Jabez North etna more comfortable than Miss Smithers, at any rate. were 3 ; - aa “Perhaps,” said’ Sarah Ann, rather maliciotisly— ‘“perhaps he’s been forgetting his situation and giv: way to thoughts of mi ing our young missus, She's got a deal of money, you know, Miss Smii hers, though, er figure ’ain’t much to look at.” ep oa sae ae Sarah Ann's figure was plenty to look at, having a. tendency to break out out into luxurance where you. least expected it. : eae It was in vain that Sarah Ann or Miss Smithers specn-, lated on the probable cause of the usher’s abscence. . Midnight struck from the Dutch clock in ‘the kitchen, the eight-day clock on the staircase, the timepiece in| ehe drawing-room, a liberal and complicated piece of SeSAECE eae alwhys struck digh toda to the dozen: —and eyentnally from every clock in Slopperton, | and no Jabez North. re! STPRRERH No Jabéz North. A white face,and a pair of glazed” eyes staring up at the sky, ouf on a dr eath, three miles from Slopperton, exposed to the fury of a pitless storm, A sick man lying on a wretched mattress" 3 ae apartment in Blind Peter—but no Jabex, orth. - ; Through’ the “heartiess storm, d: ppi ing wet, with pelting rain, the girl they have Pr iedet Siikens hastens back to Blind Peter. The feeble glimmer of the candle with the drooping wick, splut gin ap of grease, is tue light which illumes ‘the cheerless neighborhood. ‘The girl's heart beats’ with a terrible flutter as she approaches that light, for an agonizing doubt is in her soul about that other light which she left so feebly burning, and which may now be extinct. But she italy courage, and pushing open the door, which opposes. neither bolts nor bars to any deluded votary of Mercury, she enters the dimly-lighted room. ‘The man lies with his face to the, wall ; an the old woman is seated by the hearth on. 8 dull and ae tgerng maine is’ burning ; she hi on oe a amongst the medicine-bottles, another, which <_ they did; that wane the timate finish to every atory, in this young lady's opinion. Mr. Peters scratched his head violently during the story, to which he listened with his mouth very much round the corner ; and whenit was finished he fell into a reverie which lasted till the ditasnt Slopper- ton clock chimed the quarter before eight—at which time he laid down his pipe, and departed to prepare Mr. Vorkins’s trap for the journey home. Perhaps of the journeys, Meal gone home was al- most the pleasantest. It seemed to Kuppins’s young dmagination as if Mr. Peters was bent on SE Mr. Vorkins’s trap straight into the sinking sun, which was oing down ina sea of crimson behind a dark ridge of eath. Slopperton was yet invisible, except as a dark cloud on the purple sky. This road across the heath ‘was very lonely onevery evening but Sunday, and the Ltée party only met one group of haymakers return- ing from their work and one stout farmer’s wife laden with groceries hastening home from Slopperton. It was aatill evening, and not asound rose upon the clear air, except the lastsong ofa bird or the chirping of 4 grasshopper. Perhaps if Kuppins had with any body else she might have been frightened, ‘for Kuppins had a confused idea that such appearances as highwaymen and ghosts werecommon to the ves r hour; but in the company of Mr. Peters,’ uppins would have fearlessly met a regiment of high- waymen or a churchyardful of ghosts, for was he not the law, and the police in person, under whose shadow there could be no fear? i Mr. Vorkins’s trap was fsat gaining on the sinking gun when Mr. Peters drew up, ard paused irresolutely between two roads. These diverging roads met at a point s little further on, and the Sunday afternoon pleasure seekers crossing the heath took sometimes one, sometimes the other; but the road to the left was the least frequented, being the narrowest and most hilly, and this road Mr. Peters took, still driving to- ward the dark line behind which thered sun was going down. The broken ground of the heath was all a-glow with the warm orimson light; a dissipated skylark and an early nightingale were singing a duet to which the grasshoppers seemed to listen with suspended chirpings. A frog ofan apparently fretful disposition was keeping up a captious croak in a ditch by the side of the road, and beyond these voices there seemed to be no sound beneath the a The peaceful landscape, and the tranquil evening shedding a benign influence upon Kuppins, awakened the dormant sentiment in that young lady’s breast. « Yor’, Mr. Peters,” she said, “it’s hard to think in such a place as this that gents of your purfession should be wanted: Ido think now, if I was ever led to feel to want to take and murder somebody, which I hopes I ain’t Hkely—knowin’ my duty to my neighbor better—do nae somehow, this evening would come back to my mind, and I should hear those birds a singing and see that sun a sinking, till I shouldn't be able to do it gomehow.”" Serie : Mr. Peters shakes his head dubiously ; he isa bene- volent man and a philanthropist; but he doesn’t like his profession run down, ands murder and bread and cheese are inseparable things in his mind. “ And, do you know,” continued Kuppins, “it seems to meas if, when this world is so beautiful and quiet, it’s quite hard tothink there's one wicked person in it to cast a shadow on its peace.” _ As Kuppins said this, she and Mr. Peters were start- led by a shadow which came between them and the sinking sun—the distorted shadow thrown across the - marrow road, from the sharp outline of the figure of a man lying asleep upon a hillock a little way above ee Now, en aite aumetee much to startle the most timid person in the sight o: i. cataeron a@sum- mer’s evening amongst heath and wil avec: but something in this man's appearance startled Kuppins, who drew nearer to Mr. , and held the “fond- jing,’ now fast asleep, and muffled in a shawl, closer to her bosom. The man was lying on his back, with hig face turned up to the evening sky, and his arma straight down at his sides. The sound of the wheels of Mr. Vorkinis’s trap did not awake him, and even when Mr, Peters drew oh eh a sudden jerk, the sleeping man did not raise his head. Now, I don’t Know why Mr. Peters should stop, or why either he or Kuppinashould feel any curiosity about this sleeping man—but they certainly did. For one thing, he was di rather shabbily, but still like a gentleman, and it was, per- haps, a strange thing for a gentleman to be sleeping so soundly in such # lonely spot as this. Then, again, there was something in his attitude, a want of ease, a certain atiffness, which had a, strange effect upon Kup- pens and Mr. Peters. \ “JT wish he'd move,” said Kuppins, “he looks so aw- ful quict, lying there all so lonesome.” “Oall to him, my girl,” said Mr. Peters with his fingers. : : : upping essayed aloud “ hilloa,” but it was a dismal failure, on which Mr. Peters gave a long, shrill whistle, ‘which I think would have bothered the Seven Sleepers, though it might not have awaked them. The man on the hillock never stirred ; the pony, taking advantage of the halt, drew nearer to the heath, and began to crop. hort grass by the roadside, thus bringing Mr. Vor- ins's trap. a little nearer to the sleeper. r « Get down, lass,” said the fingers of the detective, “get down my lass, and have a look at him, for I can’t eave this here pony.’ , d ‘ : Kuppins Jooked at Mr. Peters, and Mr. Peters looked at Kuppins, as much as to say, “Well, what then ?”’ 80 Kuppinus, to whom the laws of the Med siang would have been mild compared to the word of Peters, surrendered the infant to his care, and descend- an pon t i. ae ener the hillock, and looked at 2 1 reclinin, ure. She did not Took long, but returning rapidly to Mr. Peters, took hold of his arm and said: r ~ “I don’t think he’s asleep, leastways his eyes aro ' THREE TIMES DEAD. open; but he don’t look as if he could see anything, somehow—he’s got a little bottle in his hand.” Why Kuppins should keep so tight a hold on Mr. Pe- ter’s arm while she said this, it is difficult to tell; but she did clutch his coat-sleeve very tightly, looking back while she spoke, with her white tace turned toward that whiter face under the evening sky.” © Mr. Peters jumped Ae from the trap, tied the elderly pony to a furze bush, and mounting the hillock, proceeded to inspect the sleeping oe ‘Lue pale, set face, and the fixed blue eyes looked up at the crimson light dying out into purple shadow on the wide sky, but never more would earthly sunlight or shadow, or night or morning, or storm or calin, be of any account to that quiet figure lying on the heath. Why he was there, or how he had come there, was a part of that great mystery, under the darkness of which helay, and that mystery was Death! He had died evidently by poison administered by his own hand; for in the grass, by his side, lay a little empty bottle labeled “ Opium,” onwhich his slender fingers lay, not clasping it, but lying as if they had fallen over it. His clothes were soaked through with wet, so that he must have lain there through the storm of the previous night. A silver watch was in the pocket of his waistcoat, Sea Mr. Peters: found, on looking at it, to have stopped ai ten o’clock—ten o’clock of the night before, most likely. His hat had fallen off and lay at a little dis- tance, and his curling light hair hung in wet ringlets over his high white forehead. His face was handsome, the features well chiseled, but the cheeks were sunken and hollow, making the large blue eyes seem larger. | Mr. Peters, in examining bis pockets, found no clue to hisidentity ; a handkerchief, a little silver, a few halfpence, and a penknife wrapped in a leaf torn out of a Latin grammar, were the sole contents. The detective reflected for a few moments, with his mouth on one side, and then mounting the highest hillock near, looked over the snrrounding country. He presently saw at a little distance a group of hay- makers whom he signaled with a loud whistle. To them, with Kuppins us interpreter, he gave his direc- lions ; and twoot the tallest ant strongest of the men took the body by the head and feet and carried it be- tween them, with Kuppins’s shawl covered over tho still, white face. They were two miles from Slopperton, and those two miles were by no means so pleasant to Kuppins seated in Mr. Vorkins’s trap, which Mr. Peters drove slowly, so0ag9 to keep pace with the men and their ghastly burden. Ktppins’s shawl, which of course would never be any use as 4 shawl again, was no good to conceal the sharp outline of the face it covered ; for Kuppins had seen those blue eyes, and once to see was always too see them, as she thought. The dreary journey came at last to a dreary end, at the police- office, where the men deposited their dreadful load, and being paid for their trouble, departed rejoicing. Mr. Peters was busy enongh for the next half hour, ‘ giving an account of the finding of the body and issuing hand-bills of ‘Found Dead, etc.” Kuppins and the “ fondling ”’ retired to Little Gulliver Street ; andif ever there had been a heroine in that street, that heroine was Kuppins; people came from three streets off to see her, and to hear the story, which she told so often that she came at last to tell it mechanically, and to render it slightly obscure by the vagueness of her punctuation. » Anything in the way of supper that Kuppins would accept, and two or three dozen suppers if Kuppins would condescend to partake of them, were at Kuppins's service; and her reign as heroine-in-chief was only put an end to by the’appear- ance of Mr. Peters the hero, coming home hot and dusty, to tell them, in the alphabet, very grimy after his ex- ertions, that the dead man had been recognized as the principal usher of # great school up at the other end of the town, and that his mame was, or had been, ; North. His motive for committing suicide, he had carried @ secret with him into the dark and mysterious region to which he was a- voluntary traveler ; aud Mr, Peters, whose business it was to pry about the confines of this shadowy land, though powerless to penetrate the interior, could only discover some rumors of an ambitious love for his master’s daughter being thecause of his untimely end. What secrets this dead man had carried with him into the shadow-land, who shall say? There might be one perhaps which even Mr. Peters, with his utmost acuteness, could not discover. ; ultia CHAPTER XVI. : On the very day on which Mr. Peters treated Kup- pins and the “ fondling’’ to tea and water-cresses, Dr. ‘Tappenden and Jano, his daughter, returned to their household gods at Slopperton. : . Whe shall describe the ceremony and bustle with which that great dignitary, the master of the houseis re- ceived? He has announced his return by the train which reaches Slopperton at six o’clock ; soat that hour 4 well-furnished tea-table is laid in the study—that ‘terrible apartment which little boys enter with red eyes and. pale checks, emerging therefrom in ‘a pleasant glow engendered by a specific peculiar to schoolmas- ‘ters, whose desire it isnot to spoil the child. But no ghosts ot bygone canings, no infantile whimpers from shadow-land — though little Allecompain, dead and gone, had had many a whacking in this very room— haunt the Doctor's sanctorum ; a very cheerful apart- ment, warm in winter and cool in summer, and hand- somely furnished at all times. The silver teapot re- flects the evening sunshine ; refleots, too, Sarah’ Jane laying the table, none the handsomer for being reflected upside down, with a tendency to collapse or élongate, as she hovers about the teatray. Anchovy paste, pound cake, Scotch marmalade, and fancy bread “all seem to cry aloud for the arrival of the Doctor andhis daughter to demolish them; but for all that there is fear in the hearts of the household tho nearer the hour approaches for that arrival. What will he say to the aches of his factotum? Who shall tell him? Every ! ' Jabez | kB one is innocent enough, certainly ; but, in the! first moment of his fury, may not the descen avalanche of the Doctor's wrath crush the innocent?° Miss Smithers, who, as well as being presiding divinity of the young gentlemen's wardrobes, is keeper of the keys of divers presses and cupboards, and has sundry awful trusts connected with (tea and‘sugar, and butcher's bills, is thought by’the whole household, from the cook to the knife-boy, to be the proper per- son to make the awful announcement of the un- accountable disappearance of Mr. Jabez North.’ So, when the Doctor and his daughter have alighted from the fly which brings them and their luggage from the station, Miss Smithers hovers timidly about them, on the watch for a propitious moment. “ How have you enjoyed yourself, miss? Judging by your looks, I should say very much indeed, for never did I see you looking better,” said Miss Smithers, with more enthusiasm than punctuation, as she removed the shawl from the lovely shoulders of Miss Tap penden, , “Thank. you, Smithers, | am: better,” replied the young lady, with languid condescension. Miss Jane, on the strength of never having anything the matter with her, was always complaining, and her ex- istence in taking sal volatile and red lavender, and reading three volumes a day from the circulating library. d : “And how,” asked the ponderous voice of the pon- derous Doctor, ‘‘ how is everything going on, Smithers?” By this time they are seated at the tea-table, and the searned Tappenden is in the act of putting five lum of sugar in his cup, while the fair Smithers lingers attendance. “ Quite satisfactory, sir, I’m sure,” saye that young lady, growing very much confused, ‘everything quite ‘satisfactory, sir, leastways’? —— , ‘ “What do you mean by leastways, Smithers?” asked the Doctor, impatiently. “In the first place, it isn’t English; and in the next, it sounds as ifit meant some- thing unpleasant. For goodness’ sake, Smithers, be straightforward and business-like ; has anything gone bis ; what is it? and why wasn’t I “informed of it?” , Smithers, in despair at herincapability of answering these three questions at once, as no doubt she ought to be able to do, or. the Doctor wouldn’t have them, stammers out: , “Mr. North, sir’'—— citald . “«Mr. North, sir!’ Well, what of ‘Mr. North, sir?’ By-the-by, where is Mr. North?) Why isn’t he here to receive us ?”’ ‘ : Smithers is in for it, so continues, thus: = 9 “Mr. North, sir, didn't come home last night, sir; oo - _ for him till one o’elock this morning, last night, sir.” The rising storm in the Doctor's face is making Smithers’ English more un-English every moment. “Didn't come home last night?) Didn'treturn tomy house at the hour of ten, as appointed by me for every person in my employ ?” cries the doctor aghast. “ No, sir, nor yet this morning, sir, nor yet this after. noon, sir; and the West Indian pupils have been look- ing out of the window, sir, and would, which we told them not, till we were hoarse, sir.” : ‘“The person intrusted by me with thecare of my pu- pils, abandoning his post, and my pupils looking out of the window-!’’ exclaims Dr. Tappenden, in the tone of a man who says, “The glory of England has departed ; you wouldn’t perhaps. believe it, but it has!" —- “We didn’t know what to do, sir, and so we t! it we'd better not do it,” continues the bewildered ~ ers; and we thought as you sce eaoeeen to-day, we'd better leave it till you dhl come-back ; and please, sir, will you take any new-laid eggs?” ‘ i “Eggs,” said the Doctor ; ‘ new-laid eggs!’ go away Smithers—there must be some steps taken immiediate- ly. That young man was my right hand, and I would have trusted him with untold gold ;” or, he added, “with my cheque-book,’”’ Litad t C magi As he ut the words, “ cheque book,” he; as it were, instinctivelyduid his hand u the pocket which contained that precious volume ; but as he did so he. remembered that he had used the:last leaf but one when writing a eheque for a midsummer's butcber's bill, that he had airesh book in his desk, untouched. — desk was always kept in the study, and the Doctor gave ms involuntary ae in the ee which it stood, t was a vi jome piece rniture; pond ous, like: the: ductor himself ; shining walnut wood eat dark green morocco, with a recess for the Di knees, and on either side of this recess two rows of drawers, with brass handles and Bramah locks. The center drawer on the Jeft-hand side contained an inner and a secret drawer and toward the lock of this drawer the Doctor looked, for this contained his new cheque- book. The walnut wood round the lock of. tbis center drawer seemed alittle chipped ; the Doctor thought he might as well get - and look at it; and a nearer examination showed ‘the brasé handle to be slightly twisted, as if a:powerful hand had wrenched it out of shape. The Doctor, taking hold of the handle to-pullit — straight, drew the drawer out, and scattered its con- tents upon.the floor ; also the contents of the inner drawer, and amongst them the cheque-book, the three first leaves of which had been torn out. “So,” aaid the Doctor, “this man whom I trusted has | en open my desk, and, findiag no money, he bas taken blank cheques in hope of being able to forge my name, To think that I did not know thisman?" = 9 ‘ To think that you did not, Doctor; to think, too, — that you do not even now, perhaps, know half this man may have been capable of. / ft ‘aw But it was time for action, not reflection ; 30 the Doctor hurried to the railway station, and telegraphed to his bankers in London to stop any cheques presented — in his signature, and to have the person presenting © such cheques immediately arrested. From the railway. \ station he hurries, in an undignified perspiration, ter SS ae THREE TIMES DEAD. 15 Maderioisélle, either with your motives or -your scruples; I told you in my note, that I required you to do me a service for which I could afford to pay you handsomely; that, on the other hand if you were un- willing to do me this service, 1] haditin my power to cause your dismissal from your situation. Your com- ing here is a tacit declaration of your willingness to gerve me. So much, and no more preface is needed; and now to business.” He seems to sweep this prefaee away, as ho waves off acloud of the blue smoke from his cigar, with one motion of hissmall hand. The lady’s maid thoroughly subdued by a manner which is quite new to her, awaits his pleasure to speak and stares at him with surprised black eyes. He is not ina hurry: he seems to be consulting the blue smoke; he takes his cigar from his mouth, and looks into the bright red spot at the lighted end, as if it were the lurid eye of his familiar demon; after con- sulting it for a few seconds, he says, with tlhe same indifference with which he would make some observa- tion on the winter’s day: “So, your mistress, Mademoiselle Valerie de Ceven- nes, has been so imprudent as to contract 4 secret mar- riage with an opera-singer.” m Yo has determined on hazarding his guess. If he is tight, it is the best and swiftest way of coming at the truth; if wrong, he is worse off than before. One glance at the girl’s face tells him he has struck home, and has hit upon the entire truth. He is striking in the dark, but he is a mathematician, and can calculate the effect of every blow. “« Yes, asecrat marriage, of which you were the wit- ness.” This is the second blow, and again the girl’s face tells him he has struck home. “M. Perot has betrayed us, then, for he alone could tell you this,” said Finette. a The lounger understands, in a moment, that Mon- sieur Perot is the priest who performed the marriage— another point in his game—be continues, still stopping now and then to take a puff at his cigar, and speaking with an air of complete indifference. “You see, then, that this secret marriage and the part you took init, have,no matter whether through the worthy priest, Monsieur Perot””—(he stops at this point to knock the ashes from his cigar, and a sidelong glance at the girl’s face tells him that he is right - again, Monsieur Perot is the priest) ‘or some other channel came to my knowledge. Though a French- woman you may be acquainted with the celebrated aph- orism of our English neighbors— Knowledge is power.’ Very well, Mademoiselle, how if I use my power?” ; “Monsieur means that he can deprive me of my present place and prevent my getting another.’’ As she said this Mademoiselle Finette screwed out of one of her black eyes a small bead of water, which was the best thing she could do in the way of a tear, but which, eoming into immediate contact with a sticky white compound called pearl-powder, used by the lady’s maid to enhance her personal charms, looked rather more like a digestion pill than anything else. *“But.on the other hand, I may not use my power; ‘and, indeed, J should regret the painful. necessity of being so ungallant as to injure a lady.” “Mademoiselle Finette, encouraged by this speech, wiped away thé digestion pill. “ Therefore, Mademoiselle, the case resolves itself to ‘this: berve me and I will reward you—retuse to do so, and I can injure you.” A cold glitter in the blue eyes converts the words into a et without the aid of any extra emphasis from the ‘voice, ©” “Monsieur has only to command,” ans wers the lady’s- maid—“ I’m ready to serve him.” z “This Robert the Devil will be at the gate of the lit- tle pavilion to-night ?”’— \ “At a quarter to twelve.” : “Then J will be there at half eleven. You will admit me, instead of him—that is all,” « But my mistress, monsieur; she will know I haye ‘betrayed her, and she will killme. Youdo not know Mademoiselle de Cevennes.” “Pardon mé, I think Ido know her. She will never know you have betrayed her. Remember, I ‘have ‘discovered the appointed signal; you are deceived by that, and you open the door to the wrong man. For the ‘yest, I will shield you from all harm. Your mistress is a glorious creature, but perhaps that high spirit may be taught to bend.” ; “It must first be broken, monsieur,” says madem- -oiselle Finette. “Perhaps.” He rises as he speaks—“ mademoisello, ‘aurevoir.’ He drops five louis d’ors into her hand, and strolls slowly away. The lady’s-maid atches the receding figure with a ‘bewildered stare. Well may Finotte Leris be puzzled by this man; he might mystify wiser heads than hers, As he walks, with his lounging gait, through the win- ter sunset, many turn to look at bis aristocratic figure, fair face and black hair. Ifthe worst man that looked at him could have seen straight through his light blue eyes into his soul, would there have nm something revealed which would have shocked and revolted even this worst. man? Perhaps, ‘Treachery is revolting, surely, to the worst of us. The worst of us shrin from the plotting brain and the unflinching’ heart of the cold-blooded traitor. : —_—— t CHAPTER XIX, Hatr-past eleven from the great booming voice of Notre Dame the Magnificent. Half-past eleven from every turret in the vast city of Paris, and the musical tones of the time-piece over the chimney in the bou- doir of the pavilion testify to the fact five minutes af- : An elegant time-piece, in which Love in or- mulo has hushed Time in bronze to sleep, and has hid- den his hour-glass under the shadow of bis wings—a} then, this marriage of wealth, rank, and beauty, with pretty design enough, though the sand in the glass | genius and poverty ! will never move the slower, or wrinkles and gray hairs “Monsieur,” shesays, “you have discovered my be the longer coming ; an the minute-hand on the best | secret ; I have been betrayed either by my servant or dial-plate that all Paris n produce, is not surer in its | the priest who married me; no matter which. You, course than that dark end whirg: spares not the bright- | who, from your conduct of to-night are evidently an est beginning, that weary awakening which fails not | adventurer; a person to whom it would be utterly } vain to speak of honor, chivalry, and gentlemanly feel- This little department in the -payilion belonging to | ing—since they are doubtless words of which you do the fairest dream. the house of the Marquis de Cevennes, is furnished in the style of the Pompadour days of elegance, luxury, and not even know the meaning—you wish to turn the possession of this secret to account; in other words, frivolity: Oval portraits of the reigning beauties of | you want to be bought off. You, no doubt, amongst that day are let into the panels of the walls, and ‘Louis the Well-beloved,” smiles an insipid Bourbon smile above the mantle-piece. . This chimney-piece is of mar- ble, exquisitely carved with lotuses aud water-nymphs, a wood-fire burns upon the gilded dogs which orua- ment the hearth ; velvet pile and Persian carpets cover the oaken floor ; and a cupid suspended from the paint- ed ceiling, in an attitude which suggests such a deter- mination of blood to the head as must ultimately re- .| 8ult in apoplexy, holds a lamp of alabaster which floods the room with a soft but radiant light. Under this light, the mistress of the apartment, Val- erie de Covenes, looks irene hata She is seated in alow arm-chair by the hearth—looking some- times into the red blaze at her feet, with dreaming eyes, in which the gaze, though thoughtful, is not sor- ‘rowful. This girl has taken a desperate step, in mar- rying secretely the man she loves; but she has no re- gret, for she does love ; and loss of position seems so small a thing in the balance, when weighed against this love which isas yet unacquainted with sorrow, that she forgets that ehe has lost it. Even while her eyes are fixed on the light of the wood fire, you may sce that she is listening, and when the clocks have chimed the half-hour, she turns her head toward the door of the apartment, and listensintently. In five minutes she hears something —a fain soundin the distance, of an outer door turning on its hinges. She starts, and her eyes glisten ; she glances at tue time-piece, and from the time-piece to the tiny watch at her side. ** So soon,” she mutters; ‘‘he said a quarter to twelve. If my unclé had been here! and he only left me at eleven o’clock.”’ She listens again; the sounds come nearer—two more doors open and then there are footsteps on-the stairs— at the sound ofthese footsteps she starts again, with a look of anxiety in her face. “Is he ill,’ she says, “that he walks so slowly ? Hark !” she turns pale and clasps her hands tightly up- on her heart ; ‘tit is not his step.’’ She knows she is betrayed; and in that one moment she is prepared for the worst. She leans her hand upon the back of the chair from which she has risen, and stands, with her eyes fixed, and her thin lips firmly set, facing the door. Sbe may be facing her fate, for aught she knows; but she is ready to face anything. : The door opens, and’ the lounger of the morning en- ters. He wears a coat and hat of exactly the same shape and color as those worn by the fashionable tenor; he is about his height. An easy thing, in the obscurity of night, for the faithful Finette to’ admit this stranger, without discovering her mistake. One glance at the (ace and attitude of Valerie de Cevennes tells him that she is not unprepared for his appearance. This takes him offhis guard. Has he, too, been betrayed by the lady’s maid? He never guesses that his light step betrayed him to the listening ear, which love had made soacute. He sees that the young and beautiful girl is prepared to give him battle. He is disappointed. He had counted upon her surprise.and contusion, ard he feels that he has lost a point in his game. She does not speak; but stands quietly waiting far him to address her, as she might, were he an ordinary visitor. ‘‘ She is amore wonderful woman than I thought,” he says to himself, “and the battle will be a siiarp one. No matter! The victory will be the sweeter.” _ He removes his hat, and the light falls full upon his pale, fair face. Something init, she cannot tell what, seems in a faint, din manner, familiar to her—she has seen s0ine one like him ; but when, or where, she can- not remember.” “You are surprised, madam, to see me,” he says; for he feels that he must begin the attack—and that he must not spare one blow, for ha is to fight with one who can patey. his thrusts and strike again. surprised. “ Yon are }- You command yourself admirably, in re-| Monsieur Perot, must have betrayed your confi your other honorable acquirements, are acquainted with the amount of my income. You know, then, then, what I can afford to pay you ; be good enough to say what will satisfy you, and I will appoint a time and place at which you shai) receive your earnings. You will be so kind as to loseno time. Itis on the stroke of twelve ; ina moment Monsieur de Lancy will be‘ here; he may not be disposed to make so good a bar- gain with youasI, He might be tempted to throw you out of the window.” She said all this was entire self-possession ; she might be talking to her modiste, so thoroughly indiffer- ent is she, in her high-bred ease, and freezing contempt for the man to whom she is speaking. Asshe finishes, she throws herself into her easy-chair and taking up a book from a little table near her, begins cutting the leaves with a jeweled-handled paper-knife. But the - battle has only just begun,and she does not yet know her opponent. He watches her for a moment; marks the steady hand with which she slowly cuts leaf after leaf, and never notches the paper ; and then deliberately seats himself opposite to her in the easy chair on the other side of the fire-place. She lifts her eyes from the book, and looks full at him; but as she looks, he can see how eagerly sho is also listening for her husband's: step. He has a blow to strike, which he knows will beaheavy one. “Do not, madame,” he says, “distract yourself by listening for your husband’s arrival; he will not be here to-night.” This is a terrible blow. She tries to speak, but her lips only move inarticulately. “No; he will not be here. You do not suppose, madame, that when I contemplated, nay, contriyvedand arranged an interview with so charming a person as yourself, I could possibly be so deficient in foresight as to alow that interview to be disturbed at the expira- tion of one quarter of an hour? No, Monsieur Don Giovanni will not be here to-night.” Again she tries to speak, but the words refuse to come. He continues, as though he interpreted what she wants to say ; * “You will naturally ask what other engagement de- tains -him from his lovely wife’s society? Well) it is, as I think, a supper at the Trois Freres j/ as there are ladies invited, they will no doubt break up early; and you will, I dare say, see him by four or five ofclock in the morning.?” 5 She tries to resume her employment with the paper- knite, but this time she tears the leaves to pieces in her endeavors to cut them ; her anguish and her woman- hood get the better of her pride and her power of en- durance ; she crumples the book in herclenched hands, and throwsit into the fire. Her visitor smiles, His. blows tell. A Fora few minutes, there is silencé; presently he takes out his cigar-case. = ao . “I need scarcely ask permission, madame ; all these opera-singers smoke, and no doubt you are indulgent to the weaknesses of Robert the Devil.” ae “‘ Monsieur de Lancy isa geutleman, and would not presume to smoke in a lady’s presence. Once more, monsieur, be good enough to say how much money you require of me to insure your silence?” “Nay, madame,”’ he replies, as he bends over the wood fire, and lights his cigar by the blaze of the burning book ‘there is no occasion tor such desperate haste ; you are really suprisingly superior to the ordinary weaknesse’ of your sex ; setting apart your courage, self-endurance, and determination, which are positively wonderful, you are so entirely defficient in curiosity,” She looks at him, with a glance which seems to say she scorns to ask him what he means by this. “You say. your maid, Finette, or the good ee’ ce: pressing any demonstration of surprise ; but you are | suppose it was from neither of those persons I got my not the less surprised.” “Tam certuinly surprised, monsieur, at ‘receiving any visitor at such an hour.”’ She says this with per- fect composure. - “Scarcely, madame,” he looks at the time-piece, “ for in five minutes from this your husband will or should be here.”” Her lips tighten, and her jaws grow rigid in spite of herself. The secret is known, then—known to this stranger, who dares to intrude himself upon her, on the strength of this knowledge.” “ Monsieur,’ she says, ‘‘ people rarely insult Valerie de Cevennes with impunity. You shall hear from my ‘uncle to-morrow morning ; for to-night—’ she lays her hand upon the mother-of-pearl handle of a little bell—he stops her, saying smilingly : “ Nay, madame, we are not playing afarce. You wish to show me'to the door? You would ring that bell, which no one can answer but Finette, your maid, since there is no one else in this charming little estab- lishment, Ishall not be frightened by Finette, even if you areso impfudent as to summon her ; and I shall not leave you till you have done me the honor of granting me an interview. For the rest, I am not talk- ane to Valerie de Cevennes, but to Valerie de Lancy ; Valerie Robert the Devil ; Valerie Don Giovanni—’’ De Lancy is the name of the fashionable tenor. This time the thin lips quiver with a rapid convulsive movement. What stings her proud soulis the contempt with which this man speaks ofher husband. Is it such a disgrace, * iniormation ?” “There is no other source, monsieur, from which you could obtain it.” ~ sj — , “Nay, madame, reflect. Is there no other person whose vanity may haye prompted him to reveal thia secret? Do you tlink it, madame, so utterly improb- able that Monsieur Robert the Devil, himself, may have been tempted to boast over his wine, of the ¢on- quest of the heiress of all the De Cevennes?” ‘It is @ base falsehoood, monsier, which yon are uttering "—— Pia . “Nay, madame, I make no assertion ; Iam only pu® ting a cass. Suppose at a supper at Very’s, amongst his comrades ot the opera and his admirers of the stalls, tosay nothing of the who, somehow, or other, contrive to find a i at these recherche little banquets—suppose our friend, Don Giovanni, impru- dently ventures. some allusion to a lady of rank and for- tune, whom his melodious yoice, or his dark eyes, haye captivated. This little party is not, perhaps, satisfied with this allusion ; it requires facts ; it isincredulous ; it lays heavy odds that Robert cannot name the lady ; and in the end the whole story is told ; and the health of Valerie de Cevennes is drunk in sparkling Moselle. | Suppose this, madame, and you may perlaps guess whence I got ai information.” Throughout this speech Valerie has sat facing him, with her eyes fixed in a strange and ghastly stare; once, she lifts her hand to her throat as if to stop herself from choking, aud when he has finished ipexiing. she THREE TIMES DEAD. = the familiar voice speaks : « her? Bah! We never love these fine ladies, who give us such tender glances from opera-boxes, _ We never admire these great heiresses, who fall in love with a handsome face, and have not enough modesty ‘to keep the sentiment a secret; who think they honor us by a marriage which they are ashamed to confess ; and who fancy we must needs be in love with them, because, alter their fashion, they are in love with us. “Have you heard Marolles. ‘Give me a pistol or a dagger.’’ she says, in hoarse whisper ; ‘let me shoot him dead, or stab hin: to the heart, that I may go away. and die in. peace.” “So,”’ mutters ymond, ‘‘she has heard enough. Come, madame. Yet stay—one last look ; you are sure that is Monsieur de Lancy ?’” The man and the girl are standing afew yards from them; his back is turned to Valerie, but she would know him among a thousand by the dark hair and the | peculiar bend of the head. “ “Sure!” she answers. ‘Am I myself?” “Come, then, we have another place to visit to-night. You are satisfied are you not, madame, now that you have had ocular demonstration ?” enough ?”” asks Raymond CHAPTER XXI. WHEN Monsieur Marolles offers his arm to lead her back to the coach, itis passively enough that Valerie accepts it. Little matter now, her pride can never fall lower than it has fallen. Despised by the man she jores so tenderly, the world’s contempt is nothing for er. In_a'‘few minutes they are both seated in the coach driving cee the Champs Elysee. “Are you taking me home?” she asks. “No, madame; we have another errand, as [ told you.” “ And that errand ?” “Tam going to take you where you will have your fortune told.” “My fortune {” she exclaims with a bittér langh. “Bah! Madame,” says her companion, “let us understand each other. I hope I have not to deal with a romantic and love-sick girl. Ifound you, in how con- temptible a position, I will not gall your pride by re- calling to your recollection; I offer my services to rescue you from that contemptible position, but I do 80 in the firm belief that you are a woman of spirit, courage and determination”’—— “And that I can pay you well,” she adds scorn- fully. ‘And that you cam pay me well. I am not Don Quixote, madame, nor have T any great respect for that gentleman; believe mo, I mean that you shall pay me well for my services, as you will learn by and by.” Again there is the cold glitter in the blue eyes, b9 the ominous smile which a mustache does well to hide... But he continues, “If you have a mind to break your heart for an opera-singer’s handsome face, go and break it in your boudoir, madame, with no better confidante than your lady’s-maid; for you are not worthy of the services. of Raymond Marolles.” “You rate your service very high, then, monsieur ?” _ “Perhaps. Look you, madame: you despise me be- cause Lam an adyenturer; had I been lord, even in my cradle, of wide lands anda great name, you would re- speot me. Now Irespect myself because lam an ad- venturer;, because, by the force alone of my.own min Lhave risen from what I was, tobe what I am. I wil show you my cradle some day, It had no tapestried coverlet or embroidered curtains, I can assure you.” They are now oe eee a dark street, in a neighborhood wer own to the lady. “Where are you taking me?” she asks again, with something like fear in her voice. “As I told you before, to have your fortune told; nay, madame, unless you trust me, cannotserve you. Re. member, itis to my interest to serve you well; you can therefore have no cause for fear.’* As he speaks, they stop at a low doorway in the blank wall of a high dark-looking house; he. gets oat of the coach and rings a bell, at which the porter openg the door; Raymond assists Valerie to dismount and Jeads her into a little hall, and up a stone staircase to the fifth story of the house. At another time her courage might have failed her in this strange house, at 80 late an hour, with this man, of whom she knowg nothiag, but now she is reckless. _ There is nothing very alarming in the aspect of the into which Ray sione leads her; it is a cheerful ttle apartment lighted with gas. There is a small stove; near it a table, before which is a pay looking man, of some forty years of ago. He has avery pale face, a broad foranésd. from which the hair ig rushed away behind the ears; he wears blue specta- cles, which entirely conceal his eyes, and in a manner shade his face. You cannot tell what he is thinking of; for it is a peculiarity of this man that the mouth, which with other Beene is generally the most express- ive feature, has with him no expression whatever. It is a thin, straight line, which opens and shuts as | he speaks, but which never curves into a smile, or con- tracts when he frowns. ‘ He is deeply engaged, bending over a pack of cards spread out on the green cloth which covers the table, "as if he were playing ecarte without an opponent, when Raymond 8 the door; but he rises at the sight of _ the lady and bows low to her. He has the air of a stu- - om than a man of the world, , ‘With the pasteboard, or in the crucible?’’ asks the impassible mouth. “Both, my dear fellow; we shall want both your talents. Sit down, madame, I must do the honors of the apartment, for my triend Laurent Blurosset is too much a man of science to be a man of gallantry ; sit down, madame, place yourself at this table, there, op- posite Mousieur Blurvsset, and then to business.” This Raymond Marolles, of whom she knows abso- lutely Nothing, has a strange influence over Valerie ; an influence against which she no longer struggles ; she obeys him passively, and seats herself at the little green baize-covered table. The blue spectacles of Monsieur Laurent Blurosset look at her attentively for two or three minutes ; as for } the eyes behind the spectacles, she cannot even guess | what might be revealed in their light. ‘I'he man seems | to have a strange advantage in looking at every one as | from behind a screen ; his own face, with hidden eyes | and inflexible mouth, is like a blank wall. “Now then, Blurosset, we will begin with paste- board.. Madame would like to have her fortune told ; she knows, of course, that this fortune-telling is mere charlatanism, but she wishes to sve one of the cleverest charlatans.” Z “Charlatanism ! Charlatan{ Well it doesn’t matter. I believe in what I read here, because I find it true. The first time I find a false meaning in these bits of pasteboard, I shall throw them into that fire, and never touch acard again, They’ve been the hobby of twenty years; but you know I eould do it, English- man |” “Englishman |” exclaimed Valerie, looking up with astonishment. “Yes,” answered Raymond, laughing; “a surname which Monsieur Blurosset has bestowed upon me in ridicule of my politics, which happened once to resem- ble those of our honest neighbor, John Bull.” Monsieur Blurosset nods an assent to Raymond’s as- sertion, as he takes the cards in his thin yellow-white hands, and begins shuffling them. He does this with a skill peculiar to himself, and you couJd almost guess, in watching him, that. these little pieces of pasteboard have been his companions for twenty years ;, presently, he arranges them in groups of threes, fives, sevens, and nines, on the green baize—reserving afew cards in his hand—then the blue spectacles look up, and contem- plate Valerie for a few seconds. “Your friend is the queex of spades,” he says, turn- ing to Raymund. “ Decidedly,’’ he replies. ‘‘ How the insipid diamond beauties fade, beside this gorgeous loveliness of the south |” Valerie does not hear the compliment which at an- other time she would have resented as an insult; she is absorbed in watching the groups of cards over which the blue spectacles are so intently bent. Monsieur Blurosset seems to be working some ab- struse calculations with these groups of cards, assisted by those he has in his hand; the spectacles wander from the threes to the nines, from the sevens to the fives back again, across again, from five to nine, from three to seven, from five to three, from seven to nine, Presently he says: ; “The king ofspades is everywhere here.” He doesn't look up as he speaks—never raising the spectacles from the cards. His manner of speaking is so passion- less and mechanical, he might’ be some calculating automaton. : 43 “The king of spades,’’ says Raymond, “is a dark and handsome young man.” : “Yes,” says Blurosset, ‘he is‘everywhere beside the queen of spades.” Valerie, in spite of herself, is absorbed in this man’s words; she never takes her eyes from the spectacles and the thin white lips of the fortune-teller. “‘T do not like his influence, it is bad ; this king of spades is dragging the queen down, down, down into the very mire.’? Valerie's cheek cannot grow whiter than it has been ever since the revelation of the Bois de Boulogne, but she cannot repress a shudder at these words. — f “ There is a falaehood,’’ continues Monsieur Blurosset, ‘and there is a fair woman here.” “A fair woman! that girl we saw to-night is fair,” whispered Raymond; ‘no doubt Monsieur Don teed admires blondes, having himself the southern beauty.” : L “Tho fair woman is always with the king of spades,” says the fortune-teller; ‘there is here no falsehood— nothing but devotion. The king of spades can be true; he is true to this diamond woman; but for the queen of spades he has nothing but treachery.” a os there anything more on the cards?” asks Ray- mond. “Yes, A ‘priest—a marriage—money. Ah! this king of spades imagines he is within reach of a great fortune.” “Does he deceive himself?” “Yes. Now the treachery changes sides; the queen of spades is’ in it now—but stay—the traitor— the real traitor is here; this fair man—the knave of diamonds" Raymond Marolles lays his white hand suddenly upon the card to which Blurosset is pointing, and says hurriedly : ““Bah ! you have told us‘all about yesterday, now tell us of to-morrow,” and then he adds, in a whisper, in the ear of Monsieur Blurosset : d “Fool! Have you forgotten your lesson ?”” “They will speak the truth,” mutters the fortune- teller ; “I was carried away by them ; I will be more careftil,” ; This whispered dialoguo is'unheard by Valerie, who sits immovable, as if the monotouons voice of Monsieur Blurosset were the voice of Nemesis. 4 ; “Now then for the future,’ says Raymond; «itis “ good Blurosset,” says dry tiond, “T have ‘ t a lady to see you, to whom I haye been speak- y of your talents.” the confines of the possible—tell us then what is going to happen.”’ : Monsieur Blurosset collects the cards, shuffies them, and rearranges themin groups as before. Again the blue spectacles wander irom three to nine, from nine to seven, irom seven to five, Valerie following them , with bright and hollow eyes; presently.he says, in his old mechanical way: “The queen of spades is very. proud.” * Yes,” mutters Raymond in Valerie’s ear; “‘ Heaven help the king who injures such a queen.” She does not take her eyes from the bine spectacles ot Monsieur Blurosset, but there is a tightening of her determined mouth, which seems like an assent to this. remark, . “She can hate as well as love; the king of spadeg is: in danger,” says the tortuue-teller. There is afew minutes’ dead silence, while the blue spectacles shifts from group to group of cards, Valerie intently watching them—Raymond intently watching her. This time, there seems to be something difficult in the calculation of the numbers; the spectacles shift luther and thither, and the thin white lips miove silent- ly and rapidly, from seven to nine, and back again to seven. “ There is something on the cards that puzzles you,” says Raymond, breaking the deathly silence. “ What is it?” “A death,” answers the impassionable voice of Mon- sieur Blurosset. “A violent death, which bears no outward sign of violence. 1 said, did I not, that the king of spades was in danger ?” “You did.” From three to five, from five to nine, from nine to seven, from seven to nine; the groups of cards form a circle; three times round the circlg, as the sun goes; back again, and three times round the circle in a con- trary direction: across the circle from three to seven, from seven to five, from five to nine, and the blue spectacles come to a dead stop at nine. “ Betore twelve o’clock to-morrow night, the king of spades will be dead,” says the monotonous voice of Monsieur Blurosset. The voices ot the clocks of Paris seem to take up Monsieur Blurosset’s voice, as they strike the hour of midnight. Twenty-four hours for the king of spades! Monsieur Blurosset gathers up his cards and drops them into his pocket. Malicions people say that he sleeps with them under his pillow; that he plays ecarte by himseltin his sleep; and that he has played piguet with a yery tall, dark gentleman, whom the porter never letin or out, and who lett a sulphureous and suffocating atmosphere behind him in Monsieur Blu- rosset’s little apartment, “Good,’’ says Monsieur Raymond Marolles, much for the pasteboard ; now for the crucible,”’ For the first time since the discovery of the treachery of her husband, Valerie de Lancy ‘smiles. She has a beautiiul smile, which curves the delicate lips without ting them and which brightens in her e dark eyes with a glorious fire of thefsunny south; but for 1 that, Heaven save the man who has injured her from the light of such a smile as }ers of to-night. “You want my assistaics D some matters of chem- istry ?” asks Blurosset, “Yes. I forgot to tell you, madame, that my friend Laurent Blurosset, though he chooses to hide himself in one of the most.obscure ts of Paris, is te one of the greatest men in this city. He is a chemist, who will one day work a revolution in chemi- cal science; but he is a fanatic, madame, or better, say he is a lover, and his crucible is his mistress. This blind devotion to a science is surely only another form of the world’s great madness, love. Who kuows what bright eyes a problem in Enclid may have replaced|? who can tell what fair hairy may not have. been forgot- ten in a Greek root ?’’ : Valerie shivers. Heaven help that shattered heart every word that touches on the master-passion of her life is a wound that piercesit to the core. _ “You donot,smoke, Blurosset. Foolish man, you do not know how fo live. Pardon, madame.” He lights his cigar at the green shaded gas lamp, seats him- self close to the stove, and smokes for a few minutes in silence. Mi 7, é Valerie, still seated before the little tabie, watches him with fixed eyes, waiting for him Loapeak. : In the utter shipwreck of her every hope, this’ ad- yenturer is the only anchor to which she can cling. Presently he says, in his most easy and indifferent manner: ’ “Tt was the fashion at the close of the fifteenth and throughout the sixteenth century for the ladies of Italy to acquire a certain knowledge of some of the principles ef ehomisinys of course, at the head of these ladies, we must place, Lucretia Borgia.” | Monsieur Blurrosset nods an assent; Valerie looks | from Raymond to the vue spectacles; but the face of the chemist testifies no shade of surprise at the singu- larity of Raymond's observation. 4 ; ; “Then,” continued. Monsieur, Marolles, “if a lady was deeply injured, or cruelly insulted by the mansbe loved; if her pride was trampled in the dust, or her name and her weakness held up to ridi¢ule and con- tempt; then,she knew how to avenge herself ana to defy the world. A tender pressure of the traitor’s hand; a flower ora ribbon given asa pledge of love: the leaves of a book hastily turned oyer—an Arcadian romance, perhaps, with Narcissus and Daphne happy ever afterward—and behold, the gentleman died, and no one was any the wiser, vut the worms, with whom haps, “soa, tofana’ at second hand may have “Vultures haye died from. the effecta of poisoned carrion,” muttered Monsieur Blurosset. ol “But in this degenerate age,” continued “Ray- “So possible to tell what has happened; we wish to pass / mond, “‘whatican our Parisian ladies do, ee. they have reason tobe revenged on a traitor? Give him @ | | | | | } i j | = THREF TIMES DEAD, blundering half-pint of landanuni or an ounce or so of arsenic, and be detected half an hour aiter’ his death ? I think that time is a circle, and that we retreat as we advance, in spite of our talk of proyress.” His horrible words, thrice horrible, when contrasted with the coolness of his easy muner, treeze Valerie to the very heart; but she does not make one effort to in- terrupt him. “Now, my good Blurosset,” he says, “what I want of youis this, Something which will change a glass ef wine intoa death-warrant, but which would dety the scrutiny of a college of physicians. This lady wishes to take lessonsin chemistry ; she will, of course, only experimentalize on rabbits, and she isso tender-hearted that, as you see, she shudders at the thought cf that little cruelty. For the rest, to repay you for your trouble, if you will give her pen and ink, she will write you an order on her banker for a hundred louis.”’ Monsieur Blurosset appears no more surprised at this request than if he had been asked for a glass of water; he goes to a cabinet, which he opens, and, after alittlesearch, selects a small tin. box, from which he takes a few grains of white powder, which he screws carelessly in a little bit of newspaper. He isso much accustomed to handling these compounds that he treats them with very little ceremony. “It is aslow poison,” he says. “For a full grown rabbit, use the eighth part of what you have there; the whole of it would kill a man,” “Madame will. use it with discretion,’ says Raymond, “do not fear.” Monsieur Blurosset holds out the little packet, as if expecting Valerie to take it; she reccils with a ghastly face, and shudders as she looks from the chemist to Raymond Murollea. “In this degenerate age,” says Raymond, looking her steadily in the face, ‘‘our women cannot redress their own wrongs, however deadly those wrongs may be; they must have fathers, brothers or uncles to fight for them, and the world to witness the struggle. Bah! there is nota woman in France better than a sentimen- tal school girl.” Valerie stretched out her small hand to receive the packet. “Give me the pen, monsieur,” she says ; and as the chemist presents her a halt sheet of paper, she writes hurriedly au order on her bankers, which she signs in full with her maiden nanie. Monsieur B!urosset looks over the paper as she writes. “Valerie de Cevennes!” he exclaims. ‘‘I did not know I was honored by so aristocratic a visitor.” Valerie puts her hand to her head, as if bewildered. “My name!” she says, ‘ I forgot, I forgot.” «What do you fear, madame?” asked Raymond with asmile. ‘Are you not among friends?” “For pity’s sake, mousieur,” she says, ‘give me your arm and take moe back to the carriage; I shall drop down dead if I stay longer in this room.” The blue spectacles contemplate her oer for a moment; Monsieur Blurosset lays one cold, (jamp hand upon her puise, and with the other takes a little bottle from the cabinet, out of which he gives her a few drops of a transparent liquid. “She will du now,” he says to Raymond, “till you get her home; then see that she takes this (lie pives him another little bottle); it is an opiate which will pro- cure her six hours’ sleep—without this she would go mad.” : Raymond leads her from the room, her head droops on his shoulder, and he has to half support her down the steep stairs, ; «7 think,” he mutters to himself, “ we have sealed the doom of the king of spades !”’ CHAPTER XXII. Uronr 2 little table in the boudoir of the pavilion lay aletter. It was the first thing Valerie de Lancy beheld on entering the room, with Raymond Maurolles by her side; half an hour alter she leit the apartment of Mon- sieur Blurosset. This le(ter was in tue handwriting of her husband, and it bore the postmark of Calais. Va- Jerie’s face told her companion whon the letter came from, before she took it in her hand. “ Read it,” he sxid, coolly. ‘1t contains his excuses, mo doubt. Let us see what pretty stury he has in- vented. In his early professional career Lis companions surnamed him Baron Munchausen.” Her haud shook as she broke tho sea) but she read the letter carefully through, aud turning to Raymond, she said: “You are right; his excuse is excellent, only a little too transparent; listen: “«The reason of my absence from Paris—absence from Paris, and to-night in the Buis de Buulogne—tis most extraordinary; at the end of the opera last uight I wus summoned to the stuge dour, where I found aries: songer waiting for me, who told me he had come pur t+ haste from Cu ais, where my mother was lying daugei- ously ill, and to implore me, if I wished to see her betore her death, to start for that place immediately. Even my love for you, which you weil know, Valerie, is the absorbin, gerry of my life, was forgotten in such a moment. f ad no means of communicating with you, without endangering our secret. Imagine then my surprise on my arrival here, 'to find my mother is in periect health, and had of course sent no messenger to me. Lear in this niystery some conspiracy, wiich threatens the safety of our secret. Ishall be in Puris to-night, in time to play Don Giovanni, and to-morrow, at duek, I shall be at tie dear little pavilion, cnoe more to be blest by a smile from the only eyes I love. “GASTON DE ir “Rather a blundering epistle,’’ muttered Raymond. “T should really have given him credit for something better. You will receive him t-morrow evening, madane ?” J She knows so well the purport of this question, that ber hand almost involuntarily tightens on the little packet given her by Mousieur,Blurosset, which she has held all this time, but she does not answer him. “ You will receive him to-morrow ; or by to-morrow night all Paris will know of, this romantic but rather ridiculous marriage. 1t will be in ail the newspapers. Caricatured in all the printshops,. Charivari will have a word Ur two about it, and little boys will cry it in the streets a full, true, and particular account tor only one sous. But then, as I said before, you are superior to your sex, and perhaps will not mind all this.” “{ shall see him to-morrow evening at dusk,’ she said, in'a hoarse whisper, not pleasant to hear. ‘Aud I shall never see him again after dusk to-morrow.” *Once more, then, good-night,’’ says Raymond ; “but stay, Monsieur Blurosset begs you will take this, an opiate. Nay,’’ he mutters, with a laugh, as she looks at him strangely, ‘‘ you may be perfectly assured of ro harmlessness ; remember, I have not been paid yet. He bows and leaves the room. She never Jifls her eyes to look at him, as he bids her adieu. Those hol- low, tearless eyes are fixed on the letter she holds in her left hand. She is thinking of the first time she saw his handwriting, when every lefter seemed a char- acter inscribed in fire, because his hand had shaped 1t ; when the tiniest scrap of paper covered with the most ordinary words, was a precious talisman, a jewel of tore price than the diamonds of all the Cevemnes. The short winter’s day dies out, and turough the dusk a young man,ina thick greatcvat, comes down the broad quiet street in which the pavilion stands. Once or twice he looks round to see that he is unob- served, and then hurries in. Ina few minutes he is in the boudoir, and by the side of Valerie. The girl's prsnd face is paler than when he last saw it, and when ie asks tenderly the reason of this change, She says: “Thave been anxious about you, Gasten. You can scarcely wonder.”’ -“The voice, too, even your voice, is changed,” he says, anxiously. “Stay, surely I aim the victim of no juggling snare. It is—it is Valerio.” The little boudoir is only lighted by the wood fire burning on the low hearth. He draws her toward the blaze, and looks her fuil in the face. “You would scarcely believe me,” he said, * but for the moment I half doubted if i: were really you. Tho false uiarm, the hurried journey, one ‘thing and another ave upset meso, thit you seemed changed— altered ; I can scarcely tell you how, but altered very much.” She seats herself in the easy-chair by the hearth, There is an embroidered velvet foots‘ool ut her feet, he places himself on this, and sits locking wp ia her face. She lays her slender hands on hig dark hair, aud looks straight into his eyes. Who sha.l revd her thoughts at this moment? She has learnt to despise him, but she has never ceased to luve Lim. She*las cause to hate him—but she cannot tell whether the bitter anguish which rends her heurt is Jove or hate. “ Pshaw, Gaston,’ she says, “you are full. of silly fancies to-night, And I, you sec, do not offer to reproach yuu once for the uneasiness. you have caused me, See how readily Laccept your excuse for your absence, and never breath one doubt of its truth. Now, wero La jealous or suspicious woman .I might have a hundred doubts, I}nnght think you did not love me, and fancy that your abseuce was 4 voluntary one. Imight even beso fovlish us to picture you with another whom you loved better than me.’’ “Valerie!” he said, reproachfully, raising her small hand to his lips, ‘ “Nay,” she suid with a ringing langh, “this might be the thought of a jealous woman, but could I. think so of you, Gusten ?” “Hark !’’ he said, starting and rising hastily, ‘did you not hear something ¢”’ “What?” “A rustling sound, by that door. ‘The door of your dressing-room, Finetteis not there, isshe? Ilett her in the ante-room below.” “No, no, Gaston, there is no, one there, this is another of your silly fancies.’’ He glances uneasily toward the door, but resoats himself at her feet, and looks in her face. She does not look at him but- at the fire. Her cark eyes are fixed upon the bluze, and she scems almost, uncon- scious of his presence. What does she see in the red light? Her shipwrecked soul? ‘he ruins of her hopes? The ghost of her dead happiness? Tue image of along and dreary inture, in wich the lovu on whose foundation sle had built a bright and peave- tul lie to come, could have no part? What does she see? A Warniny am stretched out to save her from the commissicn of adreadiul deed (which once com- mitted must slut her ont irom all earthly sympathy, though not periaps from Heavenly forziveness), or a stern finger pointing to the dark end,to wich she lastens with a purpose in her heart so stran,¢ and fearful to her, she scurcely cau beiieve it is her own, or thatshe is herself? With her leit hand still upon the dark hair, which éven now sho cannot touch without a tenderness, which, having no partin her nature of to-day, seems like some relic of the wreck of the past, sho stretches out:her right arm toward a table near hex, on wiich some. decunters and. glisses stund, that ring with a silvery sound under her tuuch. 1 “Timust try and cure you of your fancies, Gaston. My physician insists on my taking every day at lunch- eon, a; lass of tuat old Madeira of which my uncle is so fond. They have not removed the wine—you shall take some—pour it out-yourself. 809, here is the de- canter. I wish hold the glass for you,’ ’ She holds the antique diamond cut glass with a steady hand; while he pours the wine iuto it. The light from the wood fire flickers, aud he spills some over her dress. They both laugh at this, and her laugh rings out the clearest of the two, ; There is a third person who laughs, but his is s si- lent laugh. This third person is Monsieur, Marollea, who stands within the haifopen door that leada inte Valerie’s dressing-room. ? “So,” he says tO himself, “ this is even better than I had hoped. I feared Lis handsome face would slake her resolution, ‘The light in those dark eyesis very beautiiul no doubt, but it has not long to burn.” As the firelight flashes upyn the glass, Gaston holds it jor a moment between his eyes and the blaze. ; “Your uncle's wine is not very clear,” be says, “but l would drink the worst vinegar trum the worst tavern in Paris, if you poured it out tor me, Valerie,”’ As he emptied the glass, the little time piece struck six o'clock, ; “Imust go, Valerie. I play Gennaro in ‘Lucretia Borgia,’ and the king is to beat the theater to-night. ~ i will come? Ishall not sing well if you are not here,”’ “ Yes, yes, Gaston.” head as she spoke, “Are you ill?” he asked, anxiously. “No, no;.itis nothing. Go, Gaston, you, must, not keep Lis Majesty waiting,’ she said. 1 wonder whether as she spoke, there ruse theimage in her mind, of a king who reignsin undisputed power over the earth’s wide face, whose throne no revolution ever shook, whose edict no creature ever yet escaped, and to whom all terrible things give place, owning in him the king of terrors. The young man put his arms round her, and pressed his lips to her toreead—it was damp with a deadly cold perspiration. ¢ “am sure you are ill, Valerie, he said.” She shivered violently, but pushing him toward the door, said: q She laid her hand upon her “No, no, Gaston; go, implore you, you will be late; © at the theater you will see me; till then, adieu.” He was gone; she closed tle door upun him rapidly, and with one deni shudder fell to the ground, striking her head against the gilded moldings of the door. Monsieur Marolles emerged from the shadow, and liiting her trom the floor, placed her in the.chair by the h:artl. Her head fell heavily back upon the velvet cushions, but her large black eyes wore open. I. have said betore, this woman did not taint. She caught Raymond’s hand in hers with a con- vulsive grasp. “ Madame,” he said, “you have shown yourself, in- ceed, a daughter of the haughty line of the De Cevennes. You have avenged yourself,” Tue large black eyes did not look at him. The: were fixed on yacancy. Bah! there could be no ston thing as vacancy again to this woman, Henceforth, for her the whole earth must be peopled with one hideous plantom. There are two wine-glasses on the table, which stands a little behind where she is sitting. Very beau- ti-ul glasses, antique, exquisitely cut, aud emb.azoned with the arms of the Cevennes, One of these gene che one from which Gaston de Lancy drank— asalittle sediment, and a few drops of wine at the bottom. Valerie does not see Rayniond, as witha stealthy hand he remoyes this glass from .the table, and puts it in the pocket of his greatcoat, _ 5 - He looky once more at her as she sits with rigid mouth and staring eyes, and then says, as he moves to- ward the door: , “I shall see you at the opera, madame, J shall bein the stalls. You will be, with more tuan your wonted brilliancy’ and beauty, the center of observation in the box next to the king’s. Remember, till to-night is over, your play will not be played out. Au revoir, ma- dame. To-morrow I suall say, Mademoiselle. |For to- morrow the secret’ marriage of Valerie de Cevennes, with en opera-singer, will only be a toolish memory of the pzst.’ hip WA. 8 e¥ * * oe * * * ” CHAPTER XXIII. Hy a3 A montH from the time at which the last chapter closes, Puris was busy talking of @ singular -Mmurriage ubout to be celebrated in that smaller and upper Which forms tle apex of the fashionable pyrwuid.;The niece and heiress of the Marquis de Cevenues is about to —— @ gentleman of whom Paris. knows very little. ut though Paris knows , very. little, Paris has, nevertheless, a great deal to say ; perlaps ail the more {rom the very slight joundation it has tor its assertions. Thus, on ‘Luesday, Paris affirms that Monsieur Raymond Mao les is: German and apolitical reiugee, Ou Wednesucy, 2 resciuds ; he ia not a German, he isa Frcuchman, the son of an ille,itimate son of Philip Egulite,and consequently nephew to the king, by whose influence the marriage has Leen nego- tiated, Paris, in short, has so many accounts of Mon- sicur Ra; mond Marolles, thutit is quiie uunecessary for the Marquis de( evennes to give any accoint oi him whatever, and he alone, tuereiore, is silent on the sub- ject. _Mcnsieur Marolles is a very worthy man, a gen- tleman, of course, and his niece is very much attuched to him ; beyoudth.s, the marquis does not utter aword on the suijeet, How much more might Paris have to say, ifit could for one moment puess at a stormy scene wuich took place between the uncle and niece, at the chuteau in Normandy—when, kneeling before the eruss, Valerie swore that there was so dreadful a reason for this strenge marriage, that, did her uncle know it, as he never would, he would himself kneel to her to im- plore her to sucrifice herself to save the honor of her noble house. What might have been suggested to the mind of tie marquis by these dark hints no one knew, but he ceased to oppose. the mu y of the only scion of one of the highest families in France with ® man who could tell nothing of himself, but that he had ro. ceived the education of & gohan and had''a will strong enough to conquer fortune. The marriage ceremony took place with great Magni- “ee a a a Seen SS = rn anne a ra —— THRER TIMES DEAD. way of port wine; for if you ain’t strong and well afore that ere river outside this ere yall goes down, it’s a chance but. vot it'll be,a long time, afore you seos. the outside of the vall in question.” i 2 rtd { OHAPTER XXVI. ° ALONG period of incessant rains had by no means improved the natural, beauties of the Sloshy, nor bad it in any, manner enchanoed the advantages attending a residence on the banks of that river. The occupants of the houses by. the waterside were in the habit of yo- ing tosleep at night with the firm convictio. that the lower portion of theit tenement was a,comfortable kit- ohen, to very often awake in the morning, and find it a ainiature lake. : Then, again, the river had a knack of dropping in at odd times, in a friendly way, when least expected. When Mrs.Jones was cooking the Sunday’s dinner; or while Mrs. Brown was gone to market; and as its man- ner of entering an apartment was after the fashion ofa ghost in a welo-drama, to rise through the floor, the sucprise occasioned by its appearance was not unal- lo by vexation. 3 Tt would intrude, an uninvited guest, at a social tea- party, and suddenly isolate every visitor on his or her chair, a3 on an island. i There was not a mouse or a black-beetle in any of the kitchens by tho Sloshy, whose life was worth the holding—such an enemy was the swelling water to all domestic peace or comfort, ; It is true that to some fresh and adventurous spirits, the rising of the river afforded a kind of eccentric gra- tification. It gave.a smack of the flavor of Venice, to the dull insipidity of Slopperton life; and, to an iimagi- native mind, every coal-barge that went by became a ondola, and only wanted a cavalier, with a very short Soutiet’ pointed shoes, anda guitar to make it per- fection. ; Indeed, Miss Jones, milliner and dressmaker, had ‘been heard to say, that when she saw the water coming up to the parlor windows, she could hardly believe she was not really in the city of the Winged the eorner out of the Square of St. Mark’s, and three doors from, the Bridge of Sighs. Mrs. J. was well np in Venetian topography, as she was engaged in the per- usal of a powerful work, in penny numbers, detail- fag the adventures of a celebrated “ Bravo’? of that city. To the ardent minds of the juvenile denizens of the waterside, the swollen river was asource of pure and unalloyed delight... To. sake a tour around one’s own back kitchen in a washing-tub, with a duster for a sail, is, perhaps, at the age of six, a more perfect. species of enjoyment than that, afforded by any Alpine glories, or Highland scenery, through which we may wander in after-years, when reason has taught us her'cold lesson that however bright, the sunshine on one side ot the mountain, the shadows are awaiting us on the other, There is a gentleman in a cut-away coat and a white hat smoking a very short and Ulack clay pipe. TI won- dor what he tliinks of the river? “ It is eight yours since this gentleman was last in siopnenege ; then he came as a witness in the trial of Richard Marwood; then he had a black eye, and was out at elbows. Now his optics are surrounded with no dark’ shades Which mar their natural ‘color, a clear. bright gray. Now, too, he is, to speak familiarly, in high teather ; his cut-away coat is of the newest fashion {for there is fashion even in cut-aways) ; his plaid trow- sors, painfully tight at the knees, and admirably adapt- ed to display the development of the calf, are still bright with the greens and blues of the Macdonald. His lat is not crushed or iudented in above half a dozen directions ; a sign that it is comparatively new—for the circle in which he ,moves considers bonneting a friendly demonstration, and to knock a man’s hat off bis head, aud into the gutter, rather a polite atten- Yes, during the last eight years the prospects of Mr. AUIS PROT, that is the name of the witness) hayoe been decidedly looking up, i toned he waa a medical student, loose on wide London ; ‘eat- ing bread and cheese with his dissecting knife, and ehalking up. bottled stout at the caravausera round the corner of Goodge Street, when the proprietor of the carayansera wonld chalk up; there were days which that stern man refused to mark with a white stone. Now, he hada iapenscty of his own—a marvel- oua place, which would be eutirely devoted to scien- tific pursuits, if dominoes and racing dalenders did not in some degree predominate therein. This dispensary is ina populous neighborhood, on the Surrey side of the water; and in fhe streets and squares, to say nothing of the courts and mews round this establish- ment, the name, of Suaestae Darley is synonymous with everything whi is Revie and pleasant. Hig yery presenca is said to as good as physic, in the abstract. Now, as physic, apart from ite © ive qualities, is scarcely a very pleasant thing, this may be considered a very doubtful compliment ; but, for all that, it was meant ip perfect good faith ; and, what is more, it meant a great Ceal. When anybody felt ill, they sent, for Gus Darley (he uad never been called Mr, but onco in his life, and then by a sheriff's officer, who, arresting him for the first time, wasn’t on familiar terms; all Cursitor Street know him as ‘Gus, old fellow!” and ‘Darley, my boy!’ before long)’. If the patient was very bad, Gus told him a@ good story. If the case seemed a serious one, he sang acomic song. It the patient felt, in popular parlance, “low,” Darley’ would stop to supper; and if by that time the patient was not entirely restored, his medical adviser would send him a ha’porth of Epsom salts or three farthings’ worth of rhubarb and magnesia, y labeled “The Mixture.” It was a comforting sidn, labored. under by every patient of Gua Darley’s, that he had proscribed for him a very myste- gious and peculiar amalgamation of drugs, which, tive face, which ever and anon look’ earnestly up the high and dry in the builder’s yard. A great, awkward, orses, round ‘though certain death to.any other “man; was" the only ( preparation in the whole pharmacopwia that coald pos- |’ sibly keep him alive. Pee od Fie There was 4 saying current in the neighborhood of the dispensary, to tle effect taat Gus Darley’s descrip- tion of the Derby day was the best Epsoin salts ever inyented for the cure of man’s diseases; and he had been known to come home from the races at ten o'clock at night, and assist at a sick bed (successfully), with a wet towel round his head, and 4 painful con- viction that, he was prescribing, for two patients at ounce. But all this time,he is strolling by the swollen Sloshy, with his pipe in his mouth, and a contempla- river. Presently he stops by @ boat builder's yard, and speaks to a man at work. | . “Well, he says, ‘is that boat finished yet ?” “ Yes, sit,” says the man, ‘‘ quite finished, and un- common well she Jooks.too; you might eat your dinner off her, the paint’s as dry as a bone.” “How about the talse bottom I spoke of?” he asks. ‘Ob, that’s all right, sir; two feet anda half deep, and six feet anda half Jong. , I/ll tell you what, sir, no offense, but you must catch a precious sight more eels, than Ithink you will catch, if you mean to fill the bottom of that ere punt.” As the mau speaks, he points. to where the boat lies, Sehestares punt; big enough to hold halfa dozen people, Gus strolls up tolook atthe man follows him. He litts up the bottom of the boat with a great,thick loop of rope; like a trap- door, two, feet and a half above the keel. ; “ Why,’’ said Gus, ‘‘a man could lie down in the keel ofthe boat, with that main deck over him.’ “To be sure he could, sir, and a pretty. long \’un too, though I don’t say much for its being, an over comfort- able berth,» He might feel himself rather cramped, if he was ofa restless disposition,’ Gus laughed, and said); ‘‘ You're right, he might cer- tainly, poor fellow |, Come, now, you’re rather a tall chap, I should like to see if you. could lie down there, comfortable, for aminuteor so, We'll talkabout some beer when you come ont,’’ " ‘The man looked at him with rather a puzzled glance. He had heard thejlegond of the mistletoe bough—he had helped to build the boat, but forall that there might be a hidden spring somewhere aboutit, and Gus’s re- quest might hide some sinister intent ;, but noone who had looked our medical friend in the face ever doubted him ; s0,the man laughed and said ; “Well, you’re. a rum ‘un, whoever the other - is,’’ (nobody was very differential in their ‘manner of ad- dressing Gus Darley), howsomedever, here’s to oblige you.” “And theman got into the boat, and, lying down, suffered Gus to lower the false bottom of it over hiny. *“ How do. you feel?” asks Gus, “Can ‘you breathe ? Have'you plenty of aix ?’” j “All right, sit,” says the man, through a hole in the plank. “Its quite an extensive berth, when you've once settled yourself, only it ain't nuch calculated for active exercise.”” “Do you think you could stand it for half an hour?” Gus inquires, : : “Lord bless you, sir, for half a dozen hours, if I was paid for itaccordin’.” ' . : , Per “Should you think half a crown enough for twenty minutes ?”” oe ; : ; “Well, [don’t Know, sir ; suppose you make it three shillings.” ks A “Very good,” said Gus, “three shillings it shall be. It’s now half-past twelve,” he looks at his watch as he speaks, “ J’ll sit here and smoke a pipe, and if you’! lie quiet til] ten minutes to one, you’ jl have earned ‘the three bob.” Gus steps into the boat, and seats himself at the prow, the man’s head lies at the stern. : “Can you see me?” Gue inquires. : “Yes, sir, when I squints.”” vont yh “Very well, then, yon can see I don’t make a bolt of + me eyour mind eagy—there’s five minutes gone ready.” : Gus finishes his pipe, looks at his’ watch again—a quarter to one, He whistles a scenp from an opera, tae one jumps out of the boat and pulls up the false m2, 4 , “All’s right,” he says, “time’s up.” ~ The man gets out, and stretches his legs and arms, as if to convince himself that those mem are un- imp: 4 “ Well, was it pretty comfortable?” Gus aske. “Tor’ love you, sir, regular jolly, with the excep- tion of being rather warm, and making 4 cove precious ary.” Gus gives him wherewith to assuage this drought, and then says: _ “You may shove the boat down to the water then: my friend will be here in a minute with the tools, and we will then see about making a start.” The boat is launched, and the man amuses himself with Tone a few yards up the river, while Gus waits tor his friend, P In about ten minutes his friend arrivos, in the person of Mr. Joseph Peters, of the police force, with a couple of eelspears over his shoulder (which gave him some- what the appearance of a dry-land Neptune), and a oo wized carpet-bag, which he carries in his and. Gus and he exchange a few remarks in the silent alphabet, af which Gus is almost as great an adept as the detective, and they step into the boat, The builder's man is sent for a lon of beer ina stone by , and a half-quartern loaf, and a piece of cheese, eed ns being shipped, Gus and Peters each take an oar, and’ entice away from ‘the: bank and strike out into the middle of the river. Ow this waite day, butat'# later Bour th thé afternoon, Richard Marwooa, better knowt as the Emperor Napo- ‘loon, joined the inmates of the county asylum in their daily exercise in the grounds alloted ‘to’ that yurpose. “These grounds consisted of print grass plots) adorned with here and there a bed in which some disinal shrubs or a few sickly chrysanthemums, held up their gloomy heads, beaten and shattered by the recent Lae rain, These grass plots were surrounded by stiff, straight, gravel walks; andthe whole was ‘shut in’ by 4 high wall, surmounted with a chevaux de frise. The’ iron spikes composiug this adornnient had béen added of late yoars, tor, in spite of the éomforts and attractions of the establishment, some fodlish inhabitants thereof, languishing for some gayer and more dazzling scenes, had been Known to attenipt, if not to ‘effect an éscape from the numerous advautages of their home. I cannot venture to sy whother or not vegetable creation may have some mysterious sympathy with animated nature; but certainly no trees, shrubs, flowers, grass ind weeds, flourished in’ the grounds of the county lunatic asylum. From the gaunt elm) which stretched out two great rugged arms, as if in a wild imprecation, such as might come fromthe lips of some human victim of the worst form of insanity, to the frivolous chick-weed in acorner ofa gravel walk, which grew as if not a root, or leaf, or fiber, but had a different purpose to its fellow, and flew off afits own peculiar tangent, with an infantine and kittenish madness, such as might have affected a loye-sick miss of seventeen; from the great, melancholy ‘mad, laurel bushes that rocked themselves to and fro in the wind, with a rest- ‘lessness known only to thé insane, to the éccentrie dandelions, that rearéd disordered heads up ftom the troubled and disheyéled grass—every green’ thing in that great place seemed nore of less a victim ‘to that terrible diseast, whose ‘influence, or whose associa tions, are of so subtle a nature, that they itufect the very stones of the dark Walls that ‘shut in’ shattered minds that once were strong and whole, and fallen in- tellects that once were bright and lofty. ; Buta stranger to this place, looking, for ‘tha: first time, at the groups ofinen and women lounging slowly up and down these gravel Walks, perlaps what “most startles you, perhaps even what most distrosses you, is, tliat these wretched people scurcély seem unliappy—O blessed gift of Him who ‘tempercth the wind! oO merciful and wonderous wise dispeusation, from Him who fits the back to bear the burden! He allots it. The man whose doubts or tears, or wild as irings to the misty far-away, al] the world’s wisdom could not yes- terday appease, is to-day made happy bya scrap of paper, ora shred of ribbon? We who, standing in the blessed light, lookin upon this piteous mental’ h ppi- ness, are,perhaps, Most unhappy, because we cannot tl]. how much or how little sorrow this death im lile may shroud. They have passed away from us; theirdan, uage isnot our language, nor their world our world. I tuink soine ond has asked a strange question—who can tell whether tlieir folly may not, perhaps, be better than our wisdom ? “He only, from whose mighty hand comes the music ofevéry soul, can tell which i ithe discord and which is the harmon7.. We look’at them as we look at aut ites through the darkened glass of earth's uucer- ainty. p t si Yor 8 Or : : | No, they do not seem unhappy. Queen Victoria is talking to Lady Jane Gray about to-day's diner, and the reprehensible superabuidance of fat in) a leg of niutton served up thereat. Clironology never disturbs these good people; nubody thinks it) any disgrace to be an anachronism, and Lord Brougham will. divide an unripe apple with Cicero, or William the'Conqueror will walk arm-in-arm with Pius IX, without tue jeast uneasiness on the score of probability; and when: on one occasion, gentleman, who for three years had en- joyed considerable popularity as » Wolsey, all of asudden recovered and conf to being plain John Thomson, the inmates of ‘the asylam were un- animous in feelisig'and expressing the most profound contempt for his unhappy state. ’ To-day, however, ‘Richard is the hero. He is sur- rounded immediately on yea cae by all the cee lebrities and @ good many of establishment. The Emperor of the German the Chelsea Waterworks, in particular, has'so much to say to him, that he does not know how to begin; an when he does bevin, has to go back dnd begin again, in # manner both affable and bewildering. ~ - Why did vot Richard join them betore, he asks, they are so very pleasant, they are so ate social—why, in goodness gracious name (he opens eyes very wide | as he utters the name of goodness Pg en and looks back over his shoulder rather as if he thinks he may have invoked some fiend), why did Richard not join them? Tae Oe : Richard tells him he was not allowed to do so. On'this, he looks intensely mysterious ; he is rather stout, and wears a head-dress of his own manufacture —a species of coronet constructed of a newspaper and a blue and white bird’s eye pocket-handkerchief; he puis his hands to the very furthest extent that he can push them into his trowsers’ pockets ; plants himself right before Richard on the gravel-walk, and says, With a wink of intense significance: '“ Was it the Khan?” . Richard says he thinks not. ¢ : “Not the Khan!” he mutters, thoughtfully. “You really are of opinion that it was not the Khan!” LT réally am,’? Richard replies: “Then it is between the last Duke of Devonshire, but sixteen, and Abdel Kader. 1 do» e if wasn’t Abdel a ; 1 had a better opinion of Kader—I had indeed.” Richard looks rather puzzled, but says nothing. _ “There has evidently,’ continued is friend, “been some malignant influence at work to prevent your ap- pearing among us before this. You have been a mam non-celebrities of the Ocean and - < THREE TIMES DEAD. 23 € the. society for, let. me see, three hundred, and ae years—be kind enough to set me right if I pag a@mis-statement—three hundted and—did I say seventy -twelve. years, and you have never yet joined us! Now, there is something radically wrong here— to use the language of the ancientsin their religious festivals—there is ‘a screw loose.’ You ought to have joined us—yon really ought; we are very social ; we are positively buoyant ; we havea ball every—evening. My ideas as to time, I am told, are vague; but I know it is either every, ten years, or every other week ; lincline to thinking it every other week—on these occasions we dance. Are you a yotary of Terp—what you may call her, the lady who had so many unmarried sisters—do you incline to the light fantastic ?’”” By way of illustration, the Emperor of the Water- works executed a caper, which would have done honor rete elderly elephant taking his first lesson in the polka. There was.one advantage in conversing with this gentleman ; that was, that if his questions were some- times: of rather a difficult and puzzling nature, he never did anything so underbred as to wait for an ans- wer. .. It now appeared for the first time to strike him, that perhaps the laws of exclusiveness had in some manner been violated, by a person of his distinction having talked so familiarly to an entire stranger; he, therefore, suddenly skipped a pace or two backward, lenng a track of small open graves in the damp gravel, made by the impression of his feet ; and said,in a tone of voice so dignified as to be almost freezing : “Pray, to whom have I the honor to make these observations ?”” _Riohard regretted to say he had not a cardabout him, but added: “You may have heard of the Emperor Napoleon?” eas io P REBAR OO certainly—very frequently, very frequently—and you are that worthy person? Dear me | this is very sad—not at your charming sumimer- residence at Moscow, or your pleasant winter-retreat on the field of Waterloo; this is really distressing, very.” His pity for Richard was so intense, that he was moved to tears, and picked a dandelion with which to wipe his eyes. ; “ My Chelsea property,” he said presently, “is fluc- tnating ; very. I finda tendency in householders to submit to having their water cut off, rather than pay the rate. Our only plan is, to empty every cistern half an hour before tea-time, Persevered in for a week or so, we find that course has a harrassing effect, and they pay ; but all this is wearing tu the nerves, very.’’ He shook his head solemnly, rubbed his eyes very hard, with the dandelion, and then ate that exotic blossom. ba Binge “An agreeable tonic,” hesaid, “known to be con- duciva to digestion. My German Ocean I find more profitable on account of the sea-bathin:«, Richard expressed himself yery mucii interested in the commercial prospects of his distinguished friend ; butzat this moment they were interrupted by tho approach of a lady, who, with a peculiar hop, skip, and jump, entirely her own, came up to the Emperor of the Waterworks and took hold of his arm. She was a gushing thing of some forty odd summers, and wore a bonnet the very purchase of which would have stamped her as of unsound intellect, without need of a. further proof whatever. To say that it was like a coal-scuttle was nothing ; to say that it resembled a ooal-scuttle that had suffered from an aggravated attack of water on the brain, and gone mad, would be, perhaps, a little nearer the mark, Addto this a green vail rather bigger than an ordi table-cloth, and three quillpens tastefully inserted in the direction in wh Parisian milliners are wont to place the Dinmage of foreign birds, and you may form some idea of the ’s heid-gear, Her robes were short and scanty, but plentifully embellished with a species of trimming which, to an eae mind suggested strips of calico, but which amongst the inmates passed cur- rent ae Valenciennes lace. Below these robes appeared a pair ot apple-green boots ; boots of a pattern such as no shoemaker of sound mind ever in his wildest dreams could have originated, but which in this estab- Yishment were yoted rather e than otherwise. This lady was no other than the damsel who had sug- gested an elopement with Richard some eight years ‘0, and who claimed ee her distinguished connections e Pope and the muffin man. e eh” she said to the Emperor of the Waterworks with a voive and manner, which would have been rather absurdly juvenile in a girl of fifteen—“ana where has its precious one been hiding since the fat mutton? Was it the ns, or was it thatit‘had a heart for falsehood framed?’ I hope it was the PSs teed ' Its precious one looked from the charmer at his side to Richard, with rather an apologetic shrug: “The sex is weak,” hesaid, “conqueror of Agincourt, Lite, peeaed, Macrae tbe sex is weak, it is a fact atabli hed by medical science ; poor thing! she loves me. : “The lady, for the first time, became aware of the co of Richard. She dropped a very low cvur- ee y,in the performance of which one of the green boots described a complete circle, and said: «From Gloucestershire, sir?” interrogatively. «The Em; Napoleon Bonaparte,” said the pro- Beets ot the German Ocean. “My dear, you ought to ow him. “The Emperor Nap-o-le-on Bo-na-parte,” she said, very slowly, checking off lhe sylables on her fingers, “and from Gloucestershire? how gratifying |—all our at men come from Gloueestershire. It is a well- Era fact—trom Gloucestershire! Muffins were in- vented in Gloucestershire by Alfred the Great. Did know our dear Alfred? You are, perhaps, too —a great loss, my dear sir, a great joss ; con- i essence of toothache on the cerebral nerves; took him off in fourteen days, three weeks, and one month. We tried everything ; from dandelions (her eyes wandered asif searching the grounds for informa- tion as to what they had tricd)—frum dandelions to chevaux de frise’’—— Q & She stopped abruptly, staring at Richard full in the face, asif she expected him to say something: but, as he said nothing, she became suddenly interested in the contemplation of the green boots, looking first at one, and then.at the other, as if revolving in her mind the probability of their wanting mending, Presently, she looked up suddenly, and said, with great solemnity: “Do you know the muffin man ?” Richard shook his head. ‘*He lives in Drury Lane,’’ she added, looking at him, as much as to say, “Come, no nonsense; you know him well enough.” : “No,” said Richard, “I don’t remember having met chim.” “There are seventy-nine of us who know the muffin man in this establishment. sir—seventy-nine; and do you dare to stand there and tell me that you”’"—— _“Tassure you, madame, I have not the honor of his acquaintance.’’ “Not know the muffin man !—you don’t know the muftin man ! Why, you contemptible stuck-up jack- anapes’ —— What the lady might have gone on to say, it would be difficult to guess. She was not celebrated for the refinement of her vocabulary whén much provoked; but at this moment a great stout man—one of the keepers—came up, and cried out: |” “Hulloa! what's all this?” “He says he doesi’t know the mufiin man,” ex- claimed the lady, her vail flying in the wind like a pen- nant, her arms akimbo, and the apple-green boots planted in a defiant manner on the gravel walk. “Oh, we know him well enough,’” said the man, with a wink at Richard, ‘‘and very slack he bakes his muffins,’” , Having uttered which piece of information’ con- nected with the gentleman in question, the keeper strolled off, giving just one ste: y look straight into the eyes of the lively damsel, which seemed to have an instantaneous and most soothing effect upon her nerves. As all the lunatics, allowed to disport themselves for an hour in the gardens of the establishment, were considered to be, upon the whole, pretty safe, the keepers were not in the habit of taking much notice of them. Those officials would congregate in a little group near the portico of the asylum, smoking their pipes and talking politics, and apparently utterly re- gardless of the unhappy beings over whom it was their duty to watch. But let Queen Victoria, or the Emperor Nero, Lady Jane Grey, or Lord John Russell, suffer themselves to be led away by their respective hobbies, or to ride those animals at too outrageous and dangerous apace, anda strong hand would be laid upon the rider’s shoulder, with a recommendation to “go in-doors,” which was very seldom disregarded. As Richard was this afternoon permitted to mix. with his fellow-prisoners for the first time, the boy from Slopperton was ordered to keep an eye upon him, and a very sharp eye the boy kept, never for one moment allowing a look, word, or action of the prisoner to €s- cape him. ; he keepers this afternoon were assembled in the portico, before which the gardens extended to the high onter wall. The ground between the portico and the wall was alittle less than a quarter of a milein length, and at the bottom was the grand entrance and porter’s lodge. The gardens, however, surrounded on three sides, and on the Jeft side the wall ran parallel with the River Sloshy. The river was now so much swollen by the late heavy rains that the waters washed the walls to the height of six feet, entirely covering the towing-path, which lay ordinarily between the wall and the water side. Now Richard and the Emperor of the Waterworks, accompanicd by the gushing charmer in the green boots, being all three engaged in friendly, though ’ rather erratic conversation, happened to stroll in the direction of the grounds on this side, and consequently out of sight of the keepers. ; The boy from Slopperton was, however, close upon their heels. This young gentleman had his hands in his pockets, and was loitering and lounging along with an air that seemed to say, that neither man nor woman rave him any more delight than they had afforded the anish prince of used-up memory. Perhaps it was in utter weariness of life that he was, as if unconsciously, employed in whistling the air of asong, supposed to relate to a passage in the life of a young Jady of the name of Gray. ristian name Alico—whose heart it was another's, and consequently, by pure logic, never could be his, the singer's hame unkuown. Now, perhaps there is something iniectious in. this melody ; for no sooner had the boy from Slopperton whistled the first few bars, than some person in the distance, outside the walls of the asylum gardens, took up the air and finished it. A trifling circumstance this in itself ; but it appeared to afford the boy considerable gratification ; and he presently came suddenly upon Richard, in the middle of a very interesting conversa- tion, and whispered in his ear, or rather at his elbow: “All right, general !!? Now, as Richard, the Emperor of the Waterworks, and the only daughter of the Pope, all talked at once and all talked of entirely different subjects, their conversation might, perhaps, have been just a little distracting to a shorthand reporter ; but as &@ conversation, it was really charming. Richard—still musing on the wild idea, which was known in the asylum to have possessed his disordered brain, ever since the day of his trial~was giving his cea an account of his escape from Elba. “1 was determined,” he said, taking the Emperor of jetermined to the Waterworks by the button, “I was d make one desperate effort to return to my friends in France” ——. “Very creditable, tobe sure,” said the damsel of the green boots; ‘ your-sentiments did you honor.” “But to escape from the island was an, enterprise of considerable difficulty,’’ continuea Richard. “Of course,’’ said the damsel, ‘‘ considering the price of flour. . Flour rose a halfpenny in the bushel, in the neighborhood of Drury Lane, which of course, reduced the size of muflins’’—— “(And had a bad effect, upon the water-rate,”’ inter rupted the gentleman. “Now,” continued Richard, ‘‘ the Island of Elba was surrounded by a high wall’’—— “A very convenient arrangement, of course; facilitat- ing the process of.cutting off the water from the inhab- itants,” muttered the Emperor of the German Ocean. The boy Slosh again expressed his feelings with refer- ence to Alice Gray, and some one on the other side of the wall coincided with him, “And,” said Richard, “on the tep of this wall was a chevaus de frise.”’ . ; “Dear me,” exclaimed the emperor, “quite a what- you-may-call-it. Lmean an extraordinary coincidence— we too, have acheraux de thiny-a-me, for the purpose, I believe, of keeping out the cats—cats are unpleasant; especially,” he added, thoughtfully, “especially the Tom-sex—I mean the sternersex,”” “To surmount this wall was my great difficulty ’’—— “Naturally, naturally,” said the damsel, ‘+a great un- dertaking, considering the fall in muffins—a dangerous undertaking.’” “There was a boat waiting to receive me on the other side,” said Richard, glancing, as he spoke, up at the wall, about a hundred yards distant from him. Some person oh the other side of the wall had got much nearer by this time, and, dear me! how very much excited he was about Alice Gray. **But the question,” Richard continued, ‘was how to climb the wall,” still looking up at the chevauz de Frise. “Ishould have tried muffins,’’ said the lady. “Isbould have cut off the water,’’ remarked the gentleman. “1 did néither,” said Richard, ‘I tried a rope.” At this very moment, by some inyisible agency, a thickly-knotted rope was thrown across the chevauz-de- Jrise and the end iell within about four, feet of the ground. = But her heart it is another’s, and it never can be ne.” i The gentleman who conldn’t succeed in winning the affections of Miss Gray was evidently close to the wall now. In amuch shorter time than the very great- est master in the art of stenography could possibly have reported it, Richard threw the of the Waterworks half a dozen yards from him—with such violence as to cause that gentleman to trip up the heels of the only daughter of the Pope, and to fallin a heap upon thatiady as on a feather bed—and with the activity of a cat or a sailor, clanbered up the rope, and disap- peared over the chevauz-de-Srise. f The gentleman was now growing indifferent to the loss of Miss Gray, for he whistled the melody ina most triumphant manner, keeping time with the sharp splash of his oars in the water. ‘ af It took the en:peror and his female friend some little time to recover irom the effeets of the concussion they lad experienced, each from each ; and when they had done so, they stood for a few moments looking at each other in mute amazement. . ‘The gentleman has left the establishment,” at last said the lady.» iL “Ana abruiseon my elbow,” muttered the gentle- man, rubbing the locality in question. “Such a very unpolite manner of leaving, too,” said the lady. ‘‘His mufiins—I mean, his manners, have evidently been very much neglected.” “He must be a Chelsea householder,” said the ror. “The householders of Chelsea are pro- verbial for bad manners.’ They are in the habit of slamming the door in the face of the tax-gatherer, with a'view to injuring the tip of his nose; and Chesterfield never advised his son to do that.’ . j It may be as well here to state that the Emperor of water-ratein the neighborhood of Chelsea ; but haying, unfortunately, given his manly: intellect to drinking, and also having a propensity for speculation (some people pronounced the word withont the first letter), which involved the advantageous laying-out of his sovereign's money, he had lost his situation and ul- timately his senses. His lady friend had once kept a baker’s shop in the vicinity of Drury Lane, and happening at the age of forty, and in oan evil hour, to cent her affections on a@ young man of nineteen, the bent of whose genius was muffins, and being slighted by the youth in question, she had retired into the gip-bottle and thence had: been passed to the asylum of her native, country. ‘ mf Perhaps the inquiring reader will ask what the juvenile guardian of Richard is doing all this time? He was told to keep an eye upon him, and how has he kept his trust? He is standing, very coolly staring at the sets and gentleman before him, and is, apparently, m) in- terested in their conversation. ‘ “I shall certainly go,”’ said the Emperor of the Water- works, atter a pause, ‘and inform the superintendent oo = er ee superintendent ought really to now it.” ‘ Superintendent was, in the asylum, the polite name given the keepers. But just as the emperor began to shamble off in the direction of the tront of the house, the boy called Slosh flew past him and ran on before, and by the time the elderly gentleman reached the reh, the boy had told the astonished keepers the imole story of the escape. 8 ; the Waterworks had in early lite been collector for the. - THREE TIMES DEAD. 4 spittoons noxt, and you know, sir,’ continued the lady, turning to Richard, in an explanatory manner, “ if makes a gentleman savage to have a spittoon pitched at him, especially if it’s full, and he happens to have a fancy front on, ready for an evening party.” «Then I'll run up and speak to them for a minute,” gaid Gus. ‘Come along, Dick.” “How about your triend, sir,’ remonstrated the asher’s Hebe; ‘‘hoe isn’t a Cheerful, is he, sir?” “go! Vl answer for him,” said Gus. “It's all right, Sophia Maria; bring us a couple of glasses of lerandy and water hot, and tell the Smasher to step up when I ring the bell.” Sophia Maria looked doubtfully from Gus to the slumbering host, and said: “ He'll wake up savage ifI disturb him. He’s off for his first sleep now, and he'll go to bed as soon as the place is clear.”’ “Never mind, Sophia; wake him up when I ring, and send him up stairs ; he'll find something there to him ina good temper. Come, Dick, tumble up. ou know the way.” The Cheerful Cherokees made their proximity known by such a stifling atmosphere of tobacco about the staircase, as would have certainly suffocated anyone no tinitiated in their mysteries. Gus opened the door of a back room on the first floor, of a much larger size than the general appearance of the house would haye promised, This room was full of gentlemen, who, in age, size, costume, and personal advantages, varied as much as it is possible for any one room full of gentle- men todo. Some of them were playing billiards ; some of them were looking on, bettiug on the players; or more often upbraiding them for such play as, in the Cheerful dialect, came under the swee' ing denuncia- tion of the Cherokee adjective, “‘duffing.” Some of them were eating a poculiar compound, entitled Welsh rabbit—a pleasant preparation, if it had not painfully reminded the casual observer of mustard-poultices, or yellow soap in a state of solution, while lively friends knocked the ashes of their pipes into their plates, ab- stracted their porter, aie as they were about to imbibe that beverage, and in like fascinating manner beguiled the festive hour. One gentleman, a young Cherokee, had had a rabbit, and had gone to sleep, with his head in his plite, and his eyebrows in his mustard. Some were playing cards, some were playing dominoes ; one gentleman was in tears, because the double-six he wished to play had fallen into a neighboring spittoon, and he lacked either the moral courage or the physical capability of picking it up; but as, with the exception of the sleepy gentleman, arr was talking very loud, and on an entirely different subject, the effect was lively, not to say distracting. «« Gentlemen,” said Gus, ‘I have the honor of bring- ing a friend, whom I wish to introduce to you.” “All right, Gus,” said the gentleman engaged at dominos; ‘that's the cove I ought to play.” And, fixing ove half-open eye on the spotted ivory, he lapsed into a series of imbecile imprecations on everybody in general, and the domino in particular. Richard took a seat at a little distance from this gentleman, and at the bottom of the long table—a seat sacred on grand occasions to the Vice-Chairman. Some rather noisy lookers-on atthe billiards were a little in- clined to resent this, and muttered something about Dick’s red wig and whiskers in connection with the ‘popular accompaniments to a boiled round of beef, “I say, Darley,”? cried a gentleman with a billiard cue in his hand, who had been for some time impo- tently endeavoring to smooth his hair with the same, «J say, old fellow, [hope your friend’s committed a murder or two, because then Splitters can put him in anew piece,” Splitters, who had for tour hours been ina state of abject misery from the unmerciful allusioys to his chef @auvre, gave 4 growl] from a distant corner of the table, where he was seeking consolation in everybody else’s glass; and as everybody drank a different. bevex. age, not improving his state of mind thereby, “My friend never committed a murder in his life, Splitters, so he won’t dramatize on that score; but he’s beon accused of one; and he’s as innocent as you are, who never murdered anything in your life but Lind- ley Murray, and the language of your country.” ““Who’s been murdering somebody?’ said the domino-player, passing his left hand through his hair, till his chevelure resembled a Turk’s-head broom. «‘ Who’s murdered? I wish everybody was; and that I could dance my favorite dance over their graves. Blow ‘that double-six! he’s the fellow I ought to Thydh xsiia Po Perhaps you'll give us your auburn-haired friend's name, Darley,” said. agentlemun with his mouth full of welsh-rabbit; *“he doesn’t seem too brilliant to live, he better have gone to the ‘Deadly Livelies,’ in the otherstreet.” The“ Deadly Livelies"” was the soubriquet of a rival club, which plumed itself on being a cut above the Cherokees. “Who’s dead?’ muttered the domino-player. ‘I wish everybody was, and thatI was contracted with to bury ’em chea I should haye won,’’ he added, plaintively, “if Icould have picked up that double ix.” «IT suppose C2 friend wants to ‘be Vice at our next meeting,’ said the gentleman with the billiard-cue, who, in default of a row, always complained that the assembly was too quiet for him, “It wouldn’t be the first time, if he were Vice ; and it wouldn't be the first'time if you made him Chair,” said Gus; “ come, old fellow, tell them you're come back, and ask them if they’re glad to see you 2” The red-haired gentleman at this sprang to. his feet, threw off the rosy locks and. tho ferocious whiskers, iene round at the Cherokees with his hands in « 1 Dick |" Buch ashout arose—one brief wild huzaa, such as had not been heard in that room, which was, as we know, none of the quietest, within the memory of the oldest Cherokee. redevil ‘Dick—escaped—come back—as handsome as ever—as jolly as ever—as glorious a fel- low—as thoroughgoing a brick—as noble-hearted a trump as eight years ago, when he had becn the lite and soul of all of them! Such shaking hands; every- body shaking hands with bim again and again, and then everybody shaking hands with everybody else ; and the billiard-player wiping his éyes with his cue; and the sleepy gentleman waking up and rubbing the mustard into his; and the domino-player, who, though he execrates all mankind, wouldn’t hurt the tiniest wing of the tiniest fly, even he makes a miracu- lous effort, picks up the double-six, and magnanimous- ly presents it to Richard. “Take it, take it, old fellow, and may it make you happy ; if I'd played that domino, I should have won the game.” Upon which, he executed two or three steps of a Cherokee dance, and relapsed into the aforesaid imbe- cile imprecations, in mixed French and English, on the i eh of a world not capable of appreciating im. It wasa long time before anything like quiet could be restored ; but when it was, Richard addressed the meeting : “Gentlemen, before the unfortunate circumstance which has so long separated us, you knew me, I be- lieve, well, and Iam proud to think you esteemed and trusted me.” Did they? Oh! rather. They jingled all the glasses, and broke three, so most likely they did, “Ineed not allude to the unhappy accusation of which I have been the victim ; you are, I understand, acquainted with the full particulars of it, and you render me happy by thinking me to be innocent.” By thinking him to beinnocent? By knowing him to beinnocent! They are so indignant at the bare thought of anybody believing otherwise, that some- body in the doorway, the Smasher himself, growls out something about a—forcible adjective—noise, and the police, “Gentlemen, I havo this day regained my liberty; thanks to the exertions of a person to whom I am also indebted for my life, and thanks, also, to the assistance of my old friend, Gus Darley.” Everybody here insisted on shaking hands over again with Gus, which was rather a hindrance; but at last, Richard went on: “Now, gentlemen, relying on your friendship ” (hear, hear, and another glass broken), “ Iam about to appear to you to assist ne in the future object of my life. That object will be to discover the real murderer of my uncle, Montague Harding. In what manner, when, or where you may be able to assist me in this, I cannot at present say, but you are all, gentlemen, men of talent.” More glasses broken, aud a good deal of beer spilt into avelybotly boots. ‘You are all men of varied experi- ence, of inexhaustible knowledge of the worid, and of the life in London. Strange things happen every day of our lives; who shall say that some one amongst us may not fall, by some strange accident, or providence, across a clew to this, at present, entirely unraveled mystery? Promise mo, therefore, gentlémen, to give me the benefit of your experience ; and whenever that experience throws you into the haunts of bud men, re- member, that the man I seek may by some remote chance be amongst them ; and that to find him, is the one object of my life. I cannot give you the faintest index to what he may be, or who he may be—he may be dead and beyond the reach of justice—but he may live! and if he does, the man who has suffered the stigma of his guiit shall track him to his doom. Gentlemen, tell me that your hearts go with me.”’ They told him so, not once, but a dozen times ; shak- ing hands with him, and pushing divers liquors into his hand every time. But they got over it at last, and the gentleman with the billiard-cue rapped their heads with that instrument to tranquilize them, and then rose as president, and said: “Richard Marwood, our hearts go with you thor- oughly and entirely, and we swear to give you the best powers of our intellects, and the utmost strength of our abilities, to aid you in your search. Gentlemen, are you prepared to this oath?’ .. . They were prepared to subscribe to it, and they did subscribe to it, every one of them, rather noisily, but very heartily. When they had dono so, a gentleman emerges from the shadow of the doorway, who is no other than the illustrious left-handed one, who had come up stairs in answer to Darley’s summons, just before Richard ad- dressed the Cherokeos. The Smasher was not a hand- some man, His nose had been broken a good many times, and that hadn't improved him; he had a con- siderable number of scars about his face, including al- most every known variety of cut, and they didn’t im- prove him; his complexion, again bore perhaps too close aresemblance to mottled soap to come within the region of the beautiful, but he had a fine and manly ex- pression of countenance, which in his ainiable moments reminded the beholder of a benevolent bull-dog. Ho came up to Richard, and took him the hand; it was not a trifle to shake hands with the Left-handed Smasher, but Daredevil Dick stood it like a man. “Mr. Richard Marwood,” said he, “ you’ve been a good friend to me ever since you was old enougl—he stopped here, and cast about in his mind for the fitting pursuits of early youth—‘“ ever since you was old enough to give a cove a black eye, or knock your friend’s teeth down his throat with alight back-hander. I'veaknown you downstairs, a swearin’ at the bar- maid, and holdin’ your own aginthe whole lot of the Cheerfuls, when other young gents of your age was a makin’ themselves bad with sweet stuffs and green apples,.and callin’ it life. I’ve known you help that gent yonder,” he gave ajerk with his thumb in the di- rection of the domino Pye to wrench off his own pal’s knocker, and send it to him by twopenny post next mornin’, soven-and-sixpence to pay ; but I never knowed you Pe Af nb out upon a cove as was down,” : Richard thanked the Smasher for his good opinion, and they shook hands again. : “Tl tell you what it is,’”’ continued the host, Im a man of few words, Ifacove otiends nie, I give him my left between his eyes, playfully; if he does it agen, I give him my left agen, witha meanin’, dnd he don’t repeat it. Ifa gent as I like does me proud, I feela grateful, and when I has a chance, I shows him my gratitude. Mr. Richard Marwood, I’m your friend to the last spoonful of my claret; and let the manas mur dered your uncle keep clear of my left, if he wants tc preserve his beauty.’ CHAPTER XXX. A WEEK after the meeting of the Cherokees, Ricbard Marwood received his mother, in a small furnished house he had taken in Spring Gardens. Mre. Marwood, possessed of the entire fortune of her murdered brother, was avery rich woman. Of her large income, she had, during the eight years of her sou's imprisonment spent scarcely anything; as,encouraged by Mr. Joseph Peters’s mysterious hints and vague promises, she had looked torward to the deliverance of her beloved and enly child. The hour had come, she held him in her arms again free. ’ *‘ No, mother—no,”’ he says, ‘‘ not free. Free from the prison-walls, but not free trom the stain of the false ac- cusation. Not tillthe hour when all England declares my innocence, shallI be indeed a free man. Why, look you, mother, I cannot go out of this room into yonder street, without such a disguise as a murderer himself might wear, for fear some Slopperton official should re coguize the features of the lunatic criminal, and send me back to my cell at the asylum.”’ “My darling boy,” she lays her hands upon his shoulders, and looks proudly into his handsome face, “my darling boy, these people at Slopperton think you dead. See’’—she touched her black aie as she spoke —It isfor you I wear this. A painfal deception, Richard even for such an object. Icannot bear to think of that river,and of what might have been.” “Dear mother, I have been saved, perhaps, that I may make some atonement for that reckless, wicked past.”" “Only reckless, Richard. Never wicked. Always © the same noble heart—always the samé generous: soul —always my dear and only son.” “You remember what the young man says in the play, mother, when he gets into a scrape through ne- « glecting his garden and making love to his master’s daughter—‘You shall be proud of your son yet.’”” “I shall be proud of you, Richard? I am proud af a We are rich, and wealth is power. Justice shall done you yet, my darling boy. You have friends”— “Yes mother, good and true ones. Peters—you brought him with you?” : ; “Yes, 1 persuaded him to resign his situation: I have settled a hundred a year ou him for life, a poor re- turn for what he has done, Richard, but it was all I could induce him to accept, and he only agreed to take that on condition that every moment. of hia life should be devoted to your service.” : “Ts he in the house now, mother?” i “Yes, he is below; I will ring for him.” * “Do, mother. Imust go over to Darley, and take him with me, You must not think me an’ inattentive or neglectful son; but remember that my life has’ but one business, till that man is found.” 4 He wrung her hand, and left her staading at the window, watching his receding figure through the quiet, dusky street. : ‘ Her gratitude to Heaven for his restoration is deep and heartfelt; but there isa shade of sadness in her tace as she looks outinto the twilight’ after ane thinks of the eight wasted years of This lite, and of his bright manhood, now spent on a chimera; ‘for she thinks he will never find the murderor of ‘his uncle. How, atter eight years; without une clew by which’ to trace him, how can’he hope to track the real crim-~ inal ? But Heaven is above us all, Agnes Marwood; and ia the dark and winding paths of life, light sometimes comes when and whence we least expect it. If you go straight across Bl and donot suffer yourself to be be; by the attractions of that fashio’ 8 Ticotaes tine lounge, the ‘‘New Cut,” or by the eloqu . ofthe last celebrity at that circular chapel some’ time sacred to Rowland Hill—if you are’ not ‘a’ man to be led away by whelks and other ‘pisca-‘ torial delicacies, second-hand furniture, birds and bird- * cages, or easy shaving, you may ultimately reach, at the inland end of the road, a locality, known to the’ inhabitants of the district as Friar Street. Whether, in’ any dark period of our ecclesiastical history, the mem- bers of the Mother Church were ever reduced to the® necessity of living in this neighborhood I am not pre- pared tosay. Butif ever any of the magnutes ot’ the’ Catholic faith did hang out in this direction, it is to be’ hoped that the odors trom the soap-boilers round the corner; the rich eysences from the tallow-manutactory’ over the way; the varied perfumes from the estab- lishment of the gentleman who does a thousand pounds @ week in size; to say nothing of such miuor and do- mestic effluvia as are represented by an amalgamation of red herring, damp corduroy, old boots, onions, wash- ing, a chimney on fire, dead cats, bad cage, and an o} drain or two; it is to be hoped, I say, that these two’ conflicting scents did not pervade the breezes of Friar Street so strongly in the good old times as they’ do in these our later days of luxury and ‘re- finement. - Mr, Darley’s establishment, ordinarily spoken of ag the surgery par excellence, was, perhaps, one of the most pretending features of the street. It asserted itself, in led, ether. REESE THREE TIMES: DEAD. fact, with such a redundancy of gilt letters, and gas- burners, that it seemed to say: ‘Really now, you must be ill, or if you’re not, yourought tobe.” It was: notavery large house, this establishment of Mr. Dar- ley’s; but there were, at least, half-a-dozen bells on the doorpost.» There was— ‘surgery,’ then there was “day” and ‘night’ (Gus wanted to have“ morning’ and “afternoon,’’ but somebody told him it wasn’t protessional); then there was, besides a surgery, day and night-belis, another brilliant brass knob, inscribed |} “ visitors,”’ and a ditto ditto, whereon was. engrayen.. “shop.” Though, as there was only,one small back- parlor/beyond the shop,:into which visitors ever pene- trated; and as. it was the custom for all such visitors to walk straight through the aforesaid shop into the aforesaid parlor, without availing themselves of any bell whatever, the brass knobs were looked upon rather in ‘the light of a conventionality than a ¢on- venience. But Gus said they looked like business. especially when they were clean, which wasn't always—as a couple,of American gentlemen friends of Darley’s were in the habit of squirting tobacco-juice: at them fromthe other side of the way, in the dusk of the evening; the man who hit the brass oftenest ont of six times,'to be the winner, and the loser to stand beer all the evening—that is to say, until some indefinite time on the following morning; for Darley’s parties seldom broke up very early, and to let his visitors out and:-take’ the: milk in, was often a simul- taneous proceeding in the household of our young surgeon. If he had been a surgeon, ouly; he would surely have been Sir Benjamin Brodie ; tor when it is taken into account that he could play the piano, organ, guitar, and violoncello, without having learned either + that he could write a song, and compose the melody toit; that he could draw horses and dogs alter Her- ring and Landseer; make more puns in one sentence than any burlesque-writer living ; make love to halt-a dozen women at once, and be believed by every one of them, without caring one halfpenny for either ; sing a comic song, or tell a funny story; name the winner of the Derby safer than any prophet on that side of the water, and make his book for the Leger with one hand, while he wrote a prescription with the otber ; the discriminating reader will allow that thers ‘was a good deal of some sort of talent or other in the eomposition et/Mr. Augustus Darley; In the twilight of this particular autumn evening, he is busily engayed putting up a heap of little packets labeled,*‘ Best, Epsom Salts,’’ while his assistant, a very small youth, of a far more elderly appearance than his master, ligits the gas. The half glass door, that com- municates with the little buck-parlor, is ajar, and Gus is talking to some one within, ‘If I yo over the water to-night, Bell ’’— he says. A feminine voice from within interrupts him. “But you won't go to-night, Gus; the last time you went to that horril Smasher's, Mrs. Tompkin’s little boy was ill, and they sentinto the London Road for Mr. Parker. And you are such a fayorite with everybody, dear, that they say if you’d only stay at home always, you'd have the best practice in the neighborhood.” ‘But, Bell, how can a fellow. stay at home night after night, and, perhaps, half his time only sella nnorth of salts, or a poor-man’s plaster? If they'd, ill,” he added almost savagely, “I wouldn't mind- stoppingin ; there's some interestin that. Or if they'd come and have their teeth drawn ;. but they never will and I’m sure I sell ’em our Infallible Antidote Tooth ache Tincture ; and if that don’t make them have their tecth out, nothing will.” ‘Come and haye your tea, Gus, and tell Snix to bring his basin.” Snix was the boy, who forthwith drew from a cup- board under the counter, the identical basin into whici, when a drunken man was brought into the shop, Gus usually bled him, with a double view RA RFIOn CHE himself in his art, and bringing the patient to, Tue priniag occupant of the parlor is a zonne lady with dark hair and gray eyes, and something under twenty years of age. She is Augustus Darley’s only sister ; she keeps his house, and, in an emergency, she can make up a prescription ; nay, has been known to draw a juvenile patient's tooth, aud give him his money back, after the operation, for the purpose of ocpaaision’ sweet stuffs. erhaps Isabelle Darley is just what, a little very Brame young Jadies, who have never passed the con- nes of the boarding-school or the drawing-room, might call ‘fast.’ But whenitis taken into consideration that she was left an orphan at an early age, that she never went to school in her life, and that she has, for a considerable period, been in the habit of associating with her brother’s friends, chiefly members of the Cherokee Society, it is not 80 much tobe wondered at that she is alittle masculing in her attainments, and *yo-ahead”’ in her opinions than some others of her Bex. The parlor is small, as has before been stated. Ono ofthe Cherokees has been known to suggest, when there w Psscveral visitors present, and the time had arrived .vc their departure, that they should be taken out singly, with a corkscrew. Other Cherok ‘es, arriy- ing after the room had been filled with visitors, have heard to advise that somebody should go in first with a candle, to ascertain whether vitality could be aus ained in theatmorp icre, Porhay@ tie ace mmoda- tion was not extended by tue character of the furniture, whic. consisted of a piano—which, luckily, served as a sideboard as well—achair for the purpose of dental surgery, 4 small Corinthian colunin, with a basin with a metal plug aud chain on the top of it, for like pur- yes n¢ Cherokees brewed punch in this; and a ral, of a playful temperament, has been known to lug when the basin was was a torture to tall Cherokees, as, one touch; from 4 ‘manly head would’tilt down. the shelves, and shower the contents of Mr. Darley’s library on the head in question, like a literary waterfall—and a good-sized sofa, with that unmistakable well, and hard back. and arms, which distinguish the genus sofa-bedstead, Of course, tables, chairs, china ornaments, a plaster-of-Paris bust here and there, caricatures on the walls, a. lamp that wouldn’t burn, and apatent arrangement for the manu- facture of toasted cheese, are trifles, in the way of fur- niture, not worth naming. Miss Darley’s birds, again, though they didspill seed and water into the eyes of unoffending -visitors, and drop lumps of dirty sugar sharply down upon the noses of the same, could not, of course, be considered a nuisance; but, certainly, he compound surgery and back-parlor in the mansi' n of Augustus Darley was, to say the least, a little too full of furniture. While Isabelle is pouring out the tea, two gentlemen open the shop-door, and the bell which should ring and dosn't, catching in the foremost visitor’s foot, nearly precipitates him headlong into the emporium. of tl:e disciple of Esculapius. This formost visitor is no other than Mr, Peters, and the tall figure behind him, wrap- ped ina great coat, is Daredevil Dick. ‘Here I.am, Gus,” he cries out, in his own, bold, hearty voice; “here I am; found your place at, last, in spite of the fascinations of half the stale shbell-fish in the: United Kingdom—here.I am ; and here's the best friend I have in the world, not even excepting your- sef, old fellow.” . Gus introduces Richard to his sister Isabelle, who has been taught, from ker childhood, tu look upon the young man, siut up ina lunatic asylum down at Slop- perton, as the greatest hero, next to, Napoleon Bona- parte, that ever the world had boasted. She was a litte girl of eleven years old at the time of Dick’s trial, and had never seen her wild brother's wilder companion ; and she looks up now at the dark, handsome face with a glance of almost reverence in her deep, gray eyes. But Belle is by no means a heroine; and she has 3 dozen unheroine-like occupations. She has the tea to pour out, und she scalds Richard’s finvers in her nery- ous excitement; drops the sugar into the slop-basin, and pours all the milk into one cup of tea, What she would have dove without the assistance of Mr. Peters it is impossible to say; for that gentleman showed himself the very genius of order; cut thin bread and butter enough for half a dozen, which not one of the party touched ; refilled the teapot before it wus empty, lit,the gas lamp which hung from the ceiling, shut the door which communicated with the shop and the other docr which led on to the staircase, and did all so quietly. that nobody knew, he was doing anything at al Poor Richard ! in spite of the gratitude and happiness ho feels in his release, there is a gloom upon his brow, and an abstraction in his manner, which he tries in vain to shake off. Asmall, round, chubby individual, who might be twelve or twenty, according to the notions of the per- son estimating her age, removed the tea-tray, and in so doing broke asaucer. Gus looked up. “She always does it,” he said mildly. “We're getting quite accustomed tothesound. It rather reduces ourstock of china and we sometimes are obliged to send out to buy tea-things before we,can have any breakfast ; but she’s a good girl, and she doesn’t steal the honey, or the jujubes, or the tartaric acid out of the seidlitz powders, as the other one did ; not that I minded that much,” he con- tinued, “ but she sometimes filled up the papers with arsenic, for fear of being found out, and that would have been inconvenient, if we'd ever happen to sell them.” “Now, Gus,” said Richard, as he drew his chair up to the fire-place and lit his pipe, permission beiny awarded by Belle, who lived in one perpetual atmos- phere of tobacco-smoke, “now, Gus, I want Peters to tell you all about this affair, How it was he thouglit me innocent ; how he hit upon the plan hé formed for saying my neck; how he tried to cast abont and finda clew to the real murderer; how he thought he had found a clew, and how he lost it.” en my sister stop, while he tells the story ?” ask- ed Gus. s ; ? “Sho is your sister, Gus, She cannot be #0 unlike you as not to be a true and pitying jriend to me. Miss Darley,’’ he continued, turning toward her, as he spoke; ‘‘ you do not think me quite ao bad ‘a fellow as the world has mado me out; you would like to see me righted, and my name freed m the stain of a vile crime.” “Mr. Marwood, I have heard your: sad story, again andagain irom my brother’s lips. Had you too been my brother, 1 could not, believe me, have felt a deeper interest in your fate, or a truer sorrow for your mistor- tunes, Itneeds but to look into your face, or hear your voice, to know how good and brave a man you are, and how little you deserve the imputation that has been cast upon you.” He rises and gives her his hand. No languid and lady-like pressure, such as would not brush tlie down off a butterfiy’s wing. but an honest, hearty grasp, that comes straight from the heart. ‘And now for Mr. Peters’s story,” said Gus; “ while I brew a jugful of whisky-punch.” **Can you follow his hands, Gus?” asks Richard. “Every twist.and turn of them ; he andI had many aconfab about you, old fellow, before we went out fisuing,” said Gus, looking up irom the pleasing occu- pation of Poor sca: “ Now for it, then,” said Richard, and Mr. Peters ac- cordingly began. Perhaps, considering his retiring from the Slopper- ton police force a great event—not to say a crisis in his life, Mr. Peters had celebrated it by another event, and, taking the tide of hig affairs at the flood, had availed himself of the water to wash his hands with. At.any Rit iu applling out of the » by way of an agreeable practical joke; also a violoncullo in the corner, a hanging book-shelf—which rate, the digital alphabet was 2 great deal cleaner than when, eight years ago,he spelt, out the two words, ‘Not guilty,” in the railway carriage. . There was something very strange. to a looker-on, in the little party, Gus, Richard, and Belle, all with ‘earn- est eyes fixed on the active fingers of the detective— the silence only broken by some exclamation at intex- vals from one of the three. . “When first | see this young gent,” says the fingers, as Mr. Peters desiunates Richard with 4 jerk of his el- bow, “I was a standin’ on the other side of the way, a waitin’ till my superior, Jinks, as was as much up to his biisiness as a kitting.” (Mr. Peters has rather, what we may call a fancy style of orthography, and takes the final g off some words to clap in on to otliers, ag his. tastes dictate), “ a waitin’, I say, till Jinks should want my assistance. Well, gents all—beggin’ the lady’s pardon, as sits up 80 mauly, with none of yer mentin’ nor stericky games, as I a’most forgot ‘that she was a lady—nosooner did I, clap eyes upon Mr. Mar wood here, a smokin’ his pipe in: Jink's face, and a answerin’ jhim sharp, and a” behavin’ what you may call altogether cocky, than I says to niy- self, ‘they’vye got the wrong un.’ My fust words and my last, about this here gent, was ‘they’ye got the ‘wrong un’.” . Mr. Peters looked round at the attentive party with a glance of triumph, rubbed his hands by way of a tull stop, and went on with his manual recital. “For why ?” said the fingers, interrogatively, “for why did I think as this ’ere gent was no good for this ‘ere murder—for why did 1 think them chaps at Slop- perton had got on the wrong sceut ? Because he was cheeky? Lor’ bless your precious eyes, miss (by way of gallantry he addresses himself to Isabelle), “not a ‘bit of it? When acove goes and cuts another cove’s throat off-hand, it ain’t likely he ain’t prepared to cheek a police-officer. But when I reckoned up this young gent’s face, what was it I see! Why, as plain as I see his nose and his mustaches, and he ain’t bad off for either of them,” said the fingers parenthetically, ‘+I see that he hadn’t done it! Nowa cove what's screwed up to face a judge and jury, maybe, can face’ ’em, and never change @ line of his mung ; but there isn’t a cove as lives, as can stand that first tap of a detective'’s hand upon his shoulder, as tells him, plain as words, ‘the gameis up.’ ‘The best of em, and-the pluckiest of ’em, drop under that. If they keeps the color in their tace—which some of ’em has got the power to'do; and none as Hever tried it on, can guess the pain—if they cando that ’ere the perspiration breaks out wet and cold upon their foreheads, and that blows’em. But this young gent—he was took aback, and he was sur- prised, and he was riled, and used bad language; but his color never changed, and he wasn’t once knocked over, till Jinks, unbusiness-like, told him of lis uncle’s murder, when he turned as white as that ‘ere ’ed of Bon-er-part.” Mr. Peters, for want of a better com- parison, glanced in the directicn of a bust of the victor of Marengo, which, what with tobacco-smoke, and a ferocious pair of burnt cork mustaches, was by no means the whitest object in creation. “Now, what a detective officer’s good at, if he’s worth his salt, is this ’ere—when he sees two here, and a other two there, he can put’em together though they may be a mile apart to anybody not up to the trade, and make ’em into four So, thinks I, ‘the gent isn’t took aback at beim’ arrested—but he is took aback when he hears as how his uncle's murdered; now, if he'd committed the murder, le’d know of it ; and he might sham surprise, but he wouldn't be sur- prised, and this young gent was knocked all of a heap, as genuine as" Mr. Peters’s ideas still revert to the bust of Napoleon, “as ever that ’ere foring cove was, when he sees his old guard serunched up small at the battle of Waterloo.” ' “Heaven knows, Peters,’ said Richard, taking his pipe out of Lis mouth and looking up from nis stoop ing position over the fire, “Heaven knows right, L was knocked all of a heap when | heard of that good man’s death.”’ weed “ Well, that they’d got the wrong un, I saw was ag clear as daylight—but where was the right un? That was the question! Whoever committed the murder id it for the money in that ere cabinet—and sold agen they was, whoever they was, and didn’t get the money. Who was inthe house?) This young gent’s mother, and the servant. Iwas nobodyin the Gardenford force; andI was less than nobody at Slo: on, soget into that house of the Black Mill I couldn’t—this young'gent was walked off to jail, and I wassent about my busi- ness. My orders bein’ to be back in Gardenford that evenin’, leavin’ Slopperton by te three-thirty train, Well | was a little cut up about this young gent; for I see that the case was dead agen him—the money in hie. pocket, the blood on his sleeve—a cock-and-a-bull story ofa letter of introduction, and a very evident attempt at a bolt—only enough to hang him, that’s all ; and for all that, I had a inward conwiction that he was as hin- nercent. of the murder as that ere plaster of Paris statter.” Mr. Peters goes regularly to the bust for com- parisons, by way of saving time and trouble in casting about for fresh ones. “But, my orders,” continued the fingers, was posi- tive, so I goes down to the station to start by the three- thirty ; and,asI walks into the station yard, I hears the whistle, and sees the train go. I was too late, and as the next train didn’t start for near upon three hours, I thouhtl’d take a stroll, and ’ave a look at the beauties of Slopperton. Well [ strolls on, promiscuous-like, till I comes to the side of ajully, dirty looking river; and as by this time I feels a@ little dry, I walks on, lovkin’ about for a public: but ne’er a one dol see, til} 1 almost tumbles into a dingy little place as looked as if it did about half-a-pint a day regular, when business was brisk. Butin I walks, past the bar, and straight before me I sees a door, as leads into the parlor— the passaze was jolly dark; and this here door wag ajar, and inside I hears voices—well, you see, business is business, and pleasure is pleasuxe; but when » ou are ) THREE TIMES DEAD, obvé takes a pleasure in his business, he gets a way of léttin’ his business habits come out unbeknownst, when he's taken his pleasure ; so I listens: Now the voice I heered fust was a man’s voice ; and, though the place was 4 sort of crib, suchas nobody but mivtied or such like would be in the habit of going to, this here Voice was the voice of a gentleman. T can’t say as Lever paid much attention to grammar myself, though I dare say it's very pleasant andamusin’ when you enter into it; but fora that, I'd knock’d about in the world long enough to know a gent’s way of speakin’ m a Dayvy’s, 48 wellas I knowed one tune on the accordion from another tune. It was a nice, soft-spoken voice, too, and quite mvlodious and pleasant to listen to; but it was a sayin’ some of the eruelest and the hardest words us ever was spoke to a woman yet, by any creature with the cheek to call hisself a man, ‘You're not much good, my friend,’ says I with your Jardy-hardy ways, aud your cold-blooded words, whoever you are. You're a thin chap, with light hair, and white hands, I know, though I’ve never seen you; and there's very little in the way of wickedness that you wouldn't be up to on a push.’ Now, just ‘as I was athinkin’ this, he said somethin’ that sent the blood up into my face as hot us fire. ‘expected asum of money, and I’ve been disappointed of it;''and before the girl he was a talkin’ to could open her lips; he caught her up sudden, ‘Never you mind how,’ he says, ‘never you mind how.’ “He expected a sum of money, and he’d been disap- pointed of it! So had the man who had murdered this young yent’s uncle. “Not much in this perhaps. But why was he so frightened at the thoughts of her asking him how he expected the money, and how he'd been disappormted ? There it got fishy. ‘At any rate,’ say I to myself, ‘I 11 have a look at you, my friend.’ So in I walks, very quiet, anil quite unveknownst. He was a sittin’ with his back to tie door, and the young woman he was a talkin to was standin’ lookin’ out of the winder; so neither of "em saw me. He was buildin’ up some cards into a ‘onse, and had got ’em wp very high, when I laid my hand upon his shoulder sudden. He turned round and looked at me.” Mr. Peters here paused and looked round at the little group, who sat watching his fingers with breathless attention. He had evidently come toa point ip his narrative. “Now what did I see in his'face, when he looked at me? Why, tle very same look that I nsissed in the face of this young gent when Jinks took him in the mornin’. ‘he very same look that I’d seen in a many taces, and never known it differ; whether it came one way or the other, always bein’ the’same look at bottom. Tho look of a man as is guilty of what will hang him, and thinks that jie’s found out. But as you can’t give Jooks in as evidence, this wasn’t no good in a pract.cal way. But I says to myself, ‘If ever there was anythink certain in this world since it was begun, I’ve conie aorors the ri,ht’un.’ So I sat down and took up a nowsp"pet—I signitied to him that I was dumb, and he thought 1 was deaf as well, and he went on talking to the ; irl, “We 1, it was.an old story enough, what him and the’ girl was a talkin’ of, but every word he said made him outa more cold-blooded villain than the last. ' «Presently he offered ber some money—four. sover- eigns:; Se served him as he ought to have been served, ‘and threw them every one slap in his face. Ono cut lim over the eye, and I was glad of it. ‘You're marked, my man,’ thinks I, ‘and nothin’ could be handier agen Twant you’ Ho picked up three of the sovereigns, but all he could do he couldn’t find the fourth. So he had the cut (which was a jolly deep one) plastered up, and he went away. She stared at, the river unconimon hard,and then she went away. Now, I didn’t much like the look she gave the river, so as I had about half an hour before the train went, I fol- lowed her. I think she knewit, for presently she turned short off into a little street, aud when J turned into it aiter her, she wasn’t to be seen, right or left. “Weil, Thad but half an hour; so] thought it was no usé chasin’ this unfortunate young creature, through all the twistings and turnings of the back slums of Slopperton ; 80, after a few, minutes consider- ation I walked straight to the station. Hang me, if I wasn’t too late for the train again. 1 don’t know how it wads, but I couldn't keep my mind off the young wo- man, nor keep myself from wondering what she was _wgoin’ todo with herself, and what she was a goin’ to ‘a that ere baby. Solwalks back agen down by the Water, and as I'd a good hour and half to spare, I walks a way, thinking of the young man and the cut on hisioréhead. Maybe l’d gones miley or more, when I comés up to @ barge what lay at anchor quite solitary. It waa'a collier, and there was a chap on board, sittin’ in thestern, smokin’ an@ lookin’ at the water. was no Ové else in sight but him and me, and no sooner does’he spy me comin’ along the bank, than he sings out: i “«Fulloa! have you met a young woman down that way?’ ; “His words struck me all of a heap’ somehow, comin go near upon what I was a thinkin’ of myself ; I shook my head, and he said: “There's been some unfortunate young girl down here tryin’ to dround her baby. I see the little chap in the water, and fished him out with my boat-hook. Yd seen the girl hangin” about here, in tue twilight; and then I heard the splash when se threw the child in, but the foy was too thick forme to see anything ashore Ea time.’ “The barge was just alongside the bank, I stepped on bourd. Not bein’so fortunate as to have a voice, you know it comes awkward with strangers, and I was yather put to it to geton with the young man, and didn’t he sing out loud when he came to understand I wad dumb; he couldn’t havespoke ina higher key, if Vd been a furriner. “Hetold mol] should take the babyround to the union ;all he ‘hoped, ‘he said, .wag/that the mother wasn’t goin’ to do anything bad with herself. “hoped not, too, but I remembered the look she’d given at the ‘river, and didn’t feel very easy in my mind about her. “I took the poor little wet thingup in my arms. The young man had wrapped it in an old jacket, and it was acryin’ piteous, and lookin’, Oso scared and miser- able. — “Well, it may seem a queer whim, but I’m rather soft-hearted on tho subject of babies, and often hada thought that I ‘should like to try the power of cultiva- tion in the way of business, and bringa child up from the very cradle to the policesdetective force; to see whether I couldn’t make that ’ere child a ornament to the police turce.. I wasn'ta marryin’ man, and by no means likely ever to ‘ave a family of my own; so when Itook wp that’ ’ere baby in my arms, somehow or other the thought came into my ’ed of) adoptin’ him and bringin’ of him up. So] rolled him up in my great- coat, and took him with me to Gardenford.” “And awonderful boy-he is,” said Richard, “we'll educate him, Peters, and make a gentleman of him,’’ “ Wait a bit,” said the fingers, very quickly ; “thank you kindly, sir, but if the police force of this ‘ere country was rcbbed of that "ere boy, it would be rubbed of a gem as it couldn’t afford to lose.”’ “Go on, Peters, tell them the rest of your story.” “ Well, though I felt in my own mind, tuiat by one of those strange chances which does happen in lie, may be, as often as they happen in story-books, Lhad failen across the man whohad committed the murder; but for all that, I nadn’t evidence enough topeta hearin’, I got transferred from Gardenford toSlopperson.and every leisure minute I had, I tried to come across the man Vd marked—but nowhere could I see him, or hear of any one answering his description. I went to the churches, for Ithought him capable of anything, even toshammiin’ pious, I went to the theater, and I see &@ young man accused of poisonin’ a family, and proved innocent by a police cove, as didn’t know his business any more than 4 fly, Iwent any where and everywhere, but Imever see that man ; andit was gettin’ uncommon near the trial of the young gent, and nothink done, How was he to be saved? i tuought of it by night, and thought ofitby day; but work it outI couldn’t, no- how. One day I hears of an old friend of the prisoner's being sup-bone-aed as witness for the crown—this friend I deterinined to see, for to eds,’ Mr. Peters loo ‘- ed round, as though he defied contradiction, ‘‘shall be better than one.’’ “And this friend,” said Gus, ‘(was your humble servant; who was only too glad to find that poor Dick lad one sincere friend in the world, who believed in his innocence, besides myself.’ - “Well, Mr, Darley and me,” resumed Mr. Peters, “ put our ‘eds together, and we came to thisconclusion ; thatif this young gent was mad when he commited the murder, they couldn’t hang him, but would shut him in a asylum for the rest) of his uatural: life—which mayn’t be pleasantin the habstract, but which is better than hangin’, any day.’”’ .“80 you determined on proving me mad?” said Richard. “We hadn’t such very bad grounds to go upon, perhaps, old fellow,” replied Mr. Darley, ‘that brain- fever, which we thought such a misfortune, when it Jaid you up for three dreary weeks, stood us in good stead, we had something togo upon, for we knew we could get you off by no other means; but to get you off this way, we wanted your assistance, and we didn’t hit upon the plen tillit was toola.e to get at you and tell you our scheme; we didn’t hit upon it till twelve o'clock on the night before your trial. We tried to see your counsel, but he had that morning left the town, and wasn’t to return till the trial came on. Peters hung about the court all the moining, butcouldn’t see him ; andnothing was done when the judge and jury took their seats. Youknow the rest? you know how, by achance thejudge misunderstood you, how Peters caught your eye, how, by his direction, you pleaded uilty’’— oe Yes,’’ said Dick, “and how seven letters upon his fingers told me the whole scheme, and gave me my cue; those letters formed these two words—‘ Sham mad.’ ’”’ “And very well you did it at the short notice, Dick,” said Gus; ‘‘upon my word, for the moment, I was al- most staggered, and thonght, suppose in gettin up this dodge, weare only hitting upon the truth, and the poor fellow really has been driven out of his wits by this frightful accusation.” ‘A scrap of paper,” said Mr, Peters, on his active fingers, ‘‘ gave the hint to your counsel, a sharp chap enough, though a young un.”’ ; , “J can afford to reward him now for his exertions,’”” said Richard, ‘‘and 1] must find him for that purpose. ‘But, Peters, for heayen’s sake, tell us about this young man whom you suspect to be the murderer. IfI goto the end of the world in search of him, I'll find him, and drag him and his rppiey to light, that my name may be cleured from the foul stain it wears, r. Peters looked very grave. “You must go alittle further than the end of this world to find him, I'm afraid, sir,’ said the fingers. “ What do you say to looking for him in the next; for that’s the station he’d started for when I Jast saw him, and I believe that on that line, with the exception of now and then a cock-and-a-bull-lane ghost, they don’t give no return ticket.” “Dead, and escaped from “Dead?” suid Richard. justice 2” ‘‘That’s about the size of it, sir,’ replied Mr. Peters. “Whether he thought as how something was up and he was blown, ox whether hé was riled past bearin’ at findin’ no money in that ere cabinet, I can’t take upon myself to say; but I found him six monthe after the murder, out Spon & heath, dead, with a laudalam bottle lying by his side.”* “And did you. ever find ont who. he was,?”,asked Bari 4 bi , He was a usher, sir, at a academy for young gents, anda very pious young man he was, too, I’ve heard; but for all that, he- murdered this young gent’s uncle, or my name isn’t Peters.’’ “ Beyond the reach or justice!” said Richard; “then the truth.can never be, brought, to light, and to the end of my days | must bear the stigma ‘of acrime of which I am innocent.’’ . CHAPTER XXXI. Now, the inhabitants of Friar Street and such locali- ties, being in the habit ot waking in the morning to the odor of melted tullow and boiling soap, aud of going to sleep at night with the smell of burning bones under their noses, can of course have nothing of an external nature in common with tie denizens of Park Lano and its vicinity, ior the gratification of whcse olfactory nerves exotics live short and unnatural lives, on stair- cases, in Loudoirs, and in conservatories of rich plate glass and fairy architecture, and perfumed waters play in gilded fountains through the long summer days. It might be imasined then, by anyone apt to indulge in that metaphysico-saltatory feat called jumping at conclusions, that the common _griefs’'and yulgar sor- rows, which may be considered in a manner parallel with the soap-boiling and tlie bone-burning, such as hopeless love and torturing jealousy, sickness, or death, or madness, or déspair, would be also banished from the regions of Park Lane, and entirely confined to the purlieus of Friar Street. Any person with a properscnse of the fitness of things, would of course imagine this to be the case, and would as soon picture my lady the Duchess of Mayfair eating red herrings at the absurd hour ofone o’clock, P. M., or blackleading her own grate with her own alabaster fingers, as weeping over the death of her child, or breaking her heart for her faith- less husband, just like Mrs. Stiggins, potato ard coal merchant, on @ small scale, or Mrs. Higgins, whose sole revenues come from “ mangling done here.” And it does seem hard, Omy brethren, that wealth, and rank, and power, heaven-made institutions, no doubt, are powerless here ; they may exclude bad airs, foul scents, ugly sights, and jarringsounds ; they may surround their possessors with beauty, grace, ert, lux- ury, and so-called pleasure ; but they cannot shut ovt death or trouble ; for, to these stern visitors, Mayfair and St. Giles’s must alike open their reluctant doors, whenever the dreaded guests may be pleased to call. You do not send cards for your morning concerts, or fetes champetres, or the dansantes to surrow or sad- ness. O noble duchesses and countesses ; but have you neyer seen their faces in the crowd, when you last looked to meet them ? Through the foliage and rich blossoms in the con- a ek and throughthe white damask curtains of the long French window, the autumn sun- ghine comes with subdued light into “a boudoir on the second floor of a large house in Park Lane. The velvet pile carpets in this room, and the bed-chamber and dressing-rovm adjoining, are wade in imitation of a mossy ground, on which autumn leayés have fallen ; so exquisite, indevd, is the design, that it is difficult to think that the light breeze which enters at the open window cannot sweep away the fragile leaf which seems to flutter in the sun. The walls are of the palest cream color, embellished with enameled portraits: of Louis the Sixteenth, Marie Antoinette, Madame Elizabeth, and the unfortunate boy-prisoner of the Temple, let into the oval penels on the four sides of the room, Everything in this apartment, though perfect in form and color, is subdued and simple ; there is none of the ormolu, buh], and marqueterie furniture, the artificial flowers, French prints, aud musical boxes, which might adorn the boudoir of an opera-dancer, or the wife of a parvenu. ‘The easy-chairs and luxurious sofas are coy- ered with white dumask, with frameworks of polished maple-wood ; on the marble mante}-piece there are two or three vases of the purest’ and most classical torms, and these, and Canova’s bust of Napoleon, are the only ornaments in theroom. Near the fire-place, in which burns a small fire, there is a table loaded with booke— French, English, and German, the newest publications of the day; but they are tossed in kote heap, as if eae oné by one been looked at, east aside un- r By this table there is a lady seated, whose beau- tiful face is rendered still more striking by the simpli- city of her black dress, This lady is Valerie de Lancy, now Countess de Mar- olies; for Monsieur Marolles has purchased estates in the south of France, with part of his wife’s fortune, which give him the title of Count de Marolles. A lucky man, this Raymond Marolles. A beautiful wife, a title, and an immense fortune, are no such poor prizes in the Jottery of lite; but this Raymond is,a man who likes to extend his ns, and in South America he.‘has established himselfas banker on a large scale, and he has lately come over to England with his wife and son for the Pe of establishin, branch of his bank in London. Of course, a man with his great connections and enormous fortune is respect- ed and trusted throughout the continent of South America. Fight have taken nothing from the beauty of Valerie de Marolles ; the dark eyes have the same fire, the proud head the same haughty grace, but alone, and in repose, the face has a shadow of deep and settled sadness that is painful to look upon; for it is the gloomy sadness of despair. The world in which she lives, Which ‘knows her only as the brilliant, witty, vivacions and sparkling Parisian, little dreams that she talks because she does not think; that she is restless and vivacious because she dere not be still; that she hurries from in pur- suit of pleasure and excitement, becanse only in ex- citement, and in a life which is as false and hollow ag %& THREE TIMES DEAD. sara carsieess . — er the life she asaumes, can she fly from the phantom which pursues her. O shadow that will not be driven away! O'pale and pensive ghost that rises before usin ‘every hour and in every scene, to mock and to sneer at the noisy and tumultuous revelry, which by the rule 2 opposites, we call Pleasure. The phantom is; the ‘ast | She is not alone; a little boy, between seven and eight years of age, is standing at her knee, reading aloud to her ae & ond. eo eee “ Un grenouille vit un ’— he began ; but as he read the first word the door of the boudoir opened and a - gentleman entered, whose pale, fair face, blue eyes, light eyelashes, and dark hair and eyebrows, proclaimed him to be the husband of Valerie. “Ah,” he said, glancing with a sneer at the boy, who lifted his dark eyes for @ moment, and then dropped them on his book with an indifference that ‘bespoke little love for the new-comer. “ you ‘are ee your child, madame, Toaching him to read? Is not that an innovation? The boy has a fine voice, and the ear of a maestro, Let him learn the solfeggi, and very likely | one of these days he will be as great a man as ’’-— Valerie looked at him with the old contempt, the old icy coldness in her face. “Do yon want anything this morning of me, mon- sieur?” she asked. “No, madame., Having the entire command of your fortune, what can lask? Asmile? Nay, madame, you keep your smiles for your son, and again they are so cheap in London, the smiles of beauty.” «Then, monsieur, since you require nothing at my hands, may I ask you why you insult me with your presence 2” . “You teach your son to respect his father, madame,” aid Raymond, with a sneer, throwing himself into an easy-chair opposite Valeiic, ‘You set the future Count de Marolles a good example ; he will bea model of filial Piety, as you are of ’—— “ Do not fear, Monsieur de Marolles, but that one day Ishall teach my son to respect his father; fear rather jest I teach him to avenge ’—— : “Nay, madame, it is for you to fear that.” During the whole of this brief dialogue, the little boy has held his mother’s hand looking, with his serious eyes, anxiously in her face; but young as he is, there is a courage in his glance and a look of firmness in his determined under lip that promises well for the future. Valerie turns from the cynical face of her husband and lays # caressing hand upon the boy’s dark ringlets. Do those ringlets remind her of any other dark hair ; ‘do, any other eyes look out in the light of those she €az08 at now ? *“ You were good enough toask me just now, madame the purport of my visit, as your discrimination na- turally suggested to you, that there is nothing so remarkably attractive in the society of these apart. ments, infantine lectures in words of one syllable included ’’—he glances towards the boy, as he speaks, and the cruel blue eyes. are never so cruel as when they look that way—‘ as toinduce mo to enter them withe out some purpose or other.” “Perhaps monsieur will be so good as to be brief in stating that purpose.. He may imagine, that being “entirely devoted to my son, I do not choose to have his studies, or even his amusements interrupted.” “You bring up young Count Almaviya like a prince, madame. It ie eereae to have good blood in one’s veins, even on one side ””—— If she could have killed him with a look of the eet dark eyes, he would have fallen dead as he spoke the words that struck one by one at her broken heart; he knew his power, wherein it Jay,and how to use it—and he loved to wound her; because though he had won wealth and rank from her, be had never conquered her, and even in her despair she defied him. “You are irrelevant, monsiour. Pray be so kind as to say what brought you here, where I would not insult your good sense by saying you are a welcome visitor.” mel + 0: hoow-ol “Briefly then, madame. . Our domestic arrangements do not please. me. We are never known to quarrel, it is true—but we are rarely seon to address each other, aud we are not often seen in public together, Very well, this, in South America, w: we were king and queen of our citclo+here it will not do. To say, the least, it is mysterious. ‘The ; fashionable world is scandalous. People, draw: . inferences—mon- siour does not love madame, and he married her for her money—or on the other hand, madame does not, love monsieur, but married him because she had a powerful reason for so doing. This will not do, countess, A banker must be respectable, or people may be afraid to trust him. I-must be, what I am now. called, ‘the eminent banker;’ and I must be universally trustevl,’’ “That you may the better betray, monsieur; that is the motive for winning people’s confidence, in your code of moral economy, is it not ?’” “Madame is ee mathematician, her argu. ment by induction does credit.’ “But your business. mansiour ?” ; , “Was to signify my wish, madame, that we should be seen oftener together in public. The Italian opera, now, madame, though you have so great a distaste for it, a distaste which, by-the-by, you did not possess during the early period of your life, is a very popular résort. All the world will be there to-night, to witness the debut of a singer of continental celebrity. Per- haps cd will do’ me the honor to accompany me there?” pl ¢ t , “1 do not take any interest, monsieur ?” ; “Tn the orion of tenor ae eh eae we sur- vive the fancies of our youth! But you will occupy the box on the ‘tier of Her Majesty’s Theater, which I have taken for the season. —to Cherubino’s interest, for you to comply with Di request.” He glances toward the boy once more, wii 8 sneer on his thin lip, and then turns and bows low to ber as he says: It is to your son’s | near the chapel, and Kuppins would like to purchase “Au revoir, madame; I shall order the carriage for | eight o'clock.” f : A horse, which at a sale at Tattersall’s had attracted the:attention of all the yotaries of. the corner, for the perfection of his points, and the high sum bid for him, caracoles before’ the door, under the skillful horsemanship of a well-trained and exquisitely-ap- pointed groom. Another horse,: equally high-bred, waits for ris rider, the Count de Marolles; the groom dismounts, and holds the bridle, as the gentleman’ im- mergés from the door and springs into the saldle. A consummate horseman the Count de Marolles; 4 hand- some man too,in spite of the restless, and shifting blue eyes;,and the thin nervous lips. His. dress is perfect, just keeping pace with the fashion, sufficiently to denote high tone in the wearer, without outstripping itso as to stamp him a parvenu; it has that elegant and studious grace, which toa casual observer looks” like carelessness but which is, in reality, the perfec tion of the highest art of all~the art of concealing the art. ; Itis only twelve o’clock, and there are not many people of any standing in Piccadilly this September morning; but of the few gentlemen on: horseback who ‘9 Monsieur de Marolles, the most distinguished men ow to him. He is well known in the great world as, the eminent banker, the owner of a superb house in Park Lane; a chef of Parisian renown, who ‘wears the cross of the Legion of Honor, given him by the first Napoleon on the occasion of a dinner at Talleyrand’s; estates in South America an¢ France; a fortune, said to be boundless, and a lovely wife; for the rest, if~ his own patent nobility is of rather fresh date, and if, as impertinent people say, he never had a grandfather, or, indeed, anything in ‘the way of a father to speak of; great men, since the ‘days of mythic history, have aan celebrated for being born the best way they could, Bat why a banker? Why, possessed of an enormous fortune, try to extend that fortune by» speculation ? That question lies between Raymond de Marolles and his conscience. Perhaps there are no bounds to: the ambition of this man, who entered Paris eight years ago an obscure adventurer, and who uow is, according to some accounts, a millionare.. ey CHAPTER XXXII. Mr. Perers, pensioned off by Richard’s mother, with an income of a hundred’ pounds a year, has taken a small furnished house, in a very small square, not far from Mr. Darley’s establishment, and rejoicing in the high-sounding address of Wellington Square. Water- loo road. Having done this; he feels that he has noth- ing more to do in lifé than’to retire upon hiv laurels, and enjoy the otium cum dignitate which he has earned so well. i Of course, Mr. Peters, as a single man, cannot by any possibility do for himself; and as—having started an establishment of his own—he is no longer in a position’ ‘to get taken in and done for, the best thing he can do is to send for Kuppins; accordingly, he does send: for Kuppins. t ‘ uppins is to be cook, housekeeper, laundress, and parlor-maid, all in’ one, and she is to have ten pounds pee annum, and her tea, sugar, and’ beer—wayes only nown in Sloppoertoh in very high and aristocratic fam- ilies, where footmen are kept, and no followers or Sun- days out allowed. © , So Kuppins comes to London, bringing the * fond- ling” with her; and arriving at the Rustou-Square sta- tion at eight o’clock in the evening, is launched into the dazzlingly-bewilderin, gayety of the New Road. Well, it is not paved with gold, certainly, tliis mar- velous city ; and itis, maybe, on the’whole, justa lit- ‘tle inuddy.. But, O1 the shops—what emporiums of splendor! What delightful excitement in being nearly run over every minute! to say nothing of that delicious chance of being knocked down by the crowd which'is collected round a drunken woman expoptntating with apoliceman. Of course, there must be a getieral elec- tion, or a great fire, or a man hanging, or a murder jtst committed in thé next street, or something wonderin! going on, or there never could be such crowds of ex- cite destrians and such tearing, and rushing, and smashing of abs, carts, omnibuses, and parcel-deliv- ery yans, allof them driven by charioteers in the last stage of insanity, and drawn by horses as wild as that time-honored steed employed in the artistic and poeti- cal punishment of our old friend Mazeppa. Tottenham Court Read! What a magnificent promenade! Oocu- pied, of course, by the house of the nobility! Andis that magnificent establishment with the iron shutters, Buckingham Palace or the Tower of London? “Kuppins inclines to think it the Tower of London, because the iron shutters looked so warlike, ond are evidently in- tended as a means of defense, in case of an attack from the French, : Kuppins is told by her escort, Mr. Peters, that this is the emporium of Messrs. Shoolbred, haberdashers and linen-drapers. She thinks she must be dreaming, and wants to be pinched and awoke before she goes a step further, It is rathera trying journey for Mr. Peters ; for Kuppins wants tostop the cab every twenty yards or.so to gat out and look at something in this wouder- ful Tottenham Court Road. There isa pig-faced lady to be seen for three pence ; and if she is anything like the transparency. which represents her a transparency thirty foot Lif ‘hand bright pink everywhere that it is ‘not ‘brilliant. green, Mr. Peters must be dull of soul, indeed, to refuse to alight and behold her. ‘Then there is the man with his umbrella full of prints, a few specimens of high art, especially the Honorable ‘Mrs, Poel, with Stack velvet hat and white ostrich feather; then there is the china shop at the corner, with, oh! such glassesand decanters,’ all over the pavement outside the, door; wondrous to look upon. and marvelously eheap into the bargain ; and ene fried fish, the smell of which coming into the cab win- dow: (Kuppins will have the window open, and her head ever so far out of it, at the risk of ‘ene decapi- tated by a passing omnibus) would have. made a classical gourmet hungry, after a. feast. in the Apollo! In short it is quite as much as Mr. Peters can do to keep one half of the Jively Kuppins safe in the cab, while the other half stares, gesticulates, and exclaims out of the window of that vehicle. The “fondling” has insisted upon riding outside, and is standing on one knee of the driver, and holding on to the roof, till he presents something the appearance of Signor Tomkinso the Infant East Wiud, at Astley'’s Royal Amphitheater. But the worst of Kuppins, perhaps, is, that she has almost an insane desire to see Tottenham Court; and when told that there is no such place, and never’ was, leastways, never as Mr, Peters heard of, she begins to think Loudon, in spite of all its glories rather a take- in. Then, again, Kuppins is very much disappointed at not passing either Westminster Abbey or the Bank of England which she had made up her mind were both situated at Charing Cross ; andit was alittle tiring to Mr, Peters to beasked whether every moderate-sized church they passed was not St. Paul’s Cathedral ; or every little bit of dead wall, Newgate. To go over a bridge, and for it not to be London Bridge, but Water- loo Bridge, was in itself a mystery ; but to be told that the Shot Tower onthe Surrey side was not the Monu- ment, was too bewildering for endurance. As to the Victoria Theater, which was illuminated to that degree that the box entrance seemed as the pathway to fairy- land, Kuppins was so thoroughly assured in her own mind of its being Drury Lane, and nothing else, unless, perhaps the Houses of Parliament or Covent Garden, that.no protestations on Mr. Peters’s fingers could root out the fallacy. 5 But the journey came to an endatlast ; and Kuppins safe with bag and baggage at No. 17 Wellington Square, partock of real London saveloys and real London porter, with Mr, Peters and the fondling,” in an elegant, front parlor, furnished with a brilliantly- polished, but rather rigkety, Pembroko. table, coyered with wroyal Stuart plaid woollen cloth; half-a-dozen cane-seated chairs, 80 now and highly polished as to be apt to adhere to the garments of the person who so little understood their nature or properties as to attempt to sit upon them ; a Kidderminister carpet.the pattern of which was of the size adapted to the requirements,of a town-hall, but which looked a littte disproportionate to Mr. Peters’s apartment, two patterns and a quarter stretching the entire length.of the room; and.a_man- tle-piece ornamented with a looking-ylass, divided by ilded Corinthian pillars, picked out with ebony, into hree compartments, and further adorned with two black velvet kittens, one at each corner, and a parti- colored velvet boy on a brown velvet donkey in. the center. ; ' * The next morning, Mr. Peters announced his inten. tion of taking the “ fondling” intu the city of Londen: for the purpose of showing him the outside of St, Patil’s, the monument, Punch and Judy, and other in- tellectual exhibitions suited to his years. Kupp’ was for starting thon and there, on a faced lady, than which magnificent creature, she could not picture any greater wonder in the whole metropo-, lis; but Kuppins had to stay at home in her post,of housekeeper, and to inspect and arrange the domestic machinery of No.17 Wellington Square. So, the “ fond- ling, > being magnificently arrayed in a clean. collar, and a pair of boots that were too small for him, took ‘hold of his protector’s hand, and they sallied forth. . It anything; Punch and Judy bore off the palm in. this young gentleman’s judgment of the miracles of the big village. r. , It was not so sublime a sight, perhaps, as the ont- side ot St. Paul’s, but, on the other hand, it waga great: deal cleaner ; and the ‘fondling’ would have) liked, to have seen Sir Christopher Wren’s masterpiece pick- ed out with alittle fresh paint before he was called upon to adimireit, The monument, no doubt was yery charming in the abstract, but unless he could haye been perpetually on the top of it, and. y within a hair's-breath of precipitating himself on tothe pavement below, it wasn’t very much in his way.; Bu Punch with his ees style of elocuti his overpoweringly comic domestic p: es with Ju and the dolefully-funny dog, with a frill. round his neck, andan evident dislike. for his profession ; this, indeed, was an exhibition to be seen continually, and,, to be more admired the more continually seen, as, no doubt the “fondling” would have said, had. he been familiar with Dr. Johnson, which is to be hoped for his own peace of mind, he wasn’t. O! what a happiness to'be born in that lower rank of life,in, which, a man may go down to the grave, serenely unconscious. of. Rasselas, and die without having read 'Telemachus or Charles XII. Happy ~ fondling,” not doomed to re-. ceive a liberal education! neither declension, nor con- jugation, nor long division, nor pons asincrum will ever break thy rest. i f nike “It ig rather a trying day for Mr. Peters, and he is not, sorry when at about fouro’clock in the afternoon, he has taken the‘ fondling’ all round the Bank of Eng- land (that young gentleman insisting on peering in at the great massive windows, in the fond hope of amoney), and has shown him the broad back of the Ol Lady of Lhreadneedle Street, and the clearivg-house, and, they are going out of Lombard Street, on their wor to an omnibus, Which will take them home. But just as. they are leaving the street, the “fondling” makes a dead stop, and constrains Mr. Peters to do the same, Standing before the glass doors of a handsome bu ing which a brass plate announces to be the ‘‘Anglo- Spanish-American Bank,” are two horses, and & groom in faultless. buckskins and.tops.| He is evidently wait- jng for someone within the , and the ‘fondling '* yehomently insists upon waiting, too, to see the g t. ins, sit to the pig- | | | | SS Ss ER TEES SET Se a ee eee 1 | i 4 peti ted | ry en etealleh adr te the Smasher’s, walked with } placed him, 30 , THREB TIMES DEAD. fashionable tenor of ‘the day » had also enabled him, with a little industry, and a iittle less wine-drinkit and gambling to bocome @ fashionablo tonor +himself, and Milan, Napica, Vienna, and Paris: to:tostify to his triumph. +> , s And all this time, Valeria de| Marolles looks on a staye, such as that on which, years ago she often saw the form she loved, never agin omearth to be secu by her, That faint resemblance, that likeness in his walk, voice, and manncr, whi.h Moucee has to Gaston de Lancy, strikes tier very forcibly: It is no great 3‘ke- ness, except when the mimicis bent on representing the man he resomblec; then, indeed, as we know, it is remarkable; but »t any time it is cnough. to strike a bitter pang to this mournful, bereaved, remorseful heart, which in overy dream, an(.cvery shadow, is only ‘too apt to recall that bitter, unforgotten past. The Cherokees, méanwhile, express i. iv sentimen’s ‘pretty freely about Monsieur Raymond de. Marolles, and discuss divers schomes for the bringing of im to justice. Splitters, «vhose experiences as a dramatic themras far.as Charing Cross,.and left them at,the oor-., ner that led into the quiet Spring Gardens: in the club-room of the Cherokees that night, the members renewed the oath they had taken on the night of Richard’s arrival, and formally inaugurated them- selves as “ Daredevil Dick’s secret police.”” CHAPTER XXXIV. In the drawing-room of a house, in «a small street leading out of Regent Street, are assembled, the morn- ing after this. opera-house reconutre, three people. It is almcst difficult to imagine three persons more dis- similar than those who compose, thie little group. On a sofa near the open window, at which the autumn breeze, comes blowing in, over boxes of dusty London flowers, reclines & gentleman, whoso bronzed and bearded faco, and the military style even, of t.2 loose mcrning undress which he wears, proclaim him, tobe a soldier. A yery handsome face ‘+ is, this. soldier's, althor-), darkenod not a little by a tropical sun, and a writer suggest to him every possible kind of mode but | gocd dex) shrouded by the thick blac‘: mustache and @ natural ono, proposes t!iat: Richard shall wait r,on | beard which ina manner vail the expression of the the count, when convenient, at tho hourof midnight, disguised as his unele’s ghost, and confound the vil- Jain in the stronghold of his crime, meaning Park Lane. This sentence was verbatim from a playbill, 23 well as the whole very available idva—Mr. Splitters’a notions of justice ‘being entircly confined to the retributive or poetical, in the person of a gentleman with avery long a@peech and two pistols. “The Smmasher’s ontsido,” said Percy Cordonner, “He wants to have a look at our friend as he goes out, that he may reckon him 1 >. You'd better let him go into his peepers with his le.t, Dick; it’s the best chance you'll get.” “io, no, I tell you; Percy. That man shail stand where I stood, That man shall drink to the dregs the cup I drank, when I stood in the criminal dock at Blopperton, and saw every eye turned toward me with execration and horror, and knew that my innocence was of no avail to save mein the good opinion of one creature who'had known me from my very boyhooi.’ “Except the ‘ Cheerfuls,’ ’? said Percy. ‘“‘ Don’t for- get the ‘ Cheerfuls.’’’ “ When I do, Ishall have forgotten all on this side of the grave, you may depend, Percy. No; I have somo firm friends on earth; and here is one; and he laid his hand on the shoulder of Mr. Peters, who still. stood at his elkow. j ; The opera was over, and the Count de Maroiles: and his lovely wife rose to leave their box. Richard, Percy, Splitters, two or three moro of: the Chero’:ees, and Mr. Peters\le{t the pit at the same time, and contrived to be at the box-entrance before they came out. The Count de Marolles's carriage wag called; and as it drew up, Raymond descended the steps with his ne on his arm, her little boy clinging to her left and. “‘She’s a splendid creature,’’ said Percy; ‘but there is alittle of the:devil in those glorious dark eyes. I wouldn't be her husband for a trifle if I happened to offend her.” As the count and countess crossed from the doors of the opera-house to their carriage, a drunken man came reeling past, and before the servants or policemen ening by could interfere stumbled against Raymond { de Marolles, and in so doing knocked his hat off. , He picked it up immediately, and, muttering some drunk- en apology, returned it to Raymond, looking him, as ho did so, very steadily in the face, The occurrence did not occupy amoment, and the count was too finished a gentleman to make any dist~~bance, This man was S iaieeneioon drove off, he joined th nd s the ove off, he join egroup under the colonade, perfectly sober by this time. “Tsee him, Mr. Marwood,” he said, “and I'd swear to him after forty,rounds im the ring, which is apt sometimes to take a little of the Cupid out of.a gent. He's not a bad-looking cove on the whole, and looks ae _He’s rather slight built, but he might make t up iniscience, and dance a pretty. tidy quadrille round the chap he was put agen, bein’ active and lis- som,, Isee the cut upon his forehead, Mr. Peters; as: you told me to take notice of,”’ he said, add othe detective, “He didn’t get that in a fair, stand-up fight, leastways notfrom an Englishman. . W the water for your antagonists, you don’t know what you may get.’ { “He. got it from an Englishwoman, though,” said ard... “Did he now? ah, that’s the worst of the softer sect; ‘01 gee, Sir, you. never know where they'll haye you. hey’re awful deficiont in science. to be sure, sir, but, lord, they make it up with a \ill,’’ and the left-handed one, rubbed his nose; he had been married in his early career, and wasn the habit-of saying that ten rounds inside the ropes, was a trifle to one your own. back arlor, when-your missus had got your knowledge-box chancery on the hob, and was marking a dozen dif- ferent editions of the ten commandmentson your com- plexion, with her bunch of fives, } : “Come, gentlemen,” said the hospitable, Smasher, “what do,.you say toarabbit and a bottle of bitter down at my place? we're as fullas we can hold down FS for the Finsbury Fizzer's trainer has come up from Newmarket, and hia backers is hearin’ anecdotes of his doings for the last interesting week. They talk of dropping down the river on Tuesday, for the at event between him and the Atlantic Alligator, and the, excitement’s tremendous; our barmaid’s hand is blis- tered with. working at the engines. 80 come round to seo the 6, gentlemen, and if you've any loose cash you'd to put up on the Fizzer, I can get you decent odds, Ponpneri Da ep the fayorite.”? 7 Richard shoo head. ; mond 0. home. fe pie oO ‘to te , ut the ‘hands beartily with his. friends, hen you cross |, moth and detract from the individuali ) of the face. Ho is smoking a long cherry-stemm 1 pipe, the bowl of which rests on the floor. A short distance from the sof-, on which he is lying, au Indian servant is seated on the carpet, who watches the bowl of the pipe, ready ty re;Jenish it the moment it fails, and every now and then glances upward toward the grave face of the offi- cex, With alcok of unmistakable affection in his soft black oyes. The third occupant of the little drawing-room isa pale, thin, studious-looking man, is seated at acabinet in a corner away from the window, among papers and books which are heaped, ina chaotic pile, on the floor about. him. Strange. books and papers these. are, Mathematical ‘charts, inscribed with figures such as, erhaps, neither Newton nor Laplace ever dreamed of. ‘clumes in old worm-eaten bindings, and writton in strange languages, long since dead and forgotten upon this earth ; but they all seem familiar to this pale stu- dent, whose blue spectacles bend eagerly over pages of crabbed Arabic with as much interest as a boarding- school miss deyours the last new novel. Now and then he scratches a few figures, or a signin algebra, orasontenc>in Arabic on the paper betore him, and then, fastons on to the book again, never looking up toward the smoker or his Hindoo attendant. Presently the soldier, as he relinguishes his pipe to the Indian, to be replenished, breaks the silence, ‘So the great people of London, as well as Paris, are beginning to believe in you, Laurent?’ he says, ing the blne spectasles toward the smoker, says, in his old, unimpassioned manner : “How can they do otherwise, when I fell them the truth? © These,’’ he points to the pile of books and pa ers at his side, “do not err, they only want to be nterpreted rightly. I may haye been sometimes mis- taken—I have never, been deceived,’” “You draw nice distinctions, Blurosset.’’ “Not atall.. ff have made mistakes.in the course of my career, it has been from. my own ignorance, and powerlessness to read these aright, I tell you they do not Sete x: i é; “Butwill you,ever read them aright? . Will you ever.fathom to the very bottom, this deep dark gulf of departed science?” ; : : bole “Yes, lam on the right road. I ‘only pray to live long enough for. the end.” aid “And then—?” : “Then it will be within the compass of my own will to live forever.’’ strange that the wisest on this earth should have been fooled by it!” 4 “Make sure that itisa delusion, before you say. they were fooled by it, captain |” , ‘Well, my dear Blurosset, heayen forbid that I should dispute with one so learned as you upon so | obscure a subject. Iam more at homo holding a fort against the Indi: than holding an argument against | Albertus Magnus. You still, however, peraist that this faithful Mujeebez here, isin some manner or other linked with iny destiny.” ' : “T do.” ea ; “ And yet it. is very singular ! What san connect us, whose experiences in every way ate so dissimilar ?”’ confounding your enemies,” . oe : “You know who they are, or, rather, who he is. I have butone.” “ Not two, captain ?”? “Not two. No, Blurosset. There is but one on whom I would wreak a deepand deadly vengeance.” “« And the,other-—?’’ ae “ Pity and forgiveness,, Do not apeak of that, There are some things which, even now, I am not strong enough to bear. That is one of them,’” 3 “ The history of your faithful ,Mujeebez there is a singular one, is it not 2” asks the student, rising trom his books and advancing to the window. “A very singularone. His master, an Englishman, with whom he came from Calcutta, and to whom he was devotedly attached— “Twas, indeed, sabib,” said the Indian, in very good English, but with a strong foreign accent. ; , This, master, a rich.nabob, was murdered, at the house of his sister by his own nephew.” “Very horrible, and very unnatural, Was the nephew hung ?”’ : ; . “The jury brought in a yerdict of insanity; he wag sent into amad-house, where, no doubt, he still is, Mujeebez was not present at the trial ; he had esca, by a miracle, with his own life ; for the murderer, com- ing into the little room in which he sl him stirring, had given him a blow on tas hela swined si , had given him a blow ¢ ec 0 Mtoe note time, in a very: precarious state, Tho student lifts his head from his work, and, turn-. “Pshaw! the old story, the old delusion. How. .“ And did you see the murderer's face, Mujeebex ?* asked Monsier Blurosset.. ~~, : "No, sahib, It was dark; I could see nothing. The blow stunned me ; when L recovered my senses I wasin the hospital where I Jay for months. The shock had brought on what the doctors call a nervous fever ; for a long time | was utterly incapable of work ; when I leit the hospital I had not a friend in the world ; but the good lady, thesister of my murdered mastcr, gave me money to return to India, where I was Kitmutghar forsome time to an English colonel, in whose houschold I learned the language, and whom I did not leave fill I entered the service of the good captain,” Lhe “ good. captain” laid his hand. affectionately on his follower's white-turbaned head, something with the protecting gesturo with which be might, caress a favorite and faithful dog, “ Aft-> you had saved my life, Mujeebez,”’ he said. “ZT would have died to save it, sahib,” answered #9 Hindoo, ‘A kind vord sinks deep in the heart of va Indian?’ > '“ Andt ere was no doubt of the guilt of this nephew ?” asks Bluro-set, “T. cannot say, Sahib. I did not know the English lanp tage then ;,I could understand nothing told me, except that my poor master’s nephew was not hung, but put into a madhonse.” «Did you seo him—this nephew ?” “Yos, Sahib ; the nigit before the murder, Hecame into the room with my master, when he retired to rest. Isaw him only for a minute, for I left the room as ‘hey entered,’”’ qaisbaans you know him again?’’ inquired the stu- na “Anywhere, Sahib, He was a handsome young man with dark hazel eyes, and a bright smile. He did not look like 4 murderer.” «That is scarcely a sure rule to go by, iait, Laurent ?”” asks the captain, with a bitter smile. - “black heart will make strange lines in the hand- somest face, which are translatable to the close ob- server.” “Now,” says the officer, rising, and surrendering his pipe to the hands.of his watchful attendant, “now tor my morning's ride, aud you will have the place to yourself, for you. scientific visitors, Laurent.’’. “You will not go where you are likely to meet ''—— “Anyone I know? No, Blurosset. The lonelier the road, the better I likc it. I miss the deep junglé, and the tiger-hunt, eh, Mujecbez. We misa them, do we not, the «id Indin*: sports?” The lindoo’s c. 1s bri,;iten. ag he answers, eagerly, “Yes indeed, sahiv.’”’ Captai~ Lansdo.sn—thet is the name of the officer— is of French extcaction; he speaks English pertectly, but stiil wath a slight]: foreign accent. He has dis- tinguished himself 1: his marvelous courage and mili- tary genius in the Dunjaub, iid is over in England on leave o.«\ sence. 1: is singular that.so great a friend- ship should oxist bet\...n thia impetuous, danger- loving soldier, nd the studious French ‘chemist and pscudo-...gician, Lai :ont Blurosset ; but that a very firm friendship Co s cxist between them, is quite evi- dent, They liv» in the same house; aro beth waited upon by Egerton .ansdown’s Indian servant, and are constantly together. Th» captain’s achievoments in India haye made him the faslii > in London ; Sut he is seldom.seenin those brilliant circles to which he has the entree, alleging his shattered health as an excuse, in answer to invitations from duchesses and countesses without number. Laurent Blurosset, too, after bocoming tho fashion in Paris, is also the rage in London. He, however, rarely stirs beyond the threshold of his own deor, though his pre-once is eagerly sought for in scientific coteries | where rpini. n is still, however, divided as to whether he js a charlatan or a great man. Thy mate- rialists sncer, tho spiritualists believe. His disinter- oxtedness, at anyoate, speaks 11 Jivor ot his truth. He will receivo 2.0 > ores trom ony ci his numerous, visi- tors; he +rill scrve thom he is {fhe can, but oo will not sell the vrisdom of the 2: ghty dead. It is some- thing too granc and too sclerin 1d be mada thing of barter... His discoveries in chemistry Kaye made him | sufficiently rich; and he can afford to follow science for the hope, alone, of finding truth fi. b 4’ reward. He secks no better recompense than the glory of the light he sec!.s. We leave him, then, to hic er and “T tell you again, that he will be instrumental in,| 3 is ? F eg uiciUyve visitors, while the captain rides slowly through Oxford Str-rt, on his, way to the Edgeware Road, through whieh hu emerges into the country, CHAPTER XXXV. Tue post of kitchoen-maid j.: the household of the Con is Mecolies, tno poihinertaa one, and Mrs. oper Js acer guted a person «. some consequence in the servant's hall. The French chief, who has his pri- vate sitting-room, wherein he works c'tburate and sciontiiic culinary com! -ations, which, \ en he con- descends 1) talk Englis.,. > designat>> « Plates” has, of course, vcvy little comimunication with the honse- hold, Mrs. Moper is his prime-minister; he gives his orders t» her for execution, and throws himself back in his easy-chair, to think ont a dish, while the hand- maiden collects for him the vulgar elements of his no- ble art. Mrs, Moper is a very good cook h and when she leaves the Count de Marolles, she will go into a family where thersis no foreigner kept, and will have forty pounds per annum, onda still-r of her eye Bhp is in ihe caterp/llar-atage ea "filehen: ‘oper, an content iv write herself duwn | Wer interi i i % 2 mM, t. E ) 4 The servants-hall di he houseke re- an nner and the bee grry Tea tare both over, but the preparations for the din. ve not yet and Mrs.. id Liza, the scul- farrzeh 7 Pe se ie ea gee ne ing storm, and sit down to darn stockings. THREE TIMES DEAD. st “Which,” Mrs. Moper says, ‘‘my toes is through and my heels is~out, and never can I get the time to set a atitch. For time, thereisn’t any in this house stor a under-servant, which under-servant I will be no more than one year longer; or a name’s not Sarah Moper.” Liza who is mending a black stocking with, white thread (and.a very fanciful effect it has, too), evidently has no wish to advance such @ proposition. as. the latter. «Indeed, Mrs. Moper,”’ she said, “that’s the: truest word as ever you've spoke. Its well for them as takes their wages for wearin’ silk-gowns, and oilin’ of their hair, and lookin’ out of windows to watch the carriages goin at Grosvenor Gute; which, don’t tell me as. Life:|/ uardsmen would look up imperdent, if they hadn’t been looked down to likewise.’’ Eliza gets rather ob- scure here, |‘ Tuis ‘ouse, Mrs. M., for upper servants may be ’eayen, but for unders it’s more like the place as is pronounced like a letter of the alphabet, and isn’t to be named by me.” There is no knowing how far this rather revolutionary style of conversation. might have gone, for at. this mo- ment there came that familiar sound.of the clink of milk pails on the pavement-above, and the Loudon cry of milk. “Tt’s Budgen, with the milk, Liza; there was a pint of cream wrong in the last bill, Mrs. Melliflower says ; oa him to come down and correctify it, will you, Zi.” Liza ascends the area steps, and parleys with the milkman ; presently he comes jingling down, with his pails swinging against the railings; he is rather awk- ward with his pails, this milkman, and I’m afraid he must spill more milk than he sells, as the Park Lane pavements testify. “Jt isn’t Budgen,”’ says Liza, explanatorily, as she ushers him into the kitchen, ‘‘Budgen ’as ’urt’is leg, a milkin’ a cow wot kicks when the flies worrits, and ’as sent this young man, as is rather new to the busi- ness, but is anxious to do his best.” The new milkman enters the kitchen as she con- cludes her speech, and releasing himself from the pails, expresses his readiness to settle any mistake in the bill. He is rather a good-looking fellow, this milkman, has a very curly head of flaxen hair, preposterously light eyebrows, but dark hazel eyes, which form rather a piquant contrast. I dare say Mrs. Moper and Liza don’t think him bad-looking, for they beg him to sit down, and the scullery maid thrusts the black stocking, on which she was heretofore engaged, into a table-drawer, and gives her hair a rapid extemporary smooth with the palms of her hands. Mr. Budgen’s man seems by no means disinclined for a little friendly chat; he tells them how new he is to the business ; bow. he thinks he should séarcely have chosen cow- keeping for lis way of life, if he’d known as much about as he does now ; how there's many things in the milk business, such as horses’ brains, warm water, and treacle, aud such like, as goes against his conscience. How he’s quite new to London and London ways, hav- ing come up only lately from the country. _ “Wher ts in the country?’ Mrs. Moper asks. . “ Berkshire,” the young man replies. “Lor’,” Mrs. Moper says, “never was anything so xemarkable; poor Moper comes from Berkshire, and knowed every inch of the country, and so I think do I, pretty well. What part of Berkshire, Mr.— Mr.’”’—— “ Volpes,”’ suggested the young man. “What part of Berkshire, Mr. Volpes ?”” Mr. Volpes looks, strange to say, rather at a loss to answer this very natural and simple inquiry. He looks at Mrs. Moper, then at Liza, and lastly at the pails, ‘The pails seem to assist his memory, for he says, very distinctly: 4 « Burley Scuffers.”” It is Mrs. Moper's turn to look puzzled now, and she exclaims : “ Burley”— ‘ “ Scuffers,”’ replies the young man. « Burley. Scuff- ers, narket-town, fourteen miles on this side of Read- ing. The ‘ Chicories,’ Sir Yorick Tristam’s place, is a mile aud 4 halt out of the town.” ‘ There’s no disputing such an accurate and detailed description as this. Mrs. Moper says it’s odd, all the time se’s been to Reading, “ which I wish I had as many sovereigns,” she muttersin parenthesis, never did she remem ber passing through “ Burley Scuffers,’’ “ Tt’s.a pretty little town, too,’ says the milkman; “ there’s a lime-tree avenue just out of the High Street, called ‘ Pork Butchers’ Walk’, as is;crowded with young people, ofa Sunday evening after church. rs. Moper is quite taken with this description; and Says, the very next time she goes to Reading to see poor Moper’s old mother, she will make a point of going to Burley Scuffers during her stay. Mr. Volpes says he would if he were she, and that she couldn't employ her leisure time better. They talk a good deal about Berkshire; and then Mrs. Moper relates some very interesting facts relative to the late Mr. Moper, and her determination, ‘‘ which upon his dying bed, it was his comfort so to. think,” never to marry again; at which the milkman looks grieved, and says the gentleman, will be very blind indeed to their own. interests if they don’t make her change her mind some day; and somehow or other (I don’t suppose serv- ants, often do such. things), they get to talking about their master and their mistress. The milkman seems quite interested in their master, and, forgetting in how many houses the innocent liquid he dispenses may required, he sits with his elbows on the kitchen tablo, listening to Mrs. Moper’s remarks, and now and then, when she wanders trom her subject, drawing her back to it with an adroit question. She didn’t know much about the count, she said, for the servants was most all of ‘em new; they only brought two ple with them from South America, which was v Bt. Mirotaine, the chef, and the Countess’s French mai oiselle Finette,” But she thought Monsicur de’ Marolles very ‘aughty, and as proud as he was ‘igh, and that madame was. very unhappy, “‘ Lhoughit’s, hard to know with .them furriners, Mr. Voipes, what is what,” she contin- ued, **and madame s gloomy,ways may. be French, ior happiness, for all I knows.” : “He's an Englishman, the count, isn’t he ?’’ asks Mr. Volpes. “A Englishman !,Lor’ bless your your heart, no. They're both French; she’s of Spanish igstraction, 1 be- jieve, and they lived, since their marriage mostly in Spanish America. But they always speak toeach other in French, when they does speak; which them as waits upon them says, isn’t oiten.’ ‘Ho's very rich, Isuppose,”’ says the milkman. “Rich !"” cries Mrs. Moper; “the nioney as tliut man ) has got, they say is fabellous, and he’s a re.ular business- man too—down at his bank every day, rides off to the city as punctual as the clock strikes ten. Lord, by the by, Mr. Volpes,’’ says Mrs. Moper, suddenly, ‘‘you don’t happen to know ofa tempory tiger, do you?” “A temporary tiger!” Mr. Volpes looks considerably puzzled. “ Why you see, the count’s tiger, as wasn't higher than the kitchen-table, ldo bleieve, broke his arm the other day. ‘He was a hanging on to the strap be- hind the cab, astandin’ upon nothing, as them boys will when the vehicle was knocked agen an omnibus, and his arm bein’ wrenched suddenly out of the strap, snapped like a bit of sealing-wax: and they’ve took him to the hospital, and he’s to come back as soon as ever he’s well; for he’s a deal thought of, bein’ amost the sinallest tiger at the West End,” “ Did he know of a boy as would come temporary?” Mr. Budgen’s young man appeared so much impressed by this question, tliat, for a minute or two, he was quite incapable of answering it. He leaned his elbows on the kitchen-table, with his face buried in his hands, and his fingers twisted in his flaxon hair, and when he looked up, there was, strange to say, a warm fiush over his pale complexion, aud something likea trium- phant sparkle in his dark brown eyes. “Nothing could fall out better,’ he said ‘‘nothing, nothing!” “What, the poor lad breaking his arm?” asked Mrs. Moper, in a tone of surprise. ** No, no, not that,” said Mr, Budgen’s young man, just a little confused; ‘what I mean is, that 1 know the very boy to suit you; the very boy, the very boy of all others, to undertake the business; ah,’’ he con- tinued, in a lower voice, “and to go through with it, too, to the very end.” “Why, as to the business,” replied Mrs. Moper, ‘it ain’t over much, hargin’ on behind, and lookin’ know- in’, and given other tigers as good as tuey bring, when waitin’ outside the Calting, cr the Anthinium; which, tigers as is used to the highest names in the peerage familiar as their meat and drink will goon coutempt- uous about our fambly, callin’ the bank ‘the shop,’ anda as kin’, till they got our lad’s blood up (which he had had his» guinea lessons from the May Fair Mawler, and. were better le/t alone), when the smash was a comin’, or whether we meant to give our three- and-sixpence in the pound, like,an honest house, or do theshabby thing, and clear, ourselves in a compensa- tion withour creditors of fourpence-farthing. Ah!’ continued Mrs. Moper, gravely; ‘‘ many’s the time that child have come with his nose as. big as the head of a six-week old baby, and no eyes atall asany one could discover, and eat his dinner .o settle his front teeth on his stomach which they’d been knocked down his throat in a stand-up fight with a lad three times his weight and size.” “Then J.can send the boy, and you'll get him the situation ?”’ said Mr. Budgen’s young man, who did not seem particularly interested in this rather elaborate recital of the exploits of the invalid tiger.” 5 { He can haye a charaeter, I suppose?’ inquired the ady. oa : 2, ah, to be sure. Budgen will give him a charac- rr “You will impress upon the youth,” said Mrs. Mo- per, with, great dignity, “that hoe will not beable to mako this his permanence tome. The pay is good, and the meals is regular, but the situation is tempory.” “ Allrigtit,” said Mr. Budgen’s assistant ; “he doesn’t want a situation for long. 1’ll bring him round myself this evening—good-atternoon,” with which very brief ‘farewell, the flaxch-haired, dark-eyed milkman strode out of tho kitchen. “um! muttered the cook, ‘his manners has not the London polish—I meant to have ast him to tea.”’ “Why, I am blest,” exclaimed the scullery maid, suddenly, ‘if he haven’t been gone and left his yoke and pails behind him. Well, ofall the strange milk- men Iever come a nigh, if he ain’t the strangest.” She might have thought him. stranger still, perhaps, this light-haired milkman, had she seen him hail a stray cab in Brook Street, spring into it, snatch off his flaxen locks, whose hyacinthine waves were in the con- venient form known by that most disagreeable of words, wig ; snatch off also the Holland blouse, com- mon to the purveyors of milk, and rolling fhe two into a bundle, stuff them into the pocket of his shooting- jacket, while with one hand he carelessly arranges the dark-brown hair upon his forehead, and throws himself back into the corner of tiie vehicle, to enjoy a medi- tative cigar, as his charioteer drives hia best pace in She direction of that transpontine temple of Escu- lapius, Mr, Darley’s surgery. Daredevil Dick has made the first move in that fearfal game of chese which is to be played between him and the Count de Marolles. —_— aaa 2 f OHAPTER XXXVI. On the evening which follows this very afternoon on which Richard Marwood made his first and only essay in the milk-trade, the Count and Countess de Ma- rolles attend musical party; I beg pardou—I should, gentle reader, as you know, have. said a soiree musicale, at the house of a lady of high rank in Bel- grave Square. London was almost. empty, and this was one of the last parties of the season; (but it is a goodly and an impres. ive sight to see, even, when Lon- don is, according to every authority, empty, how many splendid carriages willdraw up to theawning my Jady erects over the pavement betore, her door, when she announces herseit “at home;’’ how mauy gurgeously- dressed aud lovely women will descend taereirum, scenting the night-air of Belgravia with the tragrance wafted trom tieir waving tresses, aud floating point a’Alencon bordered handkerchiets;. lending a periume to the autumn violets strug.ling out a itading exist- ‘| ence in Dresden boxes on the drawing-room balconies; lending the light of their diamonds to the gaslamps before the door, and the light of their eyes to help out the aforesaid diamunds; sweeping the autumn dust and evening dews with tue borders oi costly silks, the mar- vels of Lyons and Spitalfields, and altogether glori/jing the ground over which they walk. On this evening, one set of windows, at least, in Bel- grave Square,is brilliantly illuminated. ,Lady Lon- dersdon’s musical Wednesday, the last of the seascn, has been inaugurated with eclat, by a scena trom Sig- nora Scorici, of her Majesty’s Theater, and the Nobili- ty’s Concerts; and Mr. Argyle Fitz-Bertram, the great English Basso Baritono, and the handsomest man in England, has just shook the square with the buffo duet from the Cenerentola; in which per‘ormance he, Argyle, has so entirely swamped that amiable tenor, Signor Maretti, that that gentleman has serious thoughts of calling him out to-morrow morning; which idea he would carry into execution if Argyle Vitz-B. were not a crack sh.t, anda pet pupil of Mr. Angelo’s into the bargain. But even the great Argyle finds himself—with the exception of being up to his eyes in a slough of de- spond, in the way of a Platonic flirtation with a fat duchess of fiity—comparatively nowhere. The star of the evening is the new tenor, Signor Mosquetti, who las condescended to a. tend Lady Londersdon s Wednes- day. Argyle, who is the best-natured fellow, as well as the most generous, and whose great rich voice wells up from a heart as sound as his lungs, turows himself back into a low easy-cliair (it creaks a little under his weight, by-the-by) and al'ows the duchess to flirt with him whily a buzz goes round the room, Mosquetti is going to sing. Argylelooks lazily out of his half-closed dark eyes, with that peculiar expression which seems tosay: ‘Sing your best, old fellow, my Gin the bass clef would crush your halfoctave or so of falsetto be- fore you knew where you were, or your‘ Pretty Jane,’ either. Sing away, my boy; we'll hayo ‘Scots wha hae,’ by-anii-by; I’ve some iriends down in Essex who want to hear it, and the wind’s in the right quarter for the voice to travel. They won't hear you five doors off. Sing your best.” Just as Signor Mosquetti is about to take his place at the piano, the tootman announces the Count and Countess de Maroiles. , > Valerie, beautiful, pale, cold as ever, is received with considerable empressment by her hostess; she is tue heiress of one of the most aristocratic fumilies in France, and is, moreover, the wile of dne of the richest nien in London, so is suro of a welcome thronghcut Belgravia. ‘ “ Mosquetti is going to sing,” murmurs her hostess; “you were charmed with him in the Lucia, of course? You have lost Fitz-Bertram’s duet, it w's cuarniing; all the glasses in the supper-room broken and the gus in the chandelier extinguished; cliarming, I assure you. He'll sing again aiter Mosquetti; the chess of C. is eprise, as yousee. I believe shesends him dia- mond rings every morning, and the duke, they do say, has refused to be responsible for her account at Storr’s.”” : Valerie’s interest in Mr. Fitz-Bertram’s conquest is not very intense; sue bends the haughty hoad, just slightly elevating the arched eyebrows with the faint- est indication of we.l-Lred surprise; but she is inter- ested in Signor Musquetti, and avails herself of theseat her hostess offers her near Erards grand piano. The song coucludes very soon aftersho is seated, but Mos- quoetti remains near the piano, talking to an elderly gentleman, who is evidently a connoisseur, “J have never heard, but one man, Signor Mosquetti,” says this gentleman, “ whose voice resem- bled yours.”’ : : : There is nothing very particular in the words, but Valerie’s attention is apparently arrested by them, for she fixes her eyes intently on Signor Mosquetii, as though awaiting his reply. ; ‘And he, my iord?”’ says Mosquetti, interrogatively. “Te, poor fellow, is dead.” ow: indeed, Valerie, i with a pallor greater tian usual, listens as though er whole soul huny on the words she heard. =< “He is dead,” continued the gentleman. “Hoe died young, in the zenith of his reputation, his name was —let me see—L heard him in Pans last, his name was’’—— “De Lancy, Perhaps, my lord,” says Mosquetti... “It was Do Lancy, yes, He had some most peculiar, and at the same time most beautiful tones in his voice, and you appear to me to have the very same.” Mosquetti bowed at the compliment. “ It is singu- lar, my lord,” he said; ‘‘but I doubt if those tones are quite natural to me. Iam a little of a mimic, and at one period of my life I was in the habit of imitating poor De Lancy, whose singing I very much admired.” Valerie grasps the delicate fan in her nervous hand, so tightly, that the group of courtiers and fair ladies of the time of Louis Quatorze, danc: ; particular on a blue cloud, are crushed out of all sym- metry, as she listens to this conversation. “I was, at the time I knew De Lancy, merely a chorus-singer at the Italian Opera, Paris.””” The listeners draw nearer, and form quite s circle round een who is the lion of the t Ze. oven Argyle Fil vtram pricks up his ears, and ithe duchess, to hear this con ion. paver ! | i =e | i | | : THREE TIMES DEAD. “ A low chorus-singer,” he mutters to himself. “So help me, Jupiter, I knew he was a nobody.” e passion for mimicry,” said Mosquetti, was so t, that [I acquired a sort of celebrity throughout tre aurea and even beyond its walls; Icould imi De Lancy, perhaps, better than anyone else, for in height, figure, and general appearance, I was said to resemble him.” “You do,” said the gentleman, “you do very much resemble the poor fellow.” “This resemblance, one day, gave rise to quite an adventure; which, if I shall not bore you”—he glanced around. There is a general murmur, “ Bore us! no, delighted, enraptured, charmed above all things!” Fitz-Bertram is quite energetic in this omnes business, and says : “Mo, nol” muttering to himself afterward, “so help me, Jupiter, I knew he was a nuisance.” “But the adventure, pray let us hear it,” cried eager voices. “ Well, ladies and gentlemen, I was a careless, reck- less fellow; quite content to put on a pair of russet boots which half swallowed me, and a green cotton- velvet tunic, short in the sleeves, and tight across the chest, and go on and sing in a chorus with fifty others as idle as myself, in other russet boots and cotton-vel- vet tunics, which, as you know, is the court costume of achorus-singer, from the time of Charlemagne to Louis XV. I was quite happy, I say, to lounge on to the stage unknown, unnoticed, badly paid, and worse dressed, provided when the chorus was finished I had my cigarétte, dominoes, and vin ordinaire. I was playing one morning at those eternal dominoes (and nares think,” said eer parenthetically, “had a poor fellow so many double sixes in his hand), when I was told a gentleman wanted to see me. This seemed too good a joke, a gentleman for me. It couldn’t be a sheriff's officer, as I didn’t owe a farthing ; no Parisian tradesman being quite so demented as to give mo credit. It was a gentlemen ; a very aristocratic-look- ing fellow—handsome—but I didn’t like his face—affa- ble—and yet I didn’t like his manner.” Ah, Valerio! you may well listen now ! “He wanted me, he said,” continued Mosquetti, “to decide a little wager. Some foolish girl, who had seen De Lancy on the stage, and who believed him the ideal hero of romance, and was only in too much danger of throwing her heart and fortune at his feet, was to be disenchanted, by any strategem that could be devised, Her parents had intrusted the management of the affair to him, a relation of the lady’s. Would I assist him, would I represent De Lancy, and play a little scenein the Bois de Boulogne, to open the eyes of this silly, boarding-school miss—would I, for a consideration ? It was only to act a little stage-play off the stage, and was for a good cause. . I consented; and that evening, at lmlf-past ten o’¢lock, under the shadow of the winter night and the leafless trees, I ’’—— “ $top, stop, Signor one cry the bystanders. “ Madame, Waaane de Marolles. Water, smelling- salts, your , Lady Emily, she has fainted.” No, she had not fainted; this is something worse than fainting, this convulsive agony, in which the proud form writhes, while the white and livid lips utter strange and dreadful words: “Murdered. murdered, and innocent; while I, vile dupé, pitiful fool, a puppet in the hands of a demon |’" At this very moment Monsieur de Marolles, who had been summoned from the adjoining apartment whero he has been discussing a financial measure with somo members of the Lower House enters hurriedly. “Valerie, Valerie, what is the matter?” he says. ap- proaching his wife. 5 : She rises; rises with a terrible effort, and looks him _ full in the face. "1 thought, monsieur, that I knew the hideous abyss of your black soul to its lowest depths; I was wrong; I never knew you till to-night.” ‘magine such strong language as this in a Belgravian - drawiug-room, and then you can imagine the astonish- ment ofthe bystanders, _ : “Good Heavens!” exclaims Signor Mosquetti, hurriedly : _* What,” cried they eagerly. “That is the very man I have been speaking of.” “That ? The Count de Marolles ?” -“The man bending over the lady who has fainted.” ‘Petrified Belgravians experience 4 new sensation— 8 8 d rather like it. Argyle Fitz-Bertram twists his black mustaches re- flectively, and mutters: “So help me Jupiter, I knew there’d be arow; I shan’t have to sing ‘Scots wha hae’, and shall be just in time for that supper at the Cafe de l'Europe. CHAPTER XXXVII. _.. ‘Tam new tiger, or, as he is called in the kitchen, the “tem! iger,’’ takes his place on the morning ” after y Londersdon’s Wednesday, behind the Count _ de. Marolles’s cab, as that gentleman drives into the oity. f ‘Phere islittle augery to be drawn from the pale smooth face of Raymond de Marolles, though Signor Mosquetti’s reyelation has made. his position rather a critical. one. Tiil now,he has ruled Valerie with a high hand, and though never con- quering the indomitable spirit of the Spanish woman, he has at least forced that spirit to do the will of his. But now, now that he knows the trick put upon her; now that. she knows that the man she 80 deeply "adored, Tino betray her, but died. the victim of an-|p °! gee sy deetebaeys that. th atthe blood, in. which she had her soul was the blood ot the innocent, what, ow, in her. desperation ,and despair she dares all reveals all; what then ? % ; “Why, then,’ says Raymond de Marolles, cutting his horse over the ears with a delicate whip-hand, which stings home though for all its delicacy; “ why, then, never shall it be said that Raymond Marolles found himself in a dilemma without finding within himself the power to extricate himself. We are not conquered yet, and we have seen a good deal of life in thirty years, and not alittle danger. Play your best card, Valerie. I’ve a trump in my own hand to play when the time comes; till then keep dark. I tell you my good woman, I have hot-houses of my own and don’t want your Covent Garden exotica at twopence a bunch.” This last sentence is addressed to a woman, who pleads earnestly for the purchase of a wretched bunch of violets which she holds up to tempt the man of fashion, as she runs by the wheels of his cab, driving very slowly through the Strand, “ Fresh violets, sir. Do, sir, please; only twopence, just twopence, sir, for the love of charity. I’ve a poor old woman at home, not related tome, sir, but I keep her; she’s dying, starving, sir, and dying of old age.” ‘Bah! I tcll you, my good woman, I'm not Lawrence Sterne, on a sentimental journey, but a practical man ot business. J don’t give macaroons to donkeys, or save mythic old women from starvation; you'd better keep out of the way of the wheels, they’ll be over your feet presently, and if you suffer from corns, they may probably hurt you,”’ says the philanthropic banker, in his politest tones. “Stop, stop!’ suddenly exclaims the woman, with an energy that almost startles even’ the insouctant Ray- mond. “It’s you, is it—Jim—no not Jim; he’s dead and gone, I know; but you, you the fine gentleman the other brother. Stop, stop I tell you if you want toknow a secret, that’s in the keeping of one who may die while I am talking here. Stop, it you want toknow who you are and what you are! Stop !” Victor does pull up at this last sentence. *“*My good woman, do not be so energetic; every eye in the Strand is on us, we/shall have a crowd present- ly. Stay, wait for me in Essex Street, I'll get out at the corner; that’s a quiet street and we shall not be observed; anything you have to tell me, you can tell me there.” “A pretty time, this, for discoveries,’’ he mutters, “who Lam, and what I am! It’s the secret, I sup- pose, that twaddling old maniac in Blind. Peter made such a row about. Who I am, and what Iam! Oh, I dare say I shall turn out to be somebody great, as the hero does in a lady’s novel. It’s a pity I haven't the mark of a coronet beuind my ear, or a bloody hand on my wrist, Who I am, and what Iam! the son of a journeyman tailor, perbaps, or a chemis:'s apprentice, whose high connections prevented his ac- knowledging my mother.” Heis at the corner of Essex Street by this time, and springs out of the cab, throwing the reins to the tem- porary tiger, whose sharp face, we need scarcely inform the reader, discloses the features of the boy Slosh. The woman is waiting for him, and after a few mo- ments’ earnest conversation, Raymond emerges from the street, and orders the boy to drive home immediate- ly; he ia not going to the city, but is going on particu- lar business elsewhere. Whether the “temporary tiger’’ proves himself worthy of the'responsible situation he holds, and does drive thecab home, I cannot say; but. 1 only know thata very small boy, in a ragged coat a great deal too large for him, and abattered hat so slouched over ‘his eyes as quite to conceal his face from the casual observer, creeps cautiously, now a few paces behind, now a hun- dred yards onthe other side of the way, now disap- pearing in the shadow of a doorway, now reappearing at the corner of the street, but never losing sight of ‘the Count de Marolles and the purveyor of violets, as they bend their steps in the direction of Seven Dials. Heaven forbid that we should follow them through all the turnings and twistings of that odoriferous neighborhood, where foul scents, foul sights, and fouler language abound; whence May Fair and Belgravia Pegs dm shuddering, as from an ill it was. well for them to let alone, and a wrong that he may mend who will, not they, born for better things than toset disjointed times right, or play the revolutionist to the dethrone- ment of the legitimate monarchy of Queen Starvation and King, Fever, to say nothing of the Princes of the blood, Dirt, Drunkeness, Theft, and Murder. When John Jones, tired of the monotonous pastime of beat- ing his wife's skull with a poker, comes to Lambeth and murders the Archbishop of Canterbury for the sake of the spoons, it will be time, in the eyes ot Belgravia, to reform John Jones; till ther, we, the upper ten thou- sand, have Tattersall’s and her Majesty’s Theater ; and John Jones (who, low republican, says he must have his amusements too) has wife murder and cholera pour. passer le temps. The count and the violet-seller at last came to a pause; they have walked very apikty through the estiferous streets—Raymond holding his aristocratic Brena. and. See his patrician ears to the scents and sounds around him. They come to a stand at last, in a dark court, before a tall, lopsided house, with ir- resolute chimney-pots, which looked as if the only thing that kept them erect was.the want of unanimity as to which way they should fall. Raymond, when invited by the woman to enter, looked suspiciously at the dingy staircase, as if won- dering whether it would last his time, but at the re- quest of his companion ascends it. The boy in the large coat and slonched hat is playing marbles with another pos on the second floor landing, and has evidently lived there all his life; and yet ’m uuzzled as to who drove the cab home to thestables dt the back of Park Lane ; I’m afraid it wasn't the “' tem- porary tiger.” © : k The Count de Marolles and his’ — pass the youth ful.gamester, who had just lost his second halfpenry, garrets of which are afflicted with intermittent ague whenever there is a high wind. Into one of these garrets the woman conducts Ray- mond, and on @ bed or—its ee of shreds and patches, straw and dirt, which goes by the name ofa at this end of the town—lies the old woman we last saw in Blind Peter. me years more or less, have not certainly had the effect of enhancing the charms of this lady, and there is something in her face to-day more terrible even than wicked old age, or feminine drunkennoss—yes—it is death that lends those livid hues toher complexion, which all the cosmetics from Atkinson’s, or the Burlivg- ton Arcade, were she so minded to use them, would never serve to conceal. Raymond has not come too soon, if he is to hear any secret from these ghastly lips. It is sometime before the woman, whom ‘she still calls Sillikins, can make her understand who this fine gen- tleman is and what it is he wants with her: and even when she does succeed in making her comprehend all this, the old woman’s speech is very obscure, and cal- culated to try the patience of a more amiable man than the Count de Marolles, “Yes, it was a golden secret; a golden secret, eh, my dear? It was something to have a marquis for a son-in-law, wasn’t it, my dear, eh?’ mumbled the dying old hag. “A marquis for a son-in-law! what does the jibber. ing old idiot mean?’ muttered Raymond, whose reverance for his grandmother was not one of the strongest points in his composition. “A marquis! I dare say my respected progenitor kept a public house or something of that sort; a marquis! the ‘Marquis of Granby,’ most likely.” “Yes, a marquis,” continued the old woman, “ oh, dear! And he married your mother, married her at the parish church, one cold dark November morning, and I’ve got the certificate. Yes,’’ she mumbled in answer to Raymond’s eager gesture, “I've yot it, but YP’m not going to tell you where ; no, not till I’m paid; Imust be paid for that secret, gold, gold, They say that we don’t resf any easier in our coffins for the money that's buried with,us; but I should like to lie up to my neck in golden sovereigns, new from the mint, and not one light one amongst ’em.” “Well,” said Raymond, impatiently, “your secret ; I'm rich, and can pay forit; your secret, quick,” “Well, he hadn’t been married to her long, before a, change came, in his native country, over the sea yon- der,’ said the old woman, pointing in the direction of St. Martin’s Lane, as if she thought the British Channel flowed somewhere behind that thoroughfare. «4 change came, and he got his rights again. One king was put down and another king was set up, and every- body else was massacred in the streets; it was—a—I don’t know what they call it; but they’re always a doin’ it, So he got his rights, and he was arich man again, and a great man : and then his first thought wag to keep his marriage with my girl a secret; all very well, you know, my girl for a wite, while he was giving lessons at shilling’ a piece, in Parlez vous Francais, and all that; but now he was a marquis, and it wag quite another thing.’”’ xe Raymond by this time gets quite interested ; so dose the boy in the big coat and the slouched: hat, who hag transferred the field of his gambling operations in the marble line to the landing outside the garret-door. “He wanted the secret kept, aid I kept it for gol I kept it even from her, your mother, ny girl, dees. She never knew who he was ; she thought he deserted her, and she took to drinking; she and I threw you into the river when we were mad drunk, and couldn't stand rs squalling. She died—don’t you ask me how; I told you before uot to ask me how my girk died; I’m mad enough without that question; she died, and I kept the secret ; fora long time it was gold to me, and he sed to send me money regularly to keep it dark; but, by-and-by, the money stopped from com- ing ; I got savage, but still I esp tne secret ; because, you see, itwas nothing when it was told, and there was no one rich enough to pay me to tell it. I didn’t. know where to find the marquis; Ionly knew he was somewhere in France.’’ “France ?’’ exclaims Raymond. “Yes ; didn’t I tell you France?) He was a French marquis. A refugee, they called him, when he first made acquaintance with my girl—a teacher of French and mathematics.”’ ; ‘ “ And his name, his name?” asks Raymond eagerly. #4 ee eee woman, if you don’t want to drive me m “He called himself Smith when he was a teachin’, my dear,” said the old woman with a ghastly leer; “what are you going to pay me for the secret ?” “Whatever you like; only tell me; tell me before ‘ou "’—— “Die. Yes, deary; there ain’t any time to waste, is there? I don’t want to make a hard bargain. Will you bury me up to my neck in gold?” : “Yes, yes; speak?’ He is almost beside himself, and raises a threatening hand ; the old woman grins. “TI told you before that wasn’t the way, deary. Wait a bit. Sillikins give me that ‘ere old shoe, will you ? Look you here; it’s a double sole and the marriage certifi- cate is between the two leathers. I’ve walked on it this a years and more.” «And the name, the name !” : “The name of the marquis was de—de”—— __ vf oa dying; give me some water!" cries Ray- mond. } “De Ce—Ce’’—the syllables come in fitful gasps. Raymond throws some water over her face. ee Da Cevennes, my deary ; and the | den secret ig And the golden bowl is broken. . Lay the ragged sheet over’the ghastly face, Siltikine, and kneel down and pray for lelp in your utter loneli- and ascend to the very top of the rickety house, the , ness; for the guilty being whose soul has gone forth t@ | THREE TIMES DEAD. ‘Meet its Maker was your only companion and stay, however frail that stay might be. Go ott into the sunshine, Monsieur de Marolles ; that which you leave behind in the tottering garret, shaken by an ague paroxysm with the fitful autumn wind is nothing so terrible to your eyes. You have accustomed yourself to the face of death before now ; you have met that grim potentate on his own ground, and done with him, what it is your policy to md ar everything on earth—you have made him useful. CHAPTER XXXVIIL Ir is not a very romantic locality to which we must pow conduct the reader, being neither more nor less than the shop and surgery of Mr. Augustus Darley; which temple of the healing god is scented this sum- mer afternoon, with the mingled perfumes of cavendish and bird's-eye tobacco, Turkey rhubarb, whisky-punch, otto of roses, and muffins—oonflicting odors which form, or rather object to torm an amalgamation—each particular effluvia asserting its individuality, and stand- ing as it were, to use the language of the classics, on its own hook. ' Indeed, as the youthi{ul assistant of our friend Gus is wont to remark: “I like the smell of cabbage water, because it’sa sign of dinner a bein’ ready; and I likes the smell of senna, for that shows business is a looking up; but when you amulgate ’em, they makes me sick; which I have eat more dry senna to pass the time, and crunched more blue-pillsjust for amusement, than any other doctors boy on this side of the water.” i In the surgery, Gus is seated, playing the intellec- tual and (to the looker-on) intensely exciting game of dominose, with our acquaintance of the Cheerful Chero- kee Sociéty, Mr. Peter Cordonner. Asmall jug, without either of those earthenware conventionalities, spout or handle, and with Cordonner’s bandanna stuffed in- to the top, to imprison the subtle essences of the mix- ture within, stands between the two gontlemen; while Percy, as a guest, is accommodated with a real tumbler, with only three triangular bits chipped out of the edge ; Gus, imbibing the exciting fluid from a «racked custard-cup, with paper watered round it to keep the two halves from separating, and two of which are supposed to go (by just measurement) to Mr. P. C’s. tumbler. Before the small fire kneels the juven- fle domestio of the young surgeons, toasting mufiins, and presenting to the two gentlemen a pleasing study in anatomical perspective and the mysteries of fore- shortening ; to which, however, they are singularly inattentive, devoting their entire energies to the pieces of spotted ivory in their hands, and the consumption, by equitable division, of the whisky-punch. “Tsay Gus,’ said Mr. Cordonner, suddenly, stop- ng in the midille of a gulp of hie favorite liquid, at, Lh risk of strangulation, with as much alarm in his face as his placid features were capable of exhibiting, “1 say, this isn’t the professional tumbler is it ?’? «Why, of course it is,” said his friend. ‘We have only had thatone since midsummer. The patients don’t like it, because it’s chipped; but I always tell them, that after having gone through having a tooth out, particularly,”” he added, parenthetically, “as I take ‘em out (plenty of lancet, forceps; and key for their eighteenpence), they needn’t grumble about hay- ing & expéctorate into a cracked tumbler.’’ ry. Cordonner turned pale. “Do they do that?” he suid, and deliberately shot his last sip of the delicious beverage over the head of the kneeling damsel, with so good an aim that itin a man- ner grazed her curl-papers. “ It isn’t friendly of you, Gus,” be said with mild reproachfulness, ‘to treat.a fellow like this.” ; “It’s all right, old boy,” said Gus, laughing. « Sarah Jane washes it, you know. Y*~ --ash the tuin- blers and things, don’t you, Sarah Jane?” “ Waah ’em!” answered the yuuthful domestic ; “1 should think so, sir, indeed. Then I wipes ’em round regular with my apron, and breathes on ‘em to make “am bright.” “oC 1 that'll do!” said Mr. Cordonner, piteously. “Don’t investigate, Gus, you'll only make matters worse. Owhy! why did [ ask that question? Why didn’t I remember eo “it's folly to be wise,’ that ch was délicious—and now ”—— . Pie Potent his head upon his hand, buried his face in his pocket-handkerchief, pondered in his he.rt, and til. Wah tte meantime, the shop is. not empty ; Isabelle 48 standing behind the counter, very busy with several bottles, a glass measure, and a the and mortar, makin up a prescription, eu ea, mixture, from Ser brothers Latin. - document, this prescrip- Rather a pozaiing tion, to any one but Bolle, for there are calculations about next year’s Derby scriblled on the margin, and rough sketches of the Smasher, and a more youthful yotary of the Smasber’s art, surnamed. ‘ Whopping William,” penciled on the back thereof; but to Belle it seems straightforward enough ; at any rate, she dashes away with the bottles, the measure, and the pestle and mortar, a8 if she knew perfectly well what she was about. She is not alone in the shop ; a gentleman is leaning an the coubter, watching the busy white hands very ‘intently, and apparently deeply interested in the pro- easy of the cough-mixture. This gentleman is her frottiene old friend, “ Daredevil Dick.” Richard Marwood has been a great deal at the surgery since the night on which he first set foot in his old haunts ; he has brought his mother over, and intro- duced that lady to Miss Darley. Mrs. Marwood was de- lighted with Isabelle’s frank manners and handsome face, and insisted on carr: ing her back to dine in Spring Gardens. Quite a sociable ittle dinner they had, too, Bichard being. —for 6 man who been condemned for a murder, and had escaped from a lunatic asylum— very cheertw indeed. ‘Telling Isabelle all his adven- tures, till that young lady alternately laughed and cried, giving thereby, to Richard’s fond mother, most convincing proots of the goodness of her beart ; and, altogether, being so ve rilliant and amusing that when at eleven o’clock, Gus came round from a very critical case (viz., @ ‘oa ot the Cheerfuls as to whether Gustavus Hellas, Esq., novelist and satirist, magazine-writer, and poet, deserved the trouncing he had received in the “Friday Pillory ”) to take Belle home in a cab, the little trio simultaneously declared that the evening had gone as if by magic! Asif by magic ! What if to two out of those three, the evening did really go by magic? I have heard of a pink-legged little gentleman, with wings, and a bandage round his eyes, who, some people say, is as great a magician in his way as Albertus Magnus or Doctor Dee, and who has done as much mischief, and worked as much ruin in his own manner as all the villainous saltpetre ever dug out of the bosom of the peaceful, corntgrowing, flower-bearing earth. ‘That gentleman, I have no doubt, presided on the occasion. Thus the acquaintance of Richard and Isabelle had ripened into something very much like friendship ; and here he is watching her employed in the rather unro- mantic business of making up a cough-mixture for an elderly washerwoman, of the Methodistical persuasion. But it is one of the fancies of the pink-legged gentle- men, aforesaid, to lend his bandage to his victims, and there is nothing that John, William.George, Henry, James, or Alfred can do, in which Jane, Eliza, Susan, or Sarah, will not see a dignity and a charm, or vice jversa, Pshaw it is not Mokannah who wears the silver vail, it is we who are in love with Mokannah, who puts on the glittering, blinding me- dium ; and, looking at that gentleman through the dazzle and the glitter, insist on thinking him a very hand.ome man, till some one takes the vail off on eyes, and we straightway fall to and abuse poor Mokannah, because he is not what we choose to*fancy him. It is very hard upon poor tobacco-smoking, beer-imbibing, card-playing, latch-key-loving Tom Jones, that Sophia will insist on elevating him into a god, and then being angry with him because he is Tom Jones, and fond of bitter ale and bird's-eye. But come what may, the pink-legged gentleman must have his diversion, and, I dare say, his eyes are all of a twinkle behind that band- age of his, to see the fools this wise world of ours is made of. “You could trust nes, Istbelle, then,’’ said Richard, “you could trust mein spite of all—in spite of my wasted youth, and the Wight 1 ag my name?” “Do we not all trust you, Mr. Marwood, with our entire hearts?” answered the ycung lady, taking shelter under cover of a very wide generality. ‘‘Not Mr. Marwood, Belle, it sounds very cold from the lips of my old friend’s sister. Every one calla me Richard, and I, without once asking permission, have called you Belle. Say Richard, Belle, if you trust me.’ She lookg him in the face, and is silent for a moment; her heart beats a great deal faster, so fast that her lips can scarcely shape the words she speaks. “‘T do trust you, Richard ; 1 believe your heart to be goodness and truth itself.” “Is it worth haying, then, Bella. I wouldn’t ask you that question if I had not a hope now, ay, and not such a very feeble one, either, to see my name cleared from the stain that rests upon it. If thereis any truth in| my heart, Isabélle, that truth is yours alone. Can you trust me, as the woman who loves, trusts—through life and till death, under every shadow, and through every cloud ?”" I don’t know whether cantharides, tincture of myrrh and hair-oil, are the per ingredients in a cough- mixture, but I know that Isabelle poured them into the glass measure liberally, ezil y) “You do not answer me, Isabelle. Ah, you cannot trust the branded criminal—the escaped luvatio—the man the world calls a murderer.” “Not trust you, Richard?” Only four words. and only one glance from the gray eyes into the brown, and so much told, Somuch more thanI could tell in a dozen chapters, told in these four words, and that one look. , : Gus opens the half-glass door at this a moment, “Are you coming to tea?” he asks. “Here’s Surah Jane up to her eyes in grease and muffins.” “Yes, Gus, dear old friend,” suid Richard, laying his |. hand on Darley’s shoulder, ‘we're coming in to tea immediately, brother 1’ Gus looked athim with @ glance of considerable as- t nishment, shook him heartily by the hand, and gave 8 long whistle ; after which he walked up to the coun- ter, and examined the cough-mixture. “Oh!” he said, “I suppose that’s why you've put enough laudanum into this to poison asmall regi- ment—eh, Belle? Perhaps we may as well throw it out of the window, for if it goes out of the door I shall be hung for wholesale murder.” ; They were a very merry party over the little tea- table, and if anybody ate any of the muffins which Mr. Cordonner ca!led ‘‘ em bodied indigestions”’ they luugh- eda great deal, and talked still more. So much so that Percy declared his reasoning faculties to be quite overpowered, and wanted to be distinctly informed whether it was Richard who was going to marry Gus, or Gus about to unite himself to the juvenile domes- tic, or he himself to the juvenile domestic, or he him- self who was to be matried against his inclination, which, seeing he was of a yielding and peace-loving disposition, was not so unlikely—or, in short, to use his on expressive language, “‘ What the row was all about?’ Nobody, however, took the trouble to set Mr. P. C's. doubts at rest, and he drank his tea with perfect con- tentment, but without sugar, andin a dense intellec- tual fo; ard will turn again, and be Lord Mayor’of London town, arid then my children will read his adventures in a future Pinnock, and they may understand ft. It’s agreat thing to be achild, and to understand those sort of things. When I was six years old I knew who William Rufus married, and how many people died in the Plague of London. I can’t say it made meany ee or better, but I dare say it was a great advan- age.” . At this moment the bell rang atthe shop-door (a noisy preventive of petty larceny, giving the alarm if any juvenile delinquent had a desire to abstract a bot- tle of castor oil, or a calomel pill or 80, for his peculiar benefit) rang violently, and our old friend, Mr. Peters, burst into the shop, and through the shop into the parlor, in a state of such excitement that his very fingers seemed out of breath. « Back again !’’ cried Richard, starting up with sur- prise; for, be itknown to the reader. that Mr. Peters had only the day before started for Slopperton on the Sloshy, tohunt up evidence about this man, whose very image lay buried outside that town. Before the fingers of Mr. Peters, which ‘quite shook with excitement, could shape an answer Richard's exclamation of surprise, a very dignifiea elderly gentle- man, whose appearance was’ almost clerical, followed the detective into the room, and bowed politely to the assembled party. A “I will take upon myself to be my own sponser,” said that gentleman, ‘‘if,as I believe, lam speaking to Mr. Marwood,” he added, looking at Richard, who. bowed affirmatively. ‘It is to the interest of both of us—of you, sir, moro especially—that we should be- en acquainted. Iam Doctor Tappenden of Slopper- n.” . Mr. Cordonner, having politely withdrawn himself from the group, so as not to interfere with any confi- dential communication, was here imprudent enough to attempt to select a book from the young surgeon's hanging-library, and, in endeavoring to take down the third volume of “Ce Monsieur,” brought down, as usual, the entire literary shower-bath on his devoted head, and sat quietly snowed up as it were in loose leaves of Miche] Levy’s shilling edition, and fragments of illustrations, by Tony Johannot. Richard looked a little puzzled at Doctor Tappen- den's introduction; but bir. Peters threw upon his fingers this picce of information: ‘‘He knows him!” and Richard’ was immediately interested. y “ We are all friends here, I believe,”’ said the school- master, glancing round, interrogatively. ““O, decidedly, Monsieur Dupont,” replied Percy, absently looking up from’ one of the loose leaves he had selected for perusal, from those gathered round him. ’ “‘Monsieur Dupont! Your friend is pleased to be facetious,” said the doctor, with some indignation. . “ O, pray excuse him, sir ; he is only absent-minded,” replied Richard. ‘ My friend Peters informs me that you know this man, this singular, this incomprehen- ae villain, whose supposed death is so extraor- nary. z “ He—either the man who died—or this man who is now occupying a high position in London, was for some years in my employ’; but inspite of what our worthy friend the detective says, | am inclined te think that Jabez North, my tutor, did actually die, and that it was his body which I saw at the police-station.” “ Not a bit of it, sir,” said the detective on his rapid fingers, “not a bit of it; that death was a do ; a do, ont and out; it was too systematic to be anything ‘else, and I was a fool not to see there was something black at the bottonr of it, at the time. People don’t go and lay themselves out high and dry upon a heath, with clean soles to their shoes: on a stormy night, and the bottle in their hand not took hold of neither, but lay- jogse, you understand—put there—not clutched as adying man clutches what his hand closes upon. I say, this ain’t a way people make away’ with them- selves when they can’t stand life wee longer. It was a do, a plant, such as very few but that man could be capable of ; and that nian’s your tutor, and the death was to put astop to all suspjcion, and while you was a sighin’ and a groanin’ over that poor young innocent, Mr. Jabez North was a cutting a) fine figuro, and a cap- tivatin’ a furring heiress, with your money, or your. banker's money, as had to bear the loss of them forged cheques. ‘ 9} “ But the likeness,” said Dr. Tappenden—" that dead man was the Pte nai of Jabez North." 4 “Very likely, sir, there's a mysterious.goin’s on, and some coincidences in this life, ag well as in your story- books.” * 5 Siac! “Well,” continued the schoolmaster, *‘ the moment I see this man, I shall know whether he is indeed the man we want to find. 1f he should be, can prove a circumstance which will goa great way, Mr. toward fixing your uncie’s murder upon him.” “And that is—?”asked Richard, eagerly. : But there is no occasion for the reader to know what it is,just yet. So we will leave the little party in the Friar Street surgery to talk this business over, whieh they do with such intense interest, that the small catch them still talking of the same subject, and Mr. Percy Cordonner still snowed up in his corner reading from the loose leaves the most fascinating of ous literature, in the most delicious and exiting con-— fusion. r ' a Lavrent BLuROsseET wasa sort of rago at the west end of London. What did they seek, these weary deni- zens of the west end, but excitement? Excitement, no matter how obtained. If Laurent Blurosset was a ma- cian, 80 much the better; if he had sold himself to the evil, 80 much the better again, and so much the more “Tt eda matter,’ he murmured, “ Perhaps Rich. exciting. There was something almost approaching to eee el nee eager SSS a a eae meres area the side of the vessel. THREE QYIMES DEAD. 3 gafo; But she will hardly reveal the truth: for her s#on’ssake she will be silent. O! strange, inexplicable chance, that this fortune for which I have so deepiy achemed, for which I have hazarded so much, and worked so hard, should be my own—my own—this woman, a mere usurper, and I the rightful heir to the wealth of the De Cevennes. What is to be done? For the first time in my life, I am aft fauit. Fly to the marquis—tell him I am_ his son; difficult to prove, now that old hag is dead—and even if I proved it—as I would move heaven and earth to do— what ifshe denounce me to her uncle, and he refuse to acknowledge the adventurer, the poisoner? I could soon silence her—but unfortunately she has been be- hind the scenes and I fear she would scarcely accept a drop of water from the hands of her devoted husband. If I had any one to help me —but I have no one ; noone that I can trust: no one in my power. O, Laurent Blurosset, for some of your mighty secrets, so that the very autumn wind blowing in at her window might seal the lips of my beautiful cousin forever.” Pleasant thoughts to be busy with this rainy autumn day ; but such thoughts are by no means unfamiliar to the heart of Raymond de Marolles, It is from a reverie such.as this, that he is aroused by the sound of carriage-wheels, and a loud knocking and ringing at the hall door. ‘Too early for morning callers. Who can it be at such an hour? Some one from the bank, perhaps?” He paces up and down the room, rather anxiously, wondering who this unex- pected visitor might be, when the groom of the cham- bers opens the door and annvunces, ‘The marquis de Cevennes !"’ So, then,” mutters Raymond, “she has played her. first card—she has sent for her uncle. We shall have need of all our brans to-day. Now then, to meet my father, face to face.” As he speaks, the marquis enters, Face to face—father and son. Sixty years of age— fair and pale, blue eyes, aquiline nose, and thin lips. Thirty years of age—fair and pale, blue eyes, aquiline nose, and thin lips, again—and neither of the two faces to be trusted—not one look of truth, or one glance of benevolence, not one noble expressionin either, Truly. father and son—all the world over, father and gon. : “Monsieur le Marquis affords me an’ unexpected honor and pleasure,’”’ said Raymond Marolles, as_he advanced to receive his visitor. “«Nay, Monsieur de Marolles, scarcely I should imagine, unexpected; I come in accordance with the earnest request of my nieco—though what that most erratic: young lady can want with me in this abomin- able country of your adoption, is quite beyond my “poor comprebension,”’ Raymond draws a long breath. ‘So,’ he thinks, fe knows nothing yet—good, Valerie, you are slow to’ play your cards. I will take the initiative ; my leading trump shall commence the game.” “J repeat,” said the marquis, throwing himself into the easy-chair Raymond had wheeled forward, and warming his delicate white hands at the blazing fire ; “TI repeat, that the urgent request of my very lovely, but’ extremely erratic niece, that I should cross the Channel in the autumn of a very stormy year—I am not @ good sailor—is quite beyond my comprehension.” He has a very magnificent emerald ring, which is too large for the slender third finger of his left hand, and he amuses himself by twisting it round and round, sometimes stoppiug to contemplate the effect of it with the plain gold outside, when it looks like a lady’s wed- oe. _“ Itis, [positively assure you,” herepeated looking at the ring, and not at Raymond, “ utterly beyond thé limited powers of my comprehension.’’ Raymond looks very graye,and takes two or three turns up and down thgroom. Thelight blue eyes of the marquis follow him for 4 turn and a half—find it monot- onous, and go back to the ring and the white hand; al- ways interesting objects for contemplation. Presently, the Count De Marolles stops, leans on the easy-chair on the opposite side of the fire-place to tuat on which the oi is seated, and says, in &@ very serious tone of voice: “Monsieur De Cevennes, Iam about to allude to a subject of so truly painful and distressing a nature, both for you to hear and for me to speak of, that I al- most fear adverting to it.” The marquis has been so deeply interested in the ring, ned outward, that he has evidently heard the words of Raymond without comprehending their mean- ing; but he looks up reflectively for a moment, recalls them, glances over them afresh, as it were, mods, and saya: t : Oh, ah! Distressing nature; you fear adverting to it—eh? Pray don’t agitate yourself, my good De ‘Marolles. I don’t think you'll agitate me.” He leaves the ring for a minute or two, and looks over the five nails on his left-hand, evidently in search of the pink- est—fin de it on the third finger, and caresses it tenderly, while awaiting Raymond’s very painful communica- tion. “You said, Monsieur le Marquis, that you were utter- ly at aloss to comprehend my wite’s motivein sending for you in this abrupt manner.” \ “Utterly. AndI assure you I am a bad sailor. A very bad sailor—when the weather is rough, I am posi- tively compelled to—it is really so absurd,’’ he says, with » light, clear dang “Tam obliged to—to go to th undignified and disagreca- ble, 1 give you my wordof honor. But you were say- is “JT was about to say, monsieus, that it is my deep grief to have to state that the conduct of your niece thas been for the last few months in every way inexpli- eable—so much so, that I have been led to fear’”’—— et «What, monsieur ?”’? The marquis folds his white hands one over the other on his knees, leaves off the spection of their beauties, and looks fullin the face of his niece’s husband. “T haye been led, with what grief I need scarcely een “O no, indeed, pray reserve the account of your grief —your grief must have been so very intense—you have been led to fear ’’——. “That my unhappy wife is out of her mind "—— “Precisely! I thought that was tobe the climax. My good Monsieur Raymond, Count De Marolles—my very worthy Monsieur Raymond Marolles, my most excellent whoever, and whatever you may be, do you think that Rene, Theodore, Auguste, Philippe, Le Grange Martel, Marquis de Cevennes, is the sort of a man to be twisted round your fingers however clever, unscruplous, and designing a villain you my be?” “Monsieur le Marquis’’—— “I have not the least wish to quarrel with you, my good friend—nay, on the contrary, I will freely confess that I am not without a certain respect for. you—you are a thorough yillain. Everything thorough is,in my mind, estimable. Virtue is said to lie in the golden mean—virtue isnot in my way, I, therefore, do not dispute the question—but, to me, all mediums are con- temptible, You are in your way, thorough—and, on the whole, I respect you.” d He goes back to the contemplation of his hands and his rings, and concentrates all his attention on a cameo head of Mark Antony, which he wears on his little finger. . “A villain, Monsieur le Marquis’*——_ “And aclever villain, Monsieur de Marolles; a clever villain! witness your success; but not clever enough to hoodwink me—not quite clever enough to hoodwink any one blest with a moderate amount of brains’’—— “Monsieur |” ‘Because you have one fault, Yes, really,’ he flecks agrain of dust out of Mark Antony’s eye with his little finger, “yes, you have one fault. You are too smooth. Nobody ever was so estimable as you appear to be—you overdo it. If you remember,” continues the marquis, addressing himin any easy, critical an conversational tone, “the great merit in that Venetian villain, in the tragedy of that worthy, but very much overrated person, William Shakespeare, is that he is not smooth. Othello trusts Iago, not because he is smooth, but because he isn’t. ‘I know this fellow’s of exceeding honesty |’ as much as to say, ‘He’s a dis- agreeable beast, but, I think, trustworthy.’ You area yery clever fellow, Monsieur Raymond de Marolles, but you would never have got Desdemona smothered; Othello would have seen through you—asI did!" «Monsieur, I will not suffer ’’—— “You will be good enough to allow me to finish what I have to say. I daresay I am prosy, but I shall not detain you long; I repeat, that though you are a very clever fellow, you would never have got the bolster and pillow business accomplished, because Othello would have seen through you, as I did. My niece in- sisted on me marrying you. Why? It was not sucha very difficult riddle to read, this marriage, apparently so mysterious. You, an enterprising person, with a small capital, plenty of brains, and white hands quite unfit for rough work, naturally are onthe lookout for some heiress whom you may entrap into marrying you’’—— ‘Monsieur de Cevennes |” “(My dear fellow,lam not quarreling with you. In your position I should have done the same, That is the very clew by which I unravel the mystery. I say to myself, what should I have done if fate had been so remarkably shabby as to throw me into the position of that. young man? Why, naturally, I should have looked out for some woman foolish enough to be de- ceived by that legitimate. and old-established sham—so useful to novelists and the melodramatic theaters— called ‘love.’ Now,my nieceis nota fool. Ergo, she was not.in love with you. You had then obtained soine species of power over her. What I did not ask; do not ask now. Enough that it was necessary for her, for me, that this marriage should take place. She swore it on the crucifix—I am a Voltairean myself, but, poor girl! she had those sort of ideas from her mother—so there was nothing for me but to consent to the marriage, and accept a gentleman of doubtful pedi- ree ’'——. . oe Perhaps not so doubtful ’’—— “(Perhaps not so doubtful—there is a triumphant curl about your upper lip, my dear nephew-in-law. Has papa turned up lately ?” “Perhaps. I think I shall soon be able to lay my hand upon him.” He lays alight and delicate hand on the marquis’s shoulder, as he says the words. “No Sout put in the meantime you would kindly refrain from laying it on me—you would oblige —you would really oblige me. Though why”’ said the marquis, philosophically, addressing himself to Mark Antony, as if he would like to avail bimselfof that Roman's sagacity; “why we should object to a villain because he is a Villain, I can’t imagine. We may ob- ject to him if he is coarse or dirty, or puls his knife in his mouth, or takes soup twice, or wears ill-made coats, because those things annoy us; but object to him because he'is a liar, or a hypocrite, or a coward? Perfectly absurd ! I say, therefore, I consented to the marriage, asked no unnecessary or ill-bred questions, but resigned myself to the force of circumstances, and for some years affairs appeared to go on very smoothly; when suddenly Iam startled by a most alarming letter from my niece. She implores me to come to England; shé is alone, without a friend, an adviser, and she is de- termined to reveal all.” “To reveal all’’— Raymond cannot repress a start. The sang froid of the marquis had entirely deceived him whose chief weapon was that very sang froid, “Yes. What then! You, being aware of this letter having been written, or say, guessing that such a let- ter would be written, determine on your course, You will throw over your wifo’s evidence, by declaring her tobemad, Eh? This is what you determine upon, Z isn’t it 2’, It appears so good a joke to the marquis that he laughs and nods at Mark Antony, asif he would gealy, like that respectable Roman to participate in the n, For the first time in his life, Raymond Marolles has found his match. In the hands of this man he is utter- ly powerless. . “An excellent idea. Only,‘as I said before, too obvious—too transparently obvious. It is the only thing youcando. IfI were looking for a man, and came to a part of the country where there was but one road, I should, of course, know that he must—if he went anywhere—go down that road. 80 with you, my dear Marolles, there was but one resource left you—to disprove the revelations of your wife, by declaring them the hallucinations ofa maniac. I take no credit to myself for seeing through you, Lassure you. There is no talent whatever in finding eut that two and two make four; the genius would be the man who made them into five, I do not think I have anything more tosay. Ihayeno wish to attack you, my dear nephew-in-law. I merely wanted to prove to you that Iwasnot your dupe. I think you must be, by this time, sufficiently convinced of that fact. If you have any good Maderia in your cellars, I should like a glass before I hear what my niece may have to to me.” He throws himself back in the easy-chair; yawns once or twice, and polishes Mark Antony with the corner of his handkerchief; he has entirely dismissed the sub- jecton which he has been speaking, and is ready for pleasant conversation. At this moment the door is thrown open, and Valerie enters the room. It is the first time Raymond has seen her since the night of Mosquetti’s story; and, as his eyes meet hers, he starts involuntarily. Whatisit? This change, this transformation, which has taken eight years off the age of this woman, and restored her as she was on that night when he first saw her at the Opera-House in Paris. What is it? Sogreat and marvelous an alteration, he might almost doubt if this indeed wereshe. Andyet he can scarcely define the change. It seems a trausformation, not ot the face, but of thesoul. Anew soul looking out of the old beauty. A new soul! no, the old soul, which he thought dead. It is, indeed, a resurrection of the soul. She advances to her uncle, who embraces her with a graceful and drawing-room species of tenderness, about as like real tenderness as ormolu is like rough Australian gold, as Lawrence Sterne’s sentiment is like that of Oliver Goldsmith. “My dear uncle! You received my letter, then ?” “Yes, dear child, and what in Heayen’s name cam you haye to tell me, that would not admit ot being delayed until the weather changed? andI am such # bad sailor,’” he repeats plaintively. “What can you have to tell me?” , ; “Nothing yet, my dear uncle,” the bright dark eyes look with a ereay gaze at Raymond as she speaks, a nee yet, oe ae not yet come. . _ “ For mercy’s sake, my dear girl,’’ says the marquis, in’a tone of horror, “ don’t be ena If you're going to act a Porte St. Martin drama, in thirteen acts and twenty-six tableaux, I'll go back to Paris. If you’ve nothing to say to me, why, in the name of all that’s—feminine, did you send for me ?”” ‘When I wrote to you, I told you that I appealed +o you because I had no other friend upon earth, to whom . o the hour of my anguish, I could turn for help and advice.” . “You did, you did. If you had not been my only brother’s only child, I should have waited a change in the wind before I crossed the Channel—I am such a wretched sailor! But life, as the religious party asserts, is a long sacrifice—Icamel’? : “Suppose that, since writing that letter, I have found a friend, an adviser, a guiding hand, and a sup- porting arm, and no longer need the help of anyone on earth, besides this new-found friend, torevengsme upon mine enemies |” Raymond’s bewilderment increases with every moment. Has she indeed gone mad, and is this new light in her eyes the fire of insanity ? “Tam sure, my dear Valerie, if you have met with such a very delightful person, 1am extremely glad to hear it, as it relieves me from all the trouble. It is melodramatic, certainly, but excessively convenient. I lave remarked, that, in melodrama, circumstances generally are convenient. I never alarm myself when everything is hopelessly wrong, and villainy deliciously triumphant; for I know that somebody, who died in the first act, will come in at the center doors, and make it all right, before the curtains falls.” ' “Since Madame de Marolles will no doubt wish to ba alone with her uncle, I may, perhaps, be permitted to go into the city, till dinner, when I shall have the honor of meeting Monsieur le Marquis, I trust.’ _ “Certainly, my good De Maroiles; your chef, I be- lieve, understands his profession. I shall have pleasure in dining with you. Au mon shall go upon velvet, now we so thoroughly u: each other.” He waves his white left hand to Ray- Si as a graceful dismissal, and turns toward his ece. “ Adieu, madame,” says the count, as he passes his wife, then, in a Jower tone, adds; ‘I do not ask you to be silent for my sake, or your own; I mierely recom- mend you to remember that you have a son; and that you will do well not to make me your enemy; when I strike, I strike home, and my policy has always been to strike in the weakest place. not forget poor little Cherubino!” He gives her one glance of the blue eyes, and turns to leave the room. , As he opens the door, he almost tumbles a, st an elderly gentleman, dressed in a suit of clerical-looking black, and a white neckcloth, and carrying an un- pleasantly damp umbrella under his arm. who is neither more nor less than “Not, yet, Mr, Jabez North,” says the gentleman, that respectable | x ees SS THREE TIMES DEAD. a met her; when coats were worn short-waisted, and Plancus was consul; When there was scaffolding at ‘Charing -Cross, and stage-coaches between London and Brighton; when the wandering ministrel-was to be foundat Beula Spa, and there was no Mr. Robson at the Olympic. He is looking full in your face, poor Tom! and attending to every word you say, as you think! Ah! my dear madam, believe me he doesn’t see ons feature of your face, or hear one word of your peroration. He sees her; he sees her standing at the end ofa green arcade, with the sunlight glittering down through the leayes upon her brown curls, and making patterns on her innocent white dress; he sees the little coquettish glance she flings back at him as he stands in an attitude he knows now was, if anything, spooney, all amongst the debris of the banquet, lobster-salads, yeal and ham pies, empty champagne bottles, straw- berry stalks, parasols, and bonnets and shawls. He hears the singing of the Essex birds, the rustling of the forest leaves, lier ringing laugh, the wheels of a car- riage, the tinkling of a sheep bell, the roar of a black- smith’s forge, and the fall of waters in the distance; all those sweet, rustic. sounds, which make a:nusic very ‘different to the angry tones of your voice, are in his ears; and you, madam, you, for any impression you can make on him, might just as well be on the culmin- ating point of Teneriffe, and would find quite asatten- tive a listener in the waste of ocean you might behold from that eminence. And who is the fairy that works the spell? Her éarthly name is Tobacco, alias Bird’s Eye, alias Caven- dish; and the magician who raised her first in the British dominions was Walter Raleigh. Are you not glad now, gentle reader, that the sailor mutinied, that the dear son was killed in that far land, and that the mean-spirited Stuart rewarded the noblest and wisest ofhis age with a lifein a dungeon and the death of a traitor? I don’t know whether Augustus Darley thought all this as he sat over the struggling smoke and damp in the parlor of the “‘ Bargeman’s Delight,” which smoke and damp the defiant bar-maid told him would soon be a good fire. Gus was not a married man; and again he and Mr. Peters had very particular business on their hands, and had vory little time for sentimental or phil- osophical reflections. The landlord of “The Delight” appeared presently with what, he assured his guests, was such a bottle of ort as they wouldn’t often meet with. There was a Negros of obscurity in this commendation which savored of the inspired communications of the priestess of the oracle, Macida might conquer the Romans, or the Romans might annihilate Macida; the bottle of port might be unapproachable by its excellence, or so utterly exceable in qualily as to be beyond the power of wine to amitate; and ae way, the landlord not forsworn. Gus looked at the bright side of the question, and requested his host to draw the cork, and bring another glass. x “Thatis,” he said, “if youcan spare halfan hour orso fora friendly chat.” : “©Q! as for that,’ said the landlord, “I can spare time enough—it isn’t the business as’ll keep me moy- ing; it’s never brisk, except on wet afternoons, when they comes in with their dirty boots, and makes mcre mess than they drinks beer, A found drowned, or a inquest enlivens us up now and then; but Lord! there’s nothing doing now-a-days, and even inquests and drowning seems a-going out.” The landlord was essentially a melancholy and Diaatee creature, and he seated himself at his own table, wiped away yesterday’s beer with his own coat sleeve, and prepared himself to drink his own port, witha gloomy resignation sublime enough to have taken a whole band of conspirators to the scaffold in a most creditable manner. : “My friend,” said Mr. Darley introducing Mr. Peters by a wave of his hand, “is a foreigner and hasn’t got hold of our language yet; he finds it slip. pery, and hard to catch on account of the construction erie, ‘so you must excuse his not being lively.” ‘Phe landlord nodded, and remarked, in a cheering manner, that he didn’t see what there was for the live- liest cove to be lively about, now-a-days. After a good deal of desultory conversation, and + description of several very interesting inquests, Gus asked the landlord whether he remembered an affair that happened about eight or nine years ago, or there- abouts—a girl found drowned in the fall of the year, © “ There's al ways bein’ girls found drowned,” said the landlord, moodily ; ‘it’s my belief they likes it, espe- cially wheu they’ve long hair; they takes off their bon- nets, and they lets down their back hairs, and they puts a note in their pockets, wrote large, to say as they hopes as how he'll be sorry, and so on. I can’t remem- ber no girl in particular eight years ago at the back endofthe year. Ican call to mind a many promiscuons- like off and on, but not to say this was Jane, or this was Sarah.” “Do you remember a quarrel, then, between a man and agirlin this very room, and the man having his head cut by a sovereign she threw at him ?” “We never have no quarrels in this room,” replied . the landlord, with dignity, ‘The bargemen sometimes have 4 few words, and tramples upon each other with their hob-nailed boots, and their iron heels and toes will dance again when their temper’s up; but I don’t allow no quarrels here. And yet,” he added, after afew moments’ reflection, ‘there was a sort of a row, I remember, a many eat ago between a girl as drowned herself that nig ¢ down below, and a young gent, in this here room : he a sittin’ just as you may be a sittin’ now, and sho a standin’ over by that window, and throwin’ four sovereigns at him spiteful, one of them a catchin’ him just over the eyebrow, and cuttin’ of him to the bone, and he # pickin’ ’em up when his J was bound, and walkin’ off with ’em, as if nothing "Yea, but do you happen to remember,” said Gus, “that he only found three out of the four sovereigns ; and that he was obliged to give up looking for it, and go away without it?” Bo The landlord of ‘The Delight ” suddenly lapsed into most profound meditation ; he rubbed his chin, making a rasping noise as he did so, as if going cautiously over aFrench roll, first with one hand and then with the other hand; he looked with an earnest gaze into tie glass of puce-colored liquid before him, and took a sip of that liquid, smacked his lips after the manner of a connoisseur, and then said that he couldn’t at the pres- ent moment cail to mind the last circumstance alluded to. : “Shall I telt you,’ said Gus, “my motive in asking you this question ?”’ The landlord said he might as well mention it as not. “Then, I will. Iwant that sovereign. I've a par- ticular reason, which I don’t waut to explain just now, for wanting that very coin of all others, and I don’t mind giving a five-pound note to the man that’ll put that twenty shillings’ worth of gold into my hand.” “You don’t, don’t you ?”” said the landlord, repeat- ing the operations described above, and looking very hard at Gus all the time; after which he sat staring silently from Gus to Peters, and from Peters to the puce-colored liquid, for some minutes; at last he saiti; “Tt ain't a trap ?” “There's the note,” replied Mr. Darley, “look at it, and see it’s a good one. I'll layiton the table, and when you lay down that sovereign, that one, mind, and no other, it’s yours.’’ “You think I’ve got it then?’’ said the landlord, in- terrogatively. “I know you’ve got it,” said (n+ “unless you’ve spent it.’ “Why, as to that,’ said the landlord, “when you first called to mind the circumstance of the girl, and the gent, and the inquest, and all that, I’ve a short memory, and couldn’t quite recollect that there sovereign, butnow I do remember finding of that very coin a year and a half afterwards; for the drains was bad that year, and the Board of Health came a chivying of us to take up our floorings, and limewash ourselves inside, and in taking up theflooring of this room, What should wecome across but that very bit of gold.” eo) “And you never changed it ?” “Shall I tell you why I never changed it? Sover- reigns ain’t so plentiful in these parts that I should Keep this one to look at—what do you say to its not being a sovereign at all?” “ Not a sovereign ?” “Not; what do you say to its peinga two-penny- half-penny foreign coin, witha Jot of rum writing aboutit, as they has the cheek to offer me four and six- pence for, for old gold and, asI_ kep, knowing it was worth more for a curiosity—eh ?”’ “Why, all Lcan say is,” said Gus, “that you did | Very wisely to keep it and here’s five, or, perhaps ten times its value, and plenty of interest for your money.” “Wait a bit,’? muttered the landlord; and disappear- ing into the bar, he rummagedin some drawer in the interior of that sanctum, and presently re-appeared with alittle parcel screwed carefully in newspaper. “Here it is,” he said, “and jolly glad lam to get rid of the useless lumber, as wouldn't buy a loaf of bread if one was starving; and thank youkindly, sir,”’ he con- tinued as he pocketed the note; ‘‘ I should like to sell zou halfdozen more of ’em at the same’ price, that’s all.”’ ' The coin was East Indian: worth, perhaps, six or seven rupees, in sizeand touch not atall unlike a sovereign, but about fifty yearsold. __ “And novw,’’ said Gus, “my friendand I will take a stroll; you can cook us a steak for five o'clock, and in the meantime we can amuse ourselves about the town.” The factories might be interesting to the foreigneer- ing gent,” said the landlord, whose spirit seemed very much improved by the possession of the five-pound note; ‘‘there’sa -actory hard by, as employs a power of hands, and there's a wheel as only killed a man last week, and you could see it ’msure, gents, and wel¢ome, by only mentioning my name. I serves the hands as lives round this way, which isa many,” wp Gug thanked him for his kind offer, and said they Sepia make a point of availing themselves of it, The landlord watched them as they walked along the bank, in the direction of Slopperton. “I expect,” he remarked to himself, ‘‘the lively one’s mad, and the quiet one’s his keeper ; but five pounds is five pounds,. and that’s neither here nor there.” ; 2 Instead of seeking both amusement and instruction, as they might have done from a careful investigation ot the factory in question, Messrs. Darley and Peters walked at a pretty brisk rate, looking neither to the right, nor to the left, choosing the most out-of-the-way and unfrequented streets. till they left the town of Slop- perton and the waters of the Sloshy behind them, and emerged on to the high road, not so many yards from the house in which itr. Montague Harding met his death—the house of the Black Mill. ; It never had been a lively-looking place at best ; but now, with the association belonging to.it, and so much a part of it, that, to.all who knew the dreadful story, death, like a black shadow, seemed to brood above the gloomy pile of building, and warned the stranger from the infected spot; it was, indeed, a melancholy habitation.. The shutters of all the windows but one wore closed; the garden paths were overgrown with weeds ; with beds oKed up ;the trees had shot forth wild erratic branches that trailed across the path ofthe intruder, andentangling themselyes about him, threw him down before he was aware, The house, however, Sees uninhabited—Martha the old servant, who had nurse entire care of it ; a comfortable income, and a youthful domestic to attend upon herethe teaching, scolding, Richard Marwood, when a little child, had the and patronizing of whom, made delight of her quiet ex- istence. S Seas The bell, Darley rang at the gate, went clanging down the walk, as if to be heard in the house were a small part’ of its mission, being trom its sonorous power, evident: ly intended to awaken all Slopperton in case ot fire, flood, or invasion of the foreign ioe, i . Perhaps Gus thought as he stood at the broad white gate, overgrown now with damp and moss, but once $0 trim and bright, in the days when Richard and he wora little cloth frocks, all ornamented with divers mean- dering braids and shining buttons, and swung, in the evening sunshine, on that’ very gate. He remembered Richard throwing him off and hurt- ing his nose upon the gravel ; they had made mud pies upon that very walk: set elaborate and most efficient traps for birds, and never caught any, in those very shrubberies; they had made a swing under the lime trees, yonder,and a fountain that would never work, but had to be ignomiously supplied with jugs of water, and stirred with spoons, like a pudding, before the crystal shower would consent to mount; a thousand recollections of that childish time came back, and with them came the thought, that the little boy in the braided frock was now an outcast from society, supposed to be dead, and lis name branded as that of a madman and a murderer, Martha's attendant, a rosy-cheeked country girl, came down the walk, at the sound of the clanging bell, and stared aghast at the apparition of two gentlemen; oe of them so brilliant in costume as our friend, Mr. arley. Gus told the youthful domestic that he had a letter for Mrs. Jones, Martha's surname was Jones ; the Mrs. was an honorary distinction. as the holy state of matrimony was one of the evils the worthy woman had escaped. Gus brought a note from Martha’s mistress, which assured him a warm welcome: : ‘Would the gentlemen have tea?’ Martha said, “Sararanne (the youthful domestic’s name was Sarah Anne, pronounced both for euphony and convenience, Sararanne,) Sararanne should get them anything they’ would please to like, directly?” Poor Martha was quite distressed on being told that all they wanted oa look at the room in which the murder was com-* mitted. * . “Was it in the same state asit was in at that time?” asked Gus. * : It never had been touched, Mrs. Jones assured them, since that dreadful time. Such was her —mistress’s wish ; it had been kept clean and dry ; but not a bit of furniture had been moved. : Mrs. Jones was rheumatic, and rarely stirred from her seat of honor by the fireside; so Sararanne was sent, with a bunch of keys in her hand, to conduct the gentlemen to the room in question. * Now, there were two things self-evident in the manner of Sararanne ; first, that she was pleased at the idea of a possible flirtation with the brilliant Mr. Darley: secondly, that she didn’t at all like the ordeal of opening and entering the dreaded room in question ; so, between her desire to be fascinating, and- her uncontrollable fear of the encounter before her, she endured a mental struggle painful to the beholder. - The shutters in front of the house being all closed but one, the hall and staircase were in a shadowy gloom, far more alarming to the timid mind than out- and-out darkness. In out-and-out darkness, for instance, the eight-day clock in -the corner’ would have .been a clock, and not an elderly’ ghost with a broad white face, and a brown great coat,’ as it seemed to be in the uncertain ‘glimmer, afford by a eink, covered with ivy, and sitwated at the’ top of thehouse. Sararanne was’ evidently with the idea that Mr. Darley and his friend would decoy her to the very threshold of the haunted cham- ber and then 7 SS leaving her to brave the perils of it by herself.. Mr. Darley’s repeated assurances that it was all right and that on the whole, | it would be advisable to look alive, as life was short and time was long, etcetera, had the effect, at last, of inducing the damsel to ascend the stairs (looking behind her at every other step,) and conduct them along a passage at the end of which she stopped, selected, with considerable celerity, a key from the bunch, plunged it into the keyhole of the door befora her, said: “That is the room, gentlemen, if you please,” dropped.a courtesy and turned and fled. © The door opened with a scroop, and Mr. Peters has, at last, the darling wish of his heart, and stands in the very room in which the murder was committed. Gua looks round, goes to the window, opens the shutters to their widest extent, and the afternoon sunshine streams full into the room, lighting every crevice, and reveal= ing every speck of dust on the moth-eaten damask beds curtains, every crack and stain on the worm-eaten — flooring. * A TELS To see Mr. Darley look round the toom and to see Mr, Peters look round it, is to see two things as utterly wide apart as it is possible for one look to be from an- other. The young surgeon's eyes wander ‘here and there, fix nowhere, and rest two or three times upon the same object, before théy seem to take in the full — meaning of that object. The eyes of Mr. Peters, on the contrary, take the circuit of the apartment with equal precision and rapidity—go from numbér one ‘to num- ber two, from number two to number three; and hay- ing given acareful inspection to every article of furni- ture in the room, fix, at last, ina gaze of concentrated : intensity, on the tout ensemble'of thechamber. /. ~ *Can you make out anything?” at last, asks Mr. Darley. jad) Deteoren sew’ Mr. Peters nods his head, and, in to this ques- tion, drops on one knee, and falln, 2 cabot the ooring. + ‘ hin8 Heo oss _“Do you see anything in that 2” aska Gus. 0 “ Yes,” replies Mr. metas, on his ‘fi 3 look at Gus does look at this. ‘The flooring is im a vory ret- Se ee Se sneer | =o ses ames arate —— aetna es ate acento s . PARER TIMES DEAD. then ?’”’ he asks. : ; “‘ What then?! said Mr. Peters, on his fingers, with } an expression of considerable contempt pervading his i features, ‘What then? You're avery talented young } gent, Mr. Darley, and if I wanted a prescription for the i @ which I’m troubled with sometimes or a tip for ten and dilapidated state by the bedside.“ Well, what i t the Derby. which I don’t, not being a sporting man, t you're the gent I’d come to—but for all that you ain’t i no poliee officer, or you’d never ask that question. i What then? Doyou remember as one of the facts so i hard again Mr. Marwood was the bloodstains on his 1 sleeve. You see these here cracks and crevices in this i here flooring—very well then: Mr. Marwood slept in i the room under this; he was tired, I’ve heard him say, } and he threw himself down on the bed in his coat; t what more natural, then, that there should be blood. upon hia sleeve, and what more easy to guess than tho way it came there ?”” “You think it ran through, then ?”’ asked Gus. ' “T think it ran through,” said Peters, on his fingers, \ with biting irony. “I know it ran through. His counsel was a nice one, not to bring us into court,” he , pointing to the boards on which he knelt. “If \" I’d only seen this place before the trial ; but I was no- i body, and it was like niy precious impudence to ask to : go over the house, of course. Now, then, for number Wo. , “And that is?”— asked Mr. Darley, who was quite in the dark as to Mr. Peters’s views ;. that functionary. being implicitly believed in by Richard and his friend, and allowed, therefore, to be just as mysterious as he pleased. “Number two’s this here,” answered the detective. “TY wants to find another or two of them rum Indian coins; for our young friend Dead-and-Alive as is here to-day, and govle to-morrow, got that one as he gaye the girl from that cabinet, or my name’s not Joseph Peters.’’ Wherewith Mr. Peters, who had been en- trusted by Mrs. Marwood with the key of tho cabinet 5 in question, proceeded te open the doors of it, and to earefully inspect that old-fashioned piece of furniture. There were a great many drawers, and boxes, and pigeon-holes, and queer nooks aud corners, all smelling equally of old age, damp, and cedar-wood, in the in- terior of it; and Mr. Peters pulled out drawers, and opened boxes; found secret drawers in the inside of other drawers, and boxes hid in ambush in other boxes, all with:so little result, beyond old papers, bundles of letters tied with faded red tape, a simpering and neu- tral-tinted miniature or two, of the fashion of some fifty years gone by, when a bright blue coat and brass buttons was the correct thing for a dinner-party, and four man about town wore a watch in each of his ‘eeches’ pockets, and simpered at you behind a shirt- frill wide enough to separate him forever from his friends and acquaintancea—a Johnson's dictionary, a ready reckoner, and a pair of boot-hooks, that Mr. Dar- ley grew quite tired of watching the proceeding, and suggested that they should adjourn ; for he remarked: “Is it likely that such a fellow as.this North would leave anything behind him?” \ “Wait a bit!’ said Mr. Peters, with an expressive jerk of his head, Gus shrugged his shoulders, took out his cigar-case, lighted a cheroot, and, walking to the window, leaned with his elbows on the sill smok- ing down am the straggling creepers that covered the walls and climbed round the windows, while the detective resumed his search amongst the old bundles of . He was nearly abandoning it, when in one of the outer drawers he took up an object he had passed over in his first inspection—it was a small canvas bag, guch as is used to hold money, and apparently empty; but, while pondering on his futile search, Mr. Peters twisted this bag in a moment of absence of mind be- tween his fingers, swinging it backward and forward in the air; in so doing he caught it against the side of the t, and, to his surprise, it emitted a sharp motal- lic sound. It was not. empty, then, although it ap- eae so, A moment’s examination showed the dectective that he had succeeded in obtaining the object of his search ; the bag had been used for money, anda small coin had lodged)in the seam at one eorner of the bottom of it, and had stuck so firmly, as not to be easily shaken out; this, in the murderer's burried ransacking of the cabinet, in his blind Por ta het finding the sum he had expected to ob- tain, this had naturally escaped him. The pivce of money was a small gold coin, one-half the value of the one found by the landlord, but of tho same date and | 7 Mr Petera gave his fingers a triumphant smack, / which aroused the attention of Mr. Darley ; and. with aw glance of the pride in his art peculiar to your true genus, held up the little piece of gold, , “By Jove!’ exclaimed the admiring Gus, “you’vo ot it then | Egad,/Peters, I think you’d make evidence, if there wasntany.”’ , “Bight years of that young man’s life, sir,”’ said * the rapid fingers, ‘‘ has been sacrificed tothe stupidity _ ef thera as should have pulled him through.” | _ Ware Mr. Peters, assisted by Richard's: sincere | friend the young surgeon, made the visit above describ- | ed, Daredevil Dick counted the hours in London. It | ‘was essential to the success of his cause, Qua aud Peters / urged, that he should not show himself, or in any way reveal the fact of his existence, till the real murderer was arrested. Let the truth ap: to all the world, ei and then time enongh for:Richard tocome forth, with / bot eg eerste grea in the sight of his fellow-men, } | But when he heard that Raymon his pursuers the slip, and was off, noone kuew where, i * was all that iis mother, his triend, Percy Cordonter, aes o Featherby, and the lawyers to whom he had i dntrusted, hia cause, could do to prevent him’ start- Marolles had given |; ing that instant on the track of the guilty man. It was 8 day, this day of the tailure of the arrest, for all. Neither hia mother’s tender consolation, his. solicitor’s assurance that all was not yet lost, Isabelle’s tearful prayers that he would be patient, and leave the issue in the hands of Heaven, nor Mr. Cordonner’s philosophical recommendation to take it, quietly, leave arina alone, and let the begger go, could keep him quiet. Ho felt like a caged lion, whose ignoble bonds kept him from the vile ob- ject of his rage. The day wore. out, however, an.l no tidings came of the fugitive. Mr. Cordonner insisted on stopping with his friend till three o clock in the morning, and at that very late hour set out, with the intention of going down to the Cherokees, (it was a Cheerful night, and they would most likely be still assambled), to ascertain, as he popularly expressed it, whether anything had “turned up” there. The clock of St. Martin's struck three, as he stood with Richard at the street-door in Spring Gardens, giving friendly consolation between the puffs of his cigar to the agi- tated young man, “In the first place, my dear boy,” he said, “if you can’t catch the fellow, you can’t catch tha fellow— that’s sound logic, and a mathematical argument—then why make yourself unhappy about it? Why try to square the circle, only because the circle’s round, and can’t besquared? Let, it alone... If this fellow turns up, hang him! I should glory in seeing him hung— for he’s an out-and-out scoundrel—if theyll do the thing at areagonable hour, and not execute him in the middle of the night, and swindle the respectable pub- lic. If he doesn’t turn up, why, let the matter rest ; marry that little girl in there, Darley’s pretty sister, who seems, by-the-by, to be absurdly fond of you, and let the question rest. ,That's my philosophy.” The young man turned away with an impatient sigh, then laying his hand on Percy's shoulder, he said; “My dear old fellow, ifeverybody in the world. were like you, Napoleon would have died a Corsican lawyer, ora lieutenantin the: French army. Robespierre would have lived a petty barrister, with a penchant for get~ ting up.in the night to eat jam tarts, anda mania for writing bad poetry. The third estate would have gono home quietly to its farm yards and its, merchants’ of fices ; there woul.t have been no oath of the’ Tennis Court, and no battle of Waterlov.”’ ' “And a very good thing, too,’’ said his aie has friend, ‘‘ nobody would have been a loser but Astley’s ; only think of that. Ifthere had been: no’ Napoleon, what aloss for image boys, Gomersal the Great, and Astleys! Forgive me, Dick, for laughing at you. Ill cut down to the Choerfuls, and see if anything’s up. The Smasher’s away, or he might have given us his ad- vice; the genius of the P. R. might have been of some service in this affair. Good-night!’’ He gave Richard a languidly-affectionate shake of the hand, and departed. Now, wien Mr. Cordonner said he’d cut down to the Cherokees. let it not be thought by the simple-minded reader that the expression “cut down,” trom his lips, conveyed that degree of velocity, which, thougi per- haps a sufficiently vaguo phrase in itself, it is calcu- lated to convey to the ordinary mind. Percy Cordon- ner had never been seen by mortal man in a hurry, He had been seen too latefor a train, and had’ been seen placidly lounging at a fow paces from the departing engine,and mildly but rather reproachiul'y, regarding that object. The prospects of his entire live may have hinged on his going by that particular train; but he would never be so false to his principles as to make hiim- self uncomfortably warm, or in any way disturb the delicate organization with which nature had gifted him. He had been seen at the doors of the opera-house, when Jenny Lind was going to appear in the " Figlia,” and while thoss around him were afflicted with a temporary lunacy, and trampling each other wildlyin the mud, ho had been observed, leaning against a couple of fut men, as in an easy-chair, and standing high and dry upon somebody else’s boots, Lreathing gentleinanly and poly- glot execrations upon the surrounding crowd, when, in swaying to and froit disturbod, or attempted to distur», his serenity. 80, when he said he would cut down to the Cherokees, he, of course, meant that he would cut after his manner. And he accordingly rolled languidly along the deserted pavements of the Strand, with some- thing of the insouctant and purposeless manner that Rasselas may have had ina walk thrvuugh the arcades of his Happy Valley. He reached the well-known tay- ern at last, however, and, stopping under the sign of the Washed-out Indian, desperately tomahawking nothing, in the direction of Covent Garden, with an arm more distinguished for mitseular development than correct drawing, he gaivé the well-known signal of the club, and was admitted by the damsel betore de- scribed, who appeared always to devote the watches of the night to the process of putting her hair in papers, that she might wear that becoming “head ”’ for the ad- miration of the jug-and-bottle customers of the follow- ing day, aud shino in a frameof very lon 4 and very greasy curls (that would sweep the heads off brown stouts, and dip gently into goes of # irits), upon the more brilliant company of the evening. his young lady, opularly known as ’Liza, was well up in tue sporting Posinons of the house; read the “ Life” during church- time on Sundays, and was even believed to have com- municated with that Khadamanthine journal, under the signiture of L., in the answers to correspondents, She was understood to be engaged, or, as her friends and admirers expressed it, to be “kevping company” with that luminary of the P. R., the Middlesex Mawler, whose headquarters were at the Cherokee: on-6r _ Mr. Cordonner found three Cheerfuls assembled in _the bar, in an intense state of excitement and soda wa- ter. A selnpannis message had just arrive from the ‘Smasher. was worthy, in economy of construction, of the Delphic oracle, and had the advan: of being easy to understand; it was as follows: ‘Tell R. M. he’s, here; had no orders, so went in with left; he won’t be able to move for a day Gr two. 0 ee oa. Mr. Cordonner was almost surprised, and was thus: yee nearly false, for once in his life, to the only art he w “This will be good news in Spring Gardens,” he said ; “but Peters won't be back till to-morrow night; sup- Pose,” he added, musing, “ we were to telegr.ph to him at Slopperton, instanter, I know where he is there. If earhery fetid find a cab and take the message, it would oing Marwood an inestimable service,” he said, passing through the bar, and lazily seating him- self on a green and gold Cream of the Valley cask, with his hat very much on the back of his head, and hia hands in his pockets. “I'll write the message.” He scrib- bled upon a card: ‘Go across to Liverpool. He’s given us the slip and is there,” and handed it politely to the three Cheerfuls leaning over the porter-engine. Split- ters the dramatic author, clutched it eagerly ; to hie poetic mind it suggested thut best gift of inspiration —‘a situation.” : “Tl take it,” he said; “what a fine line it would makeina bill! ‘The ference telegram,’ with s comic railway clerk, aad the villain of the piece cutting jive wires.’” ie eg with you, Splitters!” said Percy Cordonner, “don't let the Strand become verdant beneath your airy tread. Don’t stop to compose a five-act drama as. you go—that’s a good fellow! ‘Liza, my dear girl,a pint of Allsop, and let it be as mild as the disposition of your humbleservant.” Three days after the above conversation, threa gentle- men were assembled at breakfast, in a small room in a tavern overlooking tha quay at Liverpool. Tuis tri- angular party consisted of the Smasher, in an élegant tnd simple morning costume of tight trowsers of Stuart plaid, an orange-colored necktie, a blue checked waistcoat and shirt sleeves. Tho Smasher looked upon acoutasan essentiully out-door garment, and would no more have invested himself init to eat his break- fast, than he would have partaken of that refreshment with his hat on, or an umbrella up. ‘The two others were Mr. Darley and his chicf, Mr, Peter's, who had a little documentin his pocket, signed. by a Lancashire inagistrate, on which he set considerable value. They had come across to Liverpool asdirected by tho telo- graph, aud had there met with the Smasher, who had re- ceived letters for them from London, with thedetails of the'escape, and orders to be on the lookout for Peters and Gus. Since the arrival of these two, the trio had led a sufficiently idle and apparently purposeless life. They had engaged an spans overlooking the quay, in the window of which they were seated fcr the eat part of the day, playing the intellectual and exciting game of all-fuurs. There did notseem much in this to forward the cause of Richard Marwood—true. Mr. Peters would slip out every now and then to speak to - mysterious and graye-looking gentlemen, who com- manded respect wherever they went, and before whom the most daring thief in erpool shrunk ag before Mr. Calcraft himself. He wouid have strange conferences with them in corners of tha hostelry in which the trio had taken up their abode; he would go out, with them, and hover about the quays ani the shipping;. he would prowl about in the dusk of the evening, and ieee. these gentle-- men also prowling in the nucertain light would some- times salute them ag friends and brothers, at other times be entirely unacquainted with them, and now andthen Aeherenae two or three hurried gestures. with them, which the close observer would have per ceived to mean a great deal, Beyond this, nothing had been done—and in kpite of all this no tidings could be obtained of the Count de Marolles, except that no per- son ee srag to his description had left Liverpool, either by land or water. Still, neither Mr. Peters’s spirits nor patience failed him, and after every ‘inter- view hel.lupon tlie stairs or in the passage, atter every _ excursion to the Graye on streets he would return ag briskly as at the first, and reseat himself by the little table at the window, at which his colleagues (or rather his companions, tor neither Mr. Darley mor the Smasher were ofthe remotest degree of use to him), played, andtook itin turns to ruin each other trom morning till night. The real truth of the matter was that if anything, his so-called assistants were decided in his way ; but Gus Darley, from having distinguish: himself in the escape from the asylum, considered himself an amature Vidocque; and the Smasher, from the moment of putting in his left and unconsciously advancing the canse of Richard and justice, by ex- tinguishing tig Count de Marolles had panted to write his name, or rather make his mark upon thé scroll of fame, by arrestiny that gentleman in his own proper person, and without any extraneous aid whatever. It was rather hard for him, then, to haye to resign the prospect of such a glorious adventure to a man of Mr, Peters's inchea ; but he was of a calm end amiable dis- position, and would floor his adversary with as much good temper as he would eat his favorite dinner, or come up smiling at the man wno had floored him ; 80 with a growl of rsignation, he abandoned the reins’ to the steady, hands Bo used to hold them, und ‘seated himselt down to the consumption ofinnumerable clay pipes and glasses of bitter ale with Gus, who, being one of the most ancient of the order of the Cherokees, was an especial favorite with him. a ere On this third morning. however, there is a decided tone of weariness pervading the minds of both Gus and tho Smasher; three-handed all-fours, though a delicious and exciting game will Pe ape the incon- sistant mind especially when your third. Decnaly summoned from the table to take part in t mysterious dialogue with a person of persons ucknown, the result of which he declines to communicate to you. The view from the bow-window of the blue-parlor in the White Lion, Liverpool, is no doubt as animated ‘ag it is beautiful; but Rass iow, got tired t ty I , at 4 ‘have be i ) 3 and eer some. -very pretty pen ety ty x "of DE.” Jot ‘of ‘readers so inconstant as to get - gon’a books, and to down peacefully to thetr son’a bs cand 0, ip Ome fei dike, ‘graves “unacquu: ' ' layer is poe ‘ THREE TIMES DEAD. go it is acatcély, per to be wondered that the vola- tile Augustus thirsted lor the waterbrooks of Black Friars while the Smasher, feeling himself to be blush- / unseen and wasting the stamina, if not his sweet- ness, on the desert air, pined for the familiar shades of Bow Street aiid Vinegur Yard, and the home-sounds of the rumbling and jingling of the wagons, and the unpolite language of the drivers thereof, on market mornings in the adjacent garden. Pleasure and pal- aces are, all very well in their way, as the song says ; but there is just one little spot on earth which, whether it bea garret in Petticoat Lane, or a mansion in Belgrave uare, is dearer to us than the best of them; and the Smasher languishes for the friendly touch of the ebony handles of the porter-engine, and the scent of the Welsh rabbits of his youth. Perliaps I express myself in a more romantic manner on this subject, jnowever, than I should do; for the remark of the left-handed one as he pours himself out a cup of tea trom the top of the tea-pot (he despises the spout of that vessel as a modern innovation ou ancient simplic- ity), is as simple as it is energetic; he merely ob- serves that ‘he is jolly sick of this lot.’ This lot meaning Liverpool, the Count de Marolles, the White Lion Tap, three-handed All Fours, and the Detective Police Force. ‘ «Phere was nobody ill in Friar Street when I left,” said Gus, mournfully ; “but there had been a run up- . of his. : ae with the scien de: on “ Pimperneckel’s Universal Regenerator Pils, and some Woy generally comes of that.’” “t's my opinion,” observed the Smasher, doggedly, «that this "ere forin’ cove has give us the slip out and out; and the sooner we gets back to London the better. I never was much of a hand at chasing wild geese ; and,” he added: with rather a spiteful glance at the mild countenance of the detective, “I don't see ‘neither that stundin makin’ signs to parties unbeknown at street-corners atid stair-heads is the quickest way to catch them sort of birds ; leastways, it’s not the opinion held by the gents belongin’ to the ring, as I’ve had the honor to make acquaintance with.” “Suppose,” said Mr. Peters, on his fingers. “Oh!” muttered the Smasher; “ blow them fingers Tcan’t uuderstand ’em—thero!” The Leli-handed Hercules knew that was to attack the detective on his tenderest point, “Blest if I ever -knows his P’s from lis B's or his W’s from his X’s, let alone his vowels, and them would puzzle a conjuror.” Mr. Peters glanced at tle prize-fighter more in sor- row, than in anger, and taking out a greasy little pocket-book, and a greasier little pencil considerably the worse for having been vehemently chewed in moments of pre-occupation he wrote upon a leat of it, thus: . , “Suppose we catch him to-day?’ “Ah, very true,” ‘said the Smasher, sulkily, after he had examined the document in two or three different lights before he came upon its full bearings ; | «very true indeed—suppose we do—and suppose we don’t, on the other hand, and I know which is the like- liest. Suppose, Mr. Peters, we giv’ up lookin’ for a needle in a bundle of hay, which aftera time gets tryin’ to a lively disposition, andgo back to our businesses. If you had a@ girl as didu’t know British from best French, a servin’ of yourcustomers,” he continued, in an injured tone, “you'd be anxious to get home, and let your forring counts go to the devil their own ways.’ “Then go,” Mr. Peters wrote, in large letters, and Mo capitals. ; “Oh, ah! yes, to be sure,” replied the Smasher, who, T regret to say, felt Paintully, in huis absence trom do- mestic res, the want of somebody to quarrel with. “No, I thank you ;—go the very day as you're oing to catch him ; not itI am in any manner aware of Ene circumstance. I'm obliged to you,” he added, with satirical emphasis. : “Come, I say, old boy,’’ interposed Gus, who had been quietly doing execution upon a plate of deviled kidneys, during this liltle friendly altercation— Come, Tsay, ho snarling, Sniasher ; Peters isn’t going to con- test the belt you, you know.” ae Hee “You needn't be diggin’ at me. because I ain't cham- ion,” said the ornanient of the P. R., who was inclined ys find a malicious meaning in every word uttered that particular morhing ; “you needn’t come any of your aneers, because I ain't got the belt any longer.” The Smasher had been champion of England in his youth, it bad retired upon his Jaurels for many years, and Tate obaGTAy emerged from en life in a public- ‘house, to take a round or two with some old cpponent. “J tell you what itis, Smasher; it’s my opinion the air | p: Liverpool don't suit your constitution,” said Gus, iets sromised to atauitl By Peters here, and to go by his word in everything, for the sake of the man we want to serve ; and however trying it may be to our patience doing nothing, which perhaps is about as much as we can do, and make no mistakes, the first that gets tired and deserts the ship will beno friend to Rich- ard Marwood.” : “I'ma bad lot, Mr. Darley, and that’s the truth,” said- the mollified Smasher ; “but the fact is I’m used to a turn with the gloves every morning before breakfast, with the barman, and whien I don’t get it, I dare say I ain’t the pleasantest company goin’. I should think they've got gloves in the house; would you mind ing off your coat and having 4 turn, friendly like?” Gus assured him that nothing would please him bet-’ ter than that eer diversion, and in five minutes they had pushed Mr, Peters and the breakfast-table into a corner, and were hard at it. Mr. Darley’s know!- edge of the art Baad required to keep the slightest : ic movements of the ayile, though rly Smasher. ; é watt Peters didn’t stay at the breakfast-table long,| but after aa drank a huge breakfast cupfni of untial-looking coffee, ee wea 3 su itt a half a pint of beer, he slid quietly led « i toet hg : rathér lounged upon his guard, and wardéd off the most elaborate combinations of Mr. Darley’s fists, with as much ease as he would have brushed aside so many flies—‘it's my opinion that chap ain’t up to his busi- ness.”" 7 4 «Isn’t he?” replied Gus, as he threw down the gloves in despair, after haviug been half an hour in a violent perspiration, without baving succeeded in so much as rumpling the Smasher’s hair. “Isn’t he?’ he said, Saas bao interrogative as the most Se nn form ot speech. ‘ That man’s got head enough to be Prime Minister, and carry the House along with every twist of his fingers.” : “He must make his P’s and B's a little plainer afore he’ll get a bill through the Commons, though,” mut- tered the left-handed one,who couldn't get over his feel- ings of injury against the detective, for the utter dark- ness he had been three days kept in ag to the other's plans, ; The Smasher and Mr. Darley passed the morning in that remarkably intellectual and praiseworthy manner peculiar to gentlemen, who, being thrown oné of their usual ocoupation, are cast upon their own resources for amusement and employment. There was the daily paper to be looked at, to begin with; but after Gus had glanced at the leading article, a rifacimento of the Times leader of the day before, garnished with some local al- lusions, and highly spiced with satirical remarks a@pro- pos to our spirited contemporary, the Liverpool Aris- tides; atter the Smasher had looked at the racing fixtures for the coming week, and made rude observa- tions on the editing of a journal which failed to de- scribe the coming off of the event between Silver-polled Robert and the Chester Crusher; after, 1] say, the two gentlemen had each devoured his favorite page, the paper was an utter failure inthe matter of excitement, and the window was the next best thing. Now, to the peculiarly-coustituted mind of the left-handed one, looking out of a window was in itself very slow work; and, unless he was allowed to eject missiles of a trifling but annoying character, such as hot ashes,out of his pipe, the last drops of his pint of beer, the dirty water out of the saucers belonging to the flower-pots on the window-sill, or lighted lucifer matches, into the un- offending eyes of the passers-by, he didn’t, to use his own forcible remark, “seem to see the fun of it.’ Harmloss old’ gentlemen, with umbrellas; mild elderly ladies, with hand-baskets and brass-handled green silk parasols; and young ladies of from ten to twelve, going to school, in clean frocks, and on good terms with them- selves, the Smasher looked upon as his peculiar prey. To put‘his head out of the window, and make ten- der and political inquiries about their maternal parents; to go farther still, and express an earnest wish to be informed of their parents’ domestic arrange- ments, and whether they had been induced to part with a piece of machinery of some importance in the getting up of large washes; to insinuate alarming ‘suggestions of mad bulls in the next street, or a tiger just got loose from the Zoological Gardens ; to terrify the youthful scholar by asking him derisively whether rhe wouldn’t “catch it when he got to scliool; O no, “not at all, neither?’’ and to draw his head away sud- | denly, and altogether disappear from public view: to aét, in fact, after the manner of an accomplished clowit in a Christmas pantomine, was the weak delight of his manly mind; and when prevented by Mr. Darley’s friendly remonstrance from doing this, the Smasher abandoned the window altogether, and concentrated all the powers of his intellect on the pursuit of a lively young blue-bottle, which eluded his bandanna at every turn, and bumped itself violently against the winc ties at the very moment its pursuer was lookin . it up the chimney. ah | Time and the hour mde very long work of this par- |: ticular morning, and several glasses of bitters had |: been called for, and numerous games of cribbage had been played by the two companions, when Mr. Darley, looking at his watch, for not more than the twenty- second time in the last hour, announced, with some satisfaction, that it was halfpast two o’clock, and that it would, consequently, be very soon dinner- “time, Ww é “Peters is a long time gone,” suggested the Smasher. ron nee a “Take my word’ for it,” said Gus, “something has suayee up; he has laid his hand upon De Marolles at ast.” 4 ° 4 “I don’t think it,” replied ‘his ally, obstinately evga to believe in’ Mr. Peters’s extra share of the vine he to detain him, I’d like to know? He couldn’t go in with his left,” he muttered, derisively, and split his head open upon thé pavement, 'to keep him quiet for a day or two.”” . ? york . At this very moment there came ‘a tap ‘at the door, and a youthful person, in corduroy’ and in perspira- fion, with a very small dnd very dirty piece of paper, twisted up into a bad imitation of ‘a three-cornered note, entered the room. : : wy} “And you was to give me sixpence, if I run all the: way,” reniarked the youthful Murcury, “and I have ; look at my torehead.” : i And, in proof of his fidelity, the ‘messenger pointed to the water-drops which chased each other down: his open brow, and ran a dead heat to tho end of his nose, * x " The scrawl ran thus: “Tho Washington sails at 3 for New York ; be on the quay, and see the passengers embark ; don’t notice me unless T notice you. + Yours truly, - cae “Tt wag just give me by a gent in 4 hurry wot told: me {0 run niy mee off so as you should have it quick ;) indly thank you, ood-afternoon,” said the: t , , Bir, an messenger, all ji ion,” said the Smasher, as he stood, or | hi tude for the shilling Gus tossed him: as’ he ae © 0 afflatus ; ‘‘andif he did come across him, how's | one breath, as he bowed his grati-!| start. dismissed Tsaid so,” cried the surgeon, as the Smasher applied himself to the note with quite a3 much, nay, perhaps more earhestuess and solemnity than Chevalier Bunsen assumes when he deciphers a half-erased and illegible inscription, in a language which, for some two thous- and years, has been unknown to m man. “ Isaid so; Petersis on the scent, and this man will be taken yet. Put on your hat, Smasher, and let us lose no time; it only wants a quarter to three, and I wouldn't be ou! of this for a great deal.” ; “Tshouldn’t much relish being out of the fun either,” replied his companion; ‘* and ifit comes to blows, per- haps it is just as well [haven’t had my dinner.” There were a good many people going by the Wash- ington, and the deck of the small steamer which was te convey them on board of the great ship, where she lay in graceful majesty down the noble Mersey Rivers was crowded with every species of luggage it was pos- sible to imagine as appertaining to the widest varieties \of the genus traveler, There was the maiden lady, with a small income in the three-per-cents, and s termina tion of blood to the tip of a sharp nose, going out to join a married brother in New York, and evidently in- tent upon importing 8 parrot, in the last stage of bald- headedness (politely called moulting), and a limp and wandering-minded umbrella (weak in the ribs, and further afflicted with a painfully-sharp ferule, which always appeared where it was not expected, and evi- dently hankered wildly after the bystanders backbones} as favorable specimens ofthe progress of the fine arts in the mothercountry. There were several of those brilliant birds of passage,popularly known as “ travelers,” whose heavy luggage consisted ofacarpet-bag and walking-stick and whose light ditto was com posed ofa pocket-book and asilver pencil-case, of protean construction, which was sometimes a pen now and then a penknife, and y often a tooth-pick, These gentlemen came down to the | steamer at the last moment, inspiring the minds of nervous passengers with supernatural and convulsive cheerfulness by the light and airy way by which they — ; bade dieu to the comrades who had just looked round to see them start, and who made appointments with them tor Christmas supper-parties, and booked bets with them tor next year’s Newmarket first spring ; asitsuch things as shipwreck, peril by sea, heeling over Royal Georges, lost Presidents, and brilliant Irish comedians, setting forth on their return to tho land in which they had been so beloved and admired, never, never to reach the shore, were things that could not be. There were rosy- aaaareaek lasses, going over to earn fabulous wages, and get impossibly rich husbands. There were the old people, who essayed this long journey on an element which they knew only by sight in answer to the kind son's noble letter, inviting them to come and share the good days he had been so long in bring- ing to pass. There were stont Irish laborers armed with pick-axe and spade as with the best sword where- with to open the — oyster of the world in these latter degenerate days. There was the distinguished American family; paterfemilias, chewing, his sallow face a trifle sallower with the strongest Cavendish ever ootained since Sir Walter brought home ‘the wonder-working weed ; materfamilias, full of the book she has written on the manners and customs’ of the old country, in which she has entirely ‘ecrasce Vinfame,”’ in. the shape of ‘a brilliant generous, ardent,and but too truthful writer, who Has’ entered his glowing protest against that agreeable traffic in our fellow-creatures which seems the most natural ee ee trade = Lad eS. the ne mind. There were, in short. all the people who usually assemble when a good ‘ship sets sail for the land of dear Brother Jonathan; but the Count de Marollés there was not. : , zi es pani No, decidedly; no Count de Marolles. There, was a very amict-lopkt Irish laborer, keeping quite aloot from, the rest of his kind, who were su ly noisy and more than sufficiently forcible in the ic tio portions of their conversation. There was this very quiet Irishman, leaning on his spade and pick-axe, and evidently bent on not going on board till the very last moment; and there was an elderly gentleman in a black coat, who looked rather like a Methodist rson fut there wan no Gotint do Mavdieg ahd whi aoe ut there was no nt de Marolles, and what’s mor there was no Mr, Peters, ' sceath aoe This latter circumstance made Au uneasy; but I regret to say that the Smasher canal anything, 4 look of triumph, as the hands of the clocks about the quay pointed to three o'clock, and no Peters appeared: : ; : tinal ot “T knowed,’? hé said, with effusion; “I knowed that — cove wasn’t up ‘to usiness. ‘I wouldn't mind betting my place jn London agen sixpennorth of coppers that he’s a standin’ at this very individual moment of time, at a street corner a mile or so aoe signs to one of the Liverpool police officers.”* : 3 $ 4 1 2Gue aoe Ty The géntleman in thé black coat argo before them turned round on hearing this remurk, and smiled —smiled very, very faintly, but he certainly did smile. The Smasher's blood, which was ‘something like that of Lancaster, and celebrated for its tendency tomount, _ ae ina a es ‘ rt aay a * pe you find my conversation amusin,’ old gent,” he said, with considerable asperity; “I came down here 4on purpose to put you in spirits, on account of bein’ grieved tosee you always & lookin’ as if you'd jast undertaker | come home from your own funeral, and the was a dunnin’ you for the burial-fees, ’ ' Gus trod heavily: on his companion’s toot, es a friendly hint to him ‘not to get up a ; 3 and addressing the gentleman. who ‘appeared in no hurry to resent the Smasher’s contemptuous animad- versions, asked-him when he thought'the ‘boat would “Not for-five or dem minutes, T dare say," he an- | swored; “look. thero, is that. a coffin they're ‘bringing Soe SE 1 ' that he knoweil somebody as might ‘THREE: TIMES DEAD. this. way? Ym rather «shortsighted, be good enough to tell me if it is a coffin ?’’ } The Smasher, who had the glance of an eagle, replied that it decidedly was a coffin, adding, with a growl, in it, and no harm done to society. : The elderly gentleman took not the slightest notice of this gratuitous piece of information on the part of the lett-handed gladiator, but suddenly busied himself with his fingers in the neighboriood of his limp white cravat. ; “Why, I’m blest,” cried the Smasher,“ if the old baby ain’t at Peters’s game, a talkin’ to nobody upon hus fingers.’’ Nay, most distinguished professor of the noble art of setackres, is not that assertion a little premature? xaleing on his fingers certainly, looking at, nobody certai zs but for all that talking to somebody, and somebody looking at him; for, from the other side of the little crowd, the Irish laborer fixes his eyes intently on every movement of the, grave elderly gentleman's tinger’s, as they run. through four or five rapid words, and Gus Darley, perceiving this look, starts in amazo- ment, for the eyes of the Irish laborer are as the eyes ot Mr. Peters of the detective police. But neither the Smasher nor Gus are to notice Mr. Peters, unless Mr. Peters notices them. It is so ex- pressed inthe note which Mr. Darley has, at that very moment in his waistcoat pocket. So Gus gives his com- penn a nudge, and directs his attention to the smock ock and the slouched hat, in which the detective has hidden himself, with a hurried injunction to him to Keep quiet. Weare human at the best; ay, even when we are celebrated for our genius, and our well-known blow of the left-handed postman’s knock, or double auctioneer; and if the sober truth must be told, the Smasher was sorry. He didn’t want the dumb detec- tive to arrest the Count de Marolles—he had never read Coriolanus, neither had he seen the Roman, Mr. William bagreaey, in that character; but, for all that c the Smasher wanted to go home to Has Gea urliens of Drury. Lane, and say to his astonished mirers: Alone, I did it!’ and lo! here were Mr. Peters and the elderly stranger both entered for the same event. While gloomy and vengeful thoughts, therefore, troubled the manly breast of the Vinegar Yard gladia- tor, four men approach, bearing on their shoulders the aoe which had so aroused the stranger's attention. y bore it on board the steamer, and a few moments after, a gentlemanly and cheerful-looking man of about forty, stepped across the narrow platform, and occupied himself with a crowd of pickeges, ‘which stood in a heap, apart from the rest of the luggage on the crowded Again the elderly stranger's fingers were busy in the region of his cravat ; the tapenainl observer would have merely thought him very fidgety about the limp bit of muslin ; and this time the finyers of Mr. Peters tel jphed an answer. Gentlemen,” said the stranger, addressing Mr. Darley and the Smasher,in the most matter of-fact manner ; “ you will be good enough to go on board that steamer with me ; Iam working with Mr. Peters in this. affair; remember, I am going to America by that vessel yonder, and you are my triends, come with me to see me off. Now, gentlemen,” He has no time to say any more, for the bell rings ; and the pap straggless, the people who enjoy the lates available moment on ferra jirma, scramble on board ; 1 them the Smasher, Gus, and the stranger, who atick very closely together. ; The 1 has been placed in the center of the vessel, on the top of a pile of chests, and its gloomy black out- ‘line is sharp y defined against the clear blue autumn sky. Now, there is a general feeling among the passen- : , that the presence of this coffin is a peculiar in- jury tothem, It is unpleasant, certainly. From the moment of its appearance among them, a change has come over the spirits of every one of tho travelers. They try to away from it, but they try in vain; thore is adismal fascination in the defined and ghastly ‘shape, which all the rough wrappers which-can be ‘thrown over it will ‘conceal. hey find their eyes - wan to it,in preference even to watching re- ' ceding Liverpool, whose steeples and tall chimneys are - dipping down and down into the blue water, and will goon ear altogether. They are interested in it, -in spite of themselves; they ask questions of one an- ‘ other; they ask questions of the engineer and of the steward, and of the captain of the steamer, but can _ ¢licit nothing except that, lying in that coffin so close _tothem, and yet so very, very far away from them, ans an American gentleman gf some distinction, Y having died suddenly in Eugland, is being carried back to New York, to be buried among his friends in that city. The ved passengers of the Washington cee aes upon them, that the American gen- _ tleman of nection (they remember that he is a gen- tleman of distinction, and ot their tone accord- ingly) could not have been buried in: England likes reasonable being. Tho British dominions were not good enough for him, they suppose. Other passengers, g the question still further, ask whether he eouldn’t have been taken home by some other vessel ; nay, whether, indeed, he ought not to have had a shi all to himself, ins of harrowing the feelings ana ing upon the spirits of first-class passengers. They * look almost spitefully, as they make these remarks, tow- ard the shrouded coffin, which, to their great aggrava- tion, is not entirely shrouded by the wrappers about it; one corner being uncovered, reveals the stout, ‘fh oak—for it is only # temporary: coffin, and the gentleman of distinction will be put into something better befitting his rank when he arrives at his desti- nation. It is to be observed, and it is observed by many, that the cheerful passenger, in fashionable mourning, and with the last great-coat which Bond inspiration his given to the London world, _ thrown over hia arm, hovers, in a protecting manner, | about the coffin, and evinces a fidelity, which, ‘but for his perfectly cheerful countenance and self-possessed manner, would be really touching, toward the late American gentleman of distinction, whom he has for his only traveling companion. Now, though a great many questions had been asked on all sides; one question especially, namely, whether it—people always dropped their voices when they pro- nounced that small pronoun—whether % would not be put in the hold as soon as they got on board the Wash- ington, the answer to which question was an affirma- tive, and gave considerable. satistaction; except, in- deed, to one moody old gentleman, who asked, ‘‘How about getting any little thing one happened to want on the journey out of the hold?’ and was very pro- perly snubbed for the suggestion, and told that pas- sengers had no business to want thinys out of the hold on the voyage; and, furthermore, insulted by the live- liest of the lively travelers, who suggested that per- haps, the old gentleman had only one.clean shirt, and had put that at the bottom of his traveling chest... Now, though, I say, so many questions had been asked, no one had as yet, presumed to address the cheerful-look- ing gentleman, convoying the American of distinction home to friends, who might after all, be naturally sup- posed to know more than anybody else about the. sub- ject. He was smoking a cigar, and though he kept very close to the coffin, he was about the only person on board who didn’t look at it; appearing to be particu- larly interested in the fading town of Liverpool.. The Smashers Gus, and Mr. Peters's unknown ally, stood very close to this gentleman, while the detective him- self leant over the side of the vessel near to, though a little apart from the Irish laborers and rosy-cheeked country girls, who, as steerage passengers, very pro- perly herded together, and did not attempt to contam- inate by their presence the minds or the garments of the superior beings, who were to occupy saloons and state-cabins six feet long by three feet wide, and to have reen peas, and new milk from the cow all the way out. , Presently, the elderly gentleman of rather shabby genteel but clerical appearance, who had so briefly in- troduced himself to Gus and the Smasher, made some remarks about the town of Liverpool to the cheerful friend of the late distinguished American. The cheertul friend took his cigar out of his month, smiled, and said, “ Yes, it’s a thriving town, a small London, really—the metropolis, in miniature.” “You know Liverpool very. well?’’ asked the Smash- er’s companion, f ; “No, not very well—in point of fact, I know very little of England at all. My visit has been a_ brief one.” “ He is evidently an American by this remark, though there is very little of Brother Jonathan in his manner; he seems to feel no deprivation from the fact of not having anything to whittle as he talks, and he evidently can exist for ten minutes at astretch without either chewing or expectorating. “Your visit has been a brief one? Indeed, And it has had a very melancholy termination, I regret to perceive,”’ said the persevering stranger, on whose as word the Smasher and Mr. Darley hung respect- ully. 1 \ sf “Avery melancholy, termination,” replied , the entleman, with the sweetest smile. ‘‘My poor end had hoped to return to the bosom of his family, and delight them many am evening round the cheerful hearth, by the recital of his adyentures in, and im- peak of the mother country. Youcannot imagine,” e continued, speaking very slowly, and as he spoke allowing his eyes to wander from the stranger to the Smasher, and trom the Smasher to Gus, with a glance, which, if anything, had the ane uhry shade of anxiety init. “You cannot imagine the interest we, on the other side of the Atlantic take in everything that oc- curs in the mother country, .We may be great over there; we may be rich over there ; wemay be univers- ally beloved and respected over there--but I doubt— lreally, after all, doubt,’ he said, sentimentally, “whether we are truly happy. We sigh for tha wings of @ dove, or to speak practically, for our travelin expenses, that we may come over here and be a’ rest.’’ : “And yet, I conclude it. was the especial wish of your late friend to be buried over there?’ asked the stranger. 3 ie “Tt was—his dying wish.” -“ And the melancholy fat of complying with that wish devolved on you?’’ said the stranger, with a do- gree of puerile curiosity and frivolous interest in an affair entirely irrelevant to the matter in hand, which bewildered Gus, and at which the Smasher palpably turned up his nose; muttering to himself at the samo time, that the forring swell would have time to get to America, while they was a palaverin’ and ajawin’ this ’ere BSP ie . 7 “Yes, it devolved on me,” replied the cheerful, gentleman, offering his cigar-case to the three friends, who declined the proffered weeds.‘ We were connec- tions ; his mother’s half.sister married my second cou- sin—not very nearly connected, certainly, but ex- tremely attached to each other. It will be a melan- choly satisfaction to his poor widow and the thought of phan eee me threefold for anything that I may suffer. ie . He looked altogether far too airy and charming a creature to suffer very much, but the stranger bowed gravely, and. Gus remarked, in the prow of the vessel, the earnest eyes of Mr. Peters attentively fixed on the little group, $ As to the Smasher, he was so utterly disgusted with the stranger’s manner of doing business that he aban- doned himself to his own thought, and hummed.a tune, the tune appertaining to what is generally called a comico song, being the last passages in the life of a humble and unfortunate member of the working class and ramonour profession, as related by himself. While talking to the chverful gentleman on this very melancholy subject, the stranger from Liverpool bap pened to get quite close to the coffin, and with an ad- mirable freedom irom prejudice which astonished the other passengers standing near, rested his hand care- lessly on the stout oaken lid, just at that corner where the canvas lett it exposed. Jt was a most speaking proot of the almost overstrained feeling of deyotion Possessed by the cheeriul gentleman toward his late triend, that this trifling action seemed quite to fidget him; his eyes wandered uneasily toward the stranger's black-gloved hand, and at last, when, in absence of mind, the stranger actually drew the heavy covering right over this corner of the coffin, his uneasiness reached a climax, and, drawing it hurriedly back, he re- arranged it in its old fashion, 2 “Don’t you wish the coffin to be entirely covered !’? said the stranger, quietly. ‘‘Yes—-no—that is’’— said the cheerful gentleman, with some embarrassment in his tone, “that is—I—you see there is something of profanity in astranger’s hand approaching the remains of those we love.’ . ; “Suppose, then,” said his interlocutor, “we take a turn about the deck, this neighborhood. must be very painful to you.” . ‘ “On tho contrary,” replied the cheerful gene ate. “you will think me,I dare say, a very singular person, but I prefer remaining by him to the last; the coffin will be put in the hold as soon as we get on board the Washington, then my duty will have been accomplished, and my mind will be at rest. You go to New York with us?” he asked, “T shall have that pleasure,’’ replied the stranger. “And your frien, your sporting friend ?’’ he asked, with a rather supercilious glance at the many-colored. raiment, and mottled-soap complexion of the Smasher, who was still singing sotto voce the above-mentioned melody, with his arms folded on the rail of the bench ou which he was seated, and his chin resting moodily on his coat-sleeves. , ; ‘ “No,” replied the stranger, “my friends, I regret to say, leave me as soon as we get on board.” in a few minutes more, they reached the side of the brave ship, which had looked.a white-winged speck, not a bit too big for Queen Mab to have visited the United States in, from Live 1 Quay, but which was, oh, such a leviathan of a vessel, when you stood just under her, and had to go up her side with a ladder, which ladder seemed to be subject to shivering fits, and struck terror to the nervous lady and the bald headed parrot, . All the pissengers, except the cheerful gentleman with the coffin, and the stranger, with Gus and the Smasher, and Mr. Peters loitering in the background, seemed bent on getting up, each before the other, and considerably increased the confusion by evincing this wish in a candid but not conciliating manner, showing a dégree of ill-teeling whicls was much increased by the passengers that hadn't got up looking daggers at the passengers that had got up and seemed settled quite comfortably, high and dry, upon the stately deck. At last, however, everyone but the aforesaid group had ascended the ladder—some stout sailors were preparing great ropes, wherewith to haul.up the coffin, and the cheerful gentleman was busily directing them, wher the captain of the steamer said to the stranger from Liv: ol, as he loitered at the bottom of the ladder with Mr. Peters at his elbow, “Now, then, sir, if you’re for the Washington, quick’s the word; we’re off as soon. as ever they’ve got that job over,’ pointing to the cof- fin. .The stranger trom Liverpool instead of complying with this very natural request, whispered a few worde into the ear of the captain, who looked very grave on hearing them, and then, advancing to the cheerful gen~ tleman, who was very anxious and very uneasy about the mannerin which the coffin was to be hauled up the side of the vessel, he laid a heavy hand upon his shoul- der, and said: a i Py “‘T want the lid of that coffin taken off, before those men haul it up.” 2 “ Such a change came over the face of the cheerful ener as only comes over the face of a man who nows that he is playing a desperate game, and knows, as surely, that he has lost it. ‘ , “My good sir,” he said, “you’re mad. Not for the Queen of England would I see that coffin-lid up- screwed.” ; ieeithyueel “T don’t think it will gine us 80 much trouble as that,” saidthe other, quietly. ‘I very much doubt its being screwed down at all. You were Fane alarmed just now, lest the person within should be smothered, You. were Sercinly frightened when. I drew the heavy canvas over those ain ons in the oak,” he added, point- ing to the lid,in the corner of which two or three cracks were apparent to the close observer. “Good heavens, the man is mad,” cried the gentle- man, whose manner had entirely lost its airiness, “ the man is evidently a maniac. This is too dreadful, Is the sanctity of death to be profaned in this manner ? Are we to cross the Atlantic in the company of a mad- man ?’ : ee “You are not to cross the Atlantic at all, just yet.” said the Liverpool stranger; ‘the man is not mad, I assure you, but is one of the principal members of the Liverpool detective police-force, and is empow- — ered to arrest a person who is supposed to be on this boat. There is only one place in which that per- son can be concealed. Here is. my warrant to arrest Jabez North, alias Raymond Marolles, alias the Count de Marolles. I know ascertainly as that I myself stand here, that he lies hidden in that coffin, and I desire that the lid may be removed. If lam mistaken it can be immediately replaced, and I shall be realy to render you my most fervent apologies for haying profaned the repose of the dead. Now, Peters,” _- ; e dumb detective went to one end of the ooffin, while his colleague stood at the other. The Liverpoo} officer was correct in his supposition ; the lid was only secured by two or three long, stout nails, and gaye way in three minutes. The two detectives lifted it off the a tee _ Coffin, and there, flushed, half-suff “having been foun THREE TIMES DEAD. es ted, with despera- tion in his wicked blue eyes, his teeth locked in furious Yage at his utter powerlessness to escape from the grasp of his pursuers, there, run to earth at last, lay the accomplished Raymond, Count de Maroll:s. They put the handcuffs on him before they lifted him out of the coffin, the Smasher assisting. Years after, when tne Smasher grew to be a very old man, he used to tell to admiring and awe-stricken customers the story of tuis arrest; and his memory apparently failing, he omitted to mention either the Liverpool detective or our good friend Mr. Peters as taking any part in it, but described the whole affair as conducted by himself alone, with an invalculable number of “sees,” and ‘‘ 80 then I thinks,” and ‘‘ well, what do I do next's,’”’ and other phrases of the same description. The Count de Marolles, with tumbled hair, and a white face, and blue lips, sitting handcuffed upon the bench of the steamer, between the Liverpool detective and Mr. Peters, steaming back to Liverpool, was a sight not good to look upon. Tue cheerful gentleman sat with the Smasher and Mr. Darley, who had been told to keep an eye upon him, and who, the Smasher especially, kept both eyes upon him, with a will. . Throughout the little voyage there were no words spoken. but those from the Liverpool detective, as he first put the fetters on the white and slender wrists of his prisoner : “ Monsieur de Marolleg,”’ he said, ‘ you've tried this ‘ Uttle ganie once before, This is the second occasion, I understand, on which you’ve done a sham die; I'd haye you beware of the third time; it’s generally, as superstitious people think, fatal,” CHAPTER XLY. Once more Slopperton on the Pophy. rang with a sub- ject, dismissed from the public mind eight years ago, and now revived with a great deal more excitement and discussion thanever. That subject was the murder of Mr. Montague Harding. All Slopperton madeitselfinto one yoice, and spoke but upon one theme—the pending trial of another man for that very crime of which Richard Marwood was found guilty years ago—Richard, who, report said, died in an attempt to escape from the county asylum. Very little was known of thecriminal, but a very deal was conjectured, and a great deal more was vented, and ultimately most conflicting reports were spread abroad by, the citizens of Slopperton, each of whom had his particular account of the seizure of De Marolles, and who each stood to his view of the case with a pertinacity and fortitude worthy of a better cause. Thus, if you went into High Street, eaves that thoroughfare from the Market-place, you woul hhear how this De Marolles was a Freneh nobleman, who had crossed the channel in an open boat on the night of the murder, walked from Dover to Slopperton, not above two hundred miles by the shortest cut, and gone back to Calais in the sanie manner. If staggered by the slight discrepancies of time and space, in this account of the transaction, you pursued your inquiries a little further down the same street, you would very likely be told that De Marolles was no Frenchman at all, but the son of aclergyman inthe next county, whose unfor- tunate mother was at that moment on her knees in the throne-rooin at Buckingham Palace, soliciting his par- .don on account of his connection with the clerical in- terest. If this story struck you as rather more roman- tic Aan probable, you had only to turn the corner into Little Market Street, rather a low neighborhood, and chiefly inhabitedby butchers and the tripe and cow- heel trade, and you might sup full of horrors; the denizens of this locality laboring under the fixed con- viction that the prisoner then lying in Slopperton jail, ‘was neither more nor less than adistinguished burg long the ae ofthe United Kingdoms of Great Brit- sin and Ireland, and guilty of no end of murders. There were others who confined themselves to ani- mated and detailed descriptions of the attempted escape ‘and capture of the accused. These con, ted at Bregal . street-corners, and disputed and gesticulated in little ups, one man often dropping back from his compan- ions, and taking a wide berth on the pavement, to give his particular story the benefit of illustrative action. Some stories told how he, the prisoner, had got half-way ‘to America, concealed in the paddle-wheel of a screw steamer; others gave an animated account of his ¢ hidden in a corner of the engine- room, where he had laid concealed for fourteen “Ways without either bite or sup. Others told a he had been furled up in the foretop sail of an ‘Am mn man-of-war. Others, how he made the pas gage in the maintop of the same vessel, only descending in the dead of night for his meals, and paying the cap- tain of the ship a quarter of a million of money for the accommodation. As to the sums of money he had em- ed in his capacity of banker, they grew with every ps at last Slopperton turned up its nose at any- thing less than a bill on for the sum total of his plund- et; and a million more or less, on the wrong side of ‘his account-book was neither here nor there. The assizes were looked forward to with such eager- nese as no other assizes were ever anticipated before; and the judges and barristers on this circuit were the envy of judges and sters on other circuits, who said, bitterly, that no such case ever came across their ‘way, and that it was like Prius Q. C’s luck to be coun- se) for the prosecution in such a trial; and that if Nisi, whom the Count de Marolles had intrusted with his defense, didn’t get him off, he, Nisi, deserved to be hung in lieu of his client, It seemed a strange and awful instance of retributive ice, Raymond Marolles, having been taken in his ‘endeavor to escape, in the autumn of the year, had to 4 t ri +3. ‘to 2. ta ial evid had done years before. Who shall dare toenter this man’s cell? Who shall | dare to look into this hardened heart? Who shall fol- low the dark and terrible speculations of that pervert- ed intellect ? f At last the time, so welcome to the free citizens of Slopperton, and so very unwelcome to some of the denizens in ‘the jail, who preferred awaiting their trial in that retreat to crossing the briny ocean for an un- limited period as the issue of that trial; at last the assize-time came round once more; once more the tip-. top Slopperton hotels were bewilderingly gay with ele- gant youny barristers, and yrave, gray-headed judges. Once more the criminal court was one vast. sea of hu- man heads rising wave on wave tothe very roof; and once more every eager eye was fastened.on the dock in which stood the elegant and accomplished Raymond, Count de Marolles, alias Jabez North, sometime pauper of the Slopperton on the Sloshy Union, atterwards usher in the academy of Doctor Tappenden, clarged with the willful murder of Montague Harding, also of Slopperton, eight years before. The first point the counsel for the prosecution en- deavored to prove to he minds of the jury, was the identity of Raymond de Marolles, the Parisian, with Jabez North, the pauper schoolboy, This hinged chiefly upon his power to overthrow the evidences of his death, in which all Slopperton had hitherto firmly believed. Dr. Tappenden had stood by his usher’s corpse. How, then, could that usher be alive and before them now,? But there were plenty to certify that here he was in the flesh, this very Jabez North, whom they remembered, and had been in the habit of seeing eight years ago. They were ready to identify him in spite of his dark hair and eyebrows. On the other hand, there were some who saw the body of the enicide, feund by Peters, the detective, on the heath outside Slopperton ; and these were as ready to declare, that that body was the body ot Jabez North, the usher to Dr. Tappenden, and none other. But when arough-looking man, with amangyfurcap in his hand, and two y locks of hair, carefully twisted into limp curls on either side of his swarthy face, which curls were known to his poetically and figuratively dis- posed friends as Newgate knockers—when this man— who gave his name to the jury as Slithery Bill, or, see- ing the jury didn’t approve of this cognemen, Bill Withers, if they liked it better—was called into the witness-box, his evidence, sulkily and rather despond- ingly given, as from one who says, “it may be my turn next,’’ threw quite a new light upon the subject. Bill Withers was politely asked if he remembered the summer of 18—. Could remember the summer of 18—; was out of work that summer, and made the marginal remark that ‘‘them as couldn’t live, might starve or steal, for all Slopperton cared.”’’ Was again politely askedif he remembered doing one particular job of work that summer. Did remember it, made the marginal remark, ‘and it wag a jolly. queer dodge, as ever a cove had a hand rf i 3 Was asked to be kind enough to state what it was. Assented to the request with a polite nod of the head, and proceeded to smooth his Newgate knockers, and fold his arms on the ledge of the witness-box prior to stating his case, then cleared his throat, and com- menced discursively, thus ; “Vy, it vas as this “ere—I vas out of vork—I does up amall gent’s gardens in the spring, and tidies, and veeds, and rakes, and hoes ’em a bit,,back and front, vhen I can get it to do, vich ain’t often ; and, bein’ out of vork, and old mother Thingamy down Blind Peter, she say to me, vich she vas a vicked old ag, she say to me, ‘I've got a job for them, as asts no questions an, don’t vant to be told no lies; by vich remark, and the vay of her altogether, 1 knew she veren’t up to no good, 80 I says, ‘you look here, mother, if it’s a job a respectable ‘young man, vot’s out o’ york, and ain’t had bite or sup since the day afore yesterday, can do vith a clear conscience, I’ll do it; if itain’t I von’'t— there!’”’, Having recorded which heroic declaration, Mr, William Withers wiped his mouth, and looked round the court, as much as to say: ‘‘ Let Slopperton be proud of such a citizen.” ac “*Don’t you go to flurry yourtender constitution and do yourself a unrecoverable hinjury,’ the old cat made reply ; ‘it’s ajob the parson of the parish might do, if hed got atruck.’ ‘Atruck? I ses; ‘is it movin’ boxes you’re makin’ this ’ere palaver about?’ ‘Never you mind vether it’s boxes, or vether it ain’t: vill you do it?’ she ses, ‘vil you do it, and put a sovering in your pocket, and never go for tosplit, unless you vants set pyrene throat of yours slit some fine heay- enin'?’” ‘ “And you consented to do what she required of you?” fpquented the counsel. : “Vell, I don’t know about that,” replied Mr. Withers, ‘but I undertook the job. ‘So,’ ses she, that’s the old un, she ses, ‘you bring a truck down by that there broken buildin-ground at the back of Blind Peter, at ten o’clock to-night, and you keeps yourself niet till you hears a yhistle ; ven you hears a vhistle, she ses, ‘bring your truck round agen our front door ; this here's all you've got to do,’ she ses, ‘besides keepin’ your tongue between your teeth.’ ‘All right’ I ees, and off I goes to see if there vas any cove as yould trust me vith a truck, agen the hevenin’. Vell, I finds the cove, vich, seein, I vanted it bad, he stood out for a bob anda tanner for the loan of it.” : “Perhaps the jury would wish to be told what sum of money—I conclinde it is money—a bob and a tanner represent,’’ said the counsel. “They must be a jolly bignorant lot, then, any- ways,” replied Mr. Withers with more. candor than await the spring assizes of the following year for his | circuml “out even a longer trial s herefore, ea a hae wt x chard Marwood, to period in his solitary cell than umlocution. ‘Hany hinfant knows eighteenpence ven it's showed him.” : “Oh,abob and s tanner are eightconpence; very apes ane the counsel, encouragingly ;:" pray,.go.on, . ers, { y ix ‘«Vel, ten o'clock come, and vern’t it a precious stormy night, that’s all,and there I vas a vaitin’ a sittin’ on this blessed truck at the back of Blind | Peter, vich vos my directions. At last the vhistle come, and @ precious cautious vhistle it vos, too, as soft as a niteingel vot’s paying its addressess to another nighteingel, and round I goes to the front, as vos my directions, Then, agen her door stands the old hag, and agen her stands a young man in a hold ragged pair of trousis and.a shirt. kin’ him hard in the face, who does I see but Jim the hold ’un’s grandson, 80 I ses, ‘Jim!’. friendly-like, but_he makes no reply, and then the hold ‘un ses, ‘Lend thig young gent. a’and here, vil yer?’ So in I goes, and there on the bed I sees something rolled up very care- ful in a hold counterpane. It giv’ mea turn like, and I didn’t much like the looks of it; but I sees nothink, and then the young man Jim,as I thinks, ses, ‘Lend usa hand with this ’ere, vill yer?” and it giv’s me another turn like, for though it’s Jim’s self, somehow it ain't quite Jim's voice—more genteel and fine-like— but I goes up to the bea, and J takes hold of von end of vot Jays there—and then I gets turn mumber three —for I finds my suspicions vos correct—it vos a dead body 1” ‘A dead body ?” “Yes; but who’s it yos there vos no knowin’, it voe wrapped up in that manner. ButJI feels myself turn dreadful vhite, and: 1 ses, ‘If this here's anythink wrong, I vashes my hands oy it, and you may do your dirty vork yourself.’ I hadn’t got the vords out be- fore this ’ere young man, as ] thought at first vos Jim, caught me by the throat sudden, and threw me down on my knee. I ain't a baby, but Lor’, I vos nothink in hig grasp, though lis hand vos as vhite and deliket a8 & young lady’s. ‘Now you just look ’ere,’ he ses, and I looked as yellasI could, with my eyes a startin” out ov my head; ‘ you see yot this is,’ and vith his left hand he takes a pistol out.ov his pocket; ‘you refuse to do vot ve vant done, or you go for to be noisy, or in any vay ill inconvenient us, and it’s the last time as ever yon'll have the chance of so doing. Get up,’ heses, asif 1 vos a dog, and I gets up, and I agrees to do vothe vants, for there vos that there devilin that young man’s hi, that I began to think it vos best not to go agin hin.’’ Here Mr. Withers paused for refreshment after his exertions, and ‘blew his noise very «leliberately on a handkerchief, which, from its dilapidated ee: resembled a.red cotton cabbage-net. Silence reigned throughout the crowded court, broken only by the scratching of the pen with which the counsel for the defense was taking notes of the evidence, and the fiut- tering of the leaves of the reporter’s pocketbooks, as’ they threw. off page after page. The prisoner at the bar looked straight before him, the firmly-compressed lips had never once quivered, the golden-fringed eyelashes had never drooped. | “Can you tell me,” said the counsel for the prosecu- tion, ‘‘ whether you have ever since that night seen thia yonnk man who go closely resembled your old friend, ie ee ae “Never seen him since, tomy knowledge,” (there was a flutter in the crowded court, as if every specta- ie had simultaneously drawn a long breath) “ till to- ay.” eg “ Till to-day ?” said the counsel. ‘., This time it was more than a flutter—it was a sub- dued murmur that ran through the enone. “Be ‘ood enough ta say if you can see him at this present moment. : ‘ ; eee “Ican,” replied Mr. Withers—‘ that’s him, or my name ain't vot I’ve been led to believe it is.”". a And he panied with a dirty but decided finger to the prisoner atthe bar. . “ ee The prisoner.slightly elevated his arched cyebrows superciliously, as if he would say : 3 “This is a pretty sort of witness to hang a man.” “Be so good as to continue your story,” said the counsel, ‘ 7 “Yell, I does vot he tells me, and I lays the body, vith his ’elp, on the truck. ‘Now,’ he ses, ‘follow this ’ere hold. voman, and do everythink vot she telle you, or you'll find it considerably vorse for your fu- ture ’appiness,’ vith vich he slams the door upon me, the old un, and the truck, and I sees no more of ‘im. Vell, I follows the old ‘un through a lot of Janes and Heats out upon the ’eath, and ve crosses over the 'eath, till ve comes to vere it’s precious lonely, yet the pedge of the pease like; and ’ere she tells meé as ve’re t leave the body, and here ve shifte it off the truck, and lays itidown upon the grass, vich it was a rainin’ ’eavens ’ard, and a thunderin’ and a ) ¥ ‘And now,’ she ses, ‘yot you got todo is togo back from vheres yon come from, and lose no time about it, and take notice,’ she ses, “if hever you speaks, or jabbers, about this here business, it’ll be the hend of your jabberin’ in this yorld ;’ vith vitch she looks ‘at me like a hold vitch as she vos, and points yith her skinny harm dewn the road. 1 yalks By chalks, but I dosn't valk em very far, and presently I sees the old ’ag a runnin’ back towards the town as fast as ever she could tear. ‘Ho!’ I ses, ‘you are a nice -lot, you are, but I'll see who's dead, in spite of you.’ SoIcrawle up to vere ve’d left the body, and there it vos sure enuff, but all uncovered now, the face a starin’ up. at the black sky, and it vos dressed, as far as [I could make out, like a gentleman, all in black, but it was so jolly dark I couldn’t see the face, vhen all of a sudden, vhile I vos Renee Sen and looking at it, there comes yon of the longest flashes of lightenin’ as Lever remem- ber, and in the blue light I sees the face plainer I could have seen it in the day, I oe should have fell down all ofaheap. Ityas Jim! Jim if, a8 1 knowed as well as 1 ever. knowed doad at my feet. My first thought vos as how t! yeung man as back slums, till ve leaves the town behind, and gets lightenin' like von o'clock. a ae THREE TIMES DEAD. ~~, + v0a 80 like Jim, had murdered Kim: but there vosn’t no marks of wiolence novheres about the body. Now, Thadn’t in my own mind any doubt as how it vas Jim! but still; I ses to myself, I ses, ‘ everythink seems topsy turvy like, this night, so I'll be’sure’'; 50 I tikes up lis harm and turns up his coat sleeve. Now, vy | does this, is this ere; there vas @ young voman “Jim vos unoommon fond ov, vich her name vos Bess, though he and many more called her, for short, Sillikins ; and von day vhen me and Jim vos ata ae ve happened to fal] in vith a sailor, vot ve’d both knowed afore he “vent tosea. So he vos a tellin’ of us his adventures and such like, and then he'said promiscus, ‘I'll show * you somethin’ pretty ;’ and sure enuff, he slipped up © the sleeves ov his Garnsey, and there, all over his harm, vos all manner ov sort ov picters done vith gunpow- der, such as hankers, and Rule Britannias and ships in full sail on the backs of flyin’ halligators. So Jim takes quite a fancy to this ’ere, and he ses, ‘I vish Joo (the sailor’s name bein’ Joe), I vish, Joe, as how you'd do me my young voman’s name, hand a wreath of roses ‘on my harm, like that there?’ Joe ses, ‘and sol vill, ‘and velcome,’ and sure enuff a veek or two arterwards Jim comes to me vith his harm like a picter-book, and Bess as large as life just above the elbow joint. Sol ‘turns up his coat sleeves and vaits for. a flash ov light- nin,’ I hasn't to vaitlong, and there I reads ‘ B.E.8.8.’ “There ain't no doubt, now,’I ses, ‘this ’ere’s Jim, , = there’s some willany or other in it, vot I ain't up ee A 8%, “Very good,” said the counsel, “we may want you again by-and-by, I think, Mr. Withers; buf for the ‘present you may retire.” - The next witness called was Dr. Tappenden, who re- lated the circumstances of the admission of Jabez North into his household, the high character he had from the Board of the Slopperton Union, and the con- - Adence reposed in him. “You placed great trust, then, in this person ?” asked the counsel for the prosecution. “ The most implicit trust,” replied the schoolmaster; “so much so, that he was frequently employed by me to collect subscriptions for a public charity of which I was the treasurer—The Slopperton Orphan Asylum. | [ think it only right to mention this, as on one occasion it was the cause of his calling upon the unfortunate 5 eman who was murdered.’’ “Indeed! will you be so good as to relate the cir- , cumstance?”’ x “I think it was abont three days before the murder when, one morning, at a little before twelve o’clock—~ - that being the time for the pupils being dismissed | from their studies for an hour’s recreation—I said to him, ‘Mr. North I should like youto call upon this Indian gentleman, who is Se ee Mrs. Marwood and whose wealth isso much talked of’ ’)—~ “Pardon me—you said, ‘whose wealth is so much atlked of’—can you swear to having made that re- mutie P */ ‘ a I can.’ i _“ Pray, continue,” said the counsel. «7 should like you,’ I said, ‘to call upon this Mr. » Harding, and solicit his aid forthe aan Asylum; we aresadly in want.of funds. 1 know, Mr, North, your “heart is in the work and you will plead the cause of the orphans successfully; you have an hour before dinner; itis some distance to the Black Mill, but you can walk fast, there and back. He went accordingly, - and on his return eee ‘a five-pound note, which m.’”" ‘ ME rappauain piocsetied to describe the cir ae en esc: 6 circum. dda of thé death of the little boy in the ushier's : Spepoeut on the yerynight of the murder. Ono of | @ ‘servants was examined, who slopt on the same floor as North, and who said she had heard strange noises in his room, that night, but had attributed it to the fact of the usher sitting up to attend upon the in- “valid, She was asked what were the noises she had lneard. : _“ The window was twice opened, and twice shut.” ° “ Atwhat interval from the first time was the second time of its being opened ?’’ asked the counsel. “About two hours,” she replied, “ as far as I could sgh vet ot WOOF. . t i Brine next witness for the prosecution was the old servant, a. aan f ; «Could she remember ever having seen the prisoner at the bar?” ‘ap Se eager 5 : ; ies , old woman put on her spectacles, and steadfastly . irded the elegant Monsieur de Marolles, or Jabez as his enemies insisted on calling him. Atter a ‘very deliberate inspection of that gentleman's personal 7 rather tying to the feelings-of the spec- tators, , Martha Jones said, rather hater ely: “He had light hair, then.” ut «He had light hair, then.” “You méan, I conclude,” said the counsel, “ that at tle time of your first seo- ing the prisoner his hair was of 4 different color to “wilde 10 now. Supposing that he had dyed his hair “agis not an uncommon practice, can you swear that serene seen him before to-day?” » 7 me can.’ ‘i ¥ F E - “On what occasion ?”’ asked the counsel. ; ” "Three days before the murder of my mistress’s poor ‘brother. opened the gate for him. He was very civil spoken, and admired the pie very much, and asked me if he mijett ook about it a little.” “Hoe asked you low him to look about the gar- feet wetey, was this as he went in, or as be went OME Pe kee ME DHA ‘ é ~ “Jt was when Tlet him out.” - And how long did he stay with Mr. Harding?” _“Not more than ten minutes. Mr. Harding was in “hia bed-room; he had cabinet in his bed-room in which ‘he kept and money, and he used to transact all his bus ‘there, and sometimes would be therd till “Nid the prioaor ano him i his bod 0 5 ae o did-“Y showed him up etaira myself.” t “Was anybody in the bed-room with Mr. Hardin, when he saw the prisoner ?” : “ Only his colored servant; he was always with him.” “And when you showed the prisoner out, he asked to be allowed to look at the garden? Was he long looking about ?”’ , “Not more than five minutes. He looked more at the house than-the garden, I noticed him looking at Mr. Harding’s window, which is on the first floor; he took particular notice of a very fine creeper that grows over the window.” “Was the window, on the night of the murder, fast- ened, or not ?”’ “Tt never was fastened. Mr. Harding always slept with his window alittle way open.” After Martha had been dismissed from the witness- box, the old servant of Mr. Harding, the Lascar, who ‘had been found living with a getleman in London, was examined. He remembered the prisoner at the bar, but made the samo remark as Martha had done, about the change in the color of bis hair. “You were in the room with your late master when the eee called upon him ?” asked the counsel, “Twas.” “Will you state what passed between the prisoner and your master 2?” “It is scarcely in my power todo so. At that time I understood no English. My master was seated at his cabinet, looking over papers and accounts. I tancy the prisoner asked him for money. He showed him papers both printed and written. My master opened 4 pocket- book filled with notes, the pocket-book afterward found on his nephew, and —_ the prisoner a bank-note. The prisoner appeared to make a good impression on my late master, who talked to him in a very cordial manner. As he was leaving the room, the prisoner made some remark about me,jand I thought from the tone of his voice, he was asking a question.” “You thought he was asking a question ?’” “Yes. In the Hindostanee language we haye no in- terrogative form of speech, we depend entirely on the inflexion of the voice ; our ears, therefore, are more acute than an Knglishman’s. I am certain he asked my master some questions about me.” “And your master ?”’—— “ «“ After replying to him, turned to me, and said: ‘I am telling this gentleman what a faithful fellow you are, Mujeebez, and how you always sleep in my dress- ing-room,’ ’? 7 “You remember nothing more ?”’ “Nothing more.” He then repeated’ his: evidence given at the hospital at the time of the triul of Richard Marwood, and lett the witness-box. The landlord of the ‘‘ Bargeman’s Delight,’ Mr. Dar- ley, and Mr. Peters (the latter by an interpreter), were examined, and the story of the quarrel and the lost Indian coin was elicited, making considerable impres- sion on the jury, There was, only one more witness for the crown, aud this was a young man, a chemist, who, had been an ap- prentice at the time of the supposed deatli of Jabez North, and who had sold to him a few days before that supposed suicide the materials for a hair-dye. » The counsel for the prosecution then summed up. It is not for us to follow him through tho twistings and windings of a very complicated mass of evidence ; he had to prove the identity of Jabez North with the prisonor at the bar, and he had to prove that Jabez North was the murderer of Mr. Montague Harding. To the minds of every spectator in that crowded court, he succeeded in proving both. In vain the prisoner's counsel examined and cross- examined the witnesses. » eh The witnesses for the defense were few. A Trench man, who represented himself as a Ohevalier of the Legion of Honor, failed signally in an endeavor to prove an alibi and considerably damaged the defense. ‘Other witnesses appeared, who swore to having ‘known the prisoner in Paris the year of the murder, They could not say they had seen him’ during the November of that’ year, it might have been earlier, it might have been later. On being cross-eximined, they 6 down ignoiniously, and acknowledged that it might not have been that yearatall, But they had known him in Paris about that period. They had al- ways believed him to bea Frenchman. They had al ways understood that his father fell at Marongo, in the ranks of the Old Guard. On cross-examination they all owned to having heard him at divers periods speak English. Hoe had, in fact, spoken it fluently, yes, even like an Englishman. On further cross-examination it also appeared that he did not like being thought an aoe lishman, That he would insist vehemently upon bh French extraction. That nobody knew who he was, or whence he came, and that al) any one did know of him was what he himself chose to state. : The defense was long and labored, The prisoner’s counsel waived the matter of the murder having been committed by Jabez North, or not having been com- mitted by Jabez North what he endéayored toshow was that the prisoner at the bar was not Jabez North. That he was the victim to one of those cases of mis- taken acai of which there are so many on record both in English and foreign criminal archives. He cited thé execution of the Frenchman, Joseph Le- sourges, for the murder of the Courier of Lyons. He spoke of the case of Elizabeth Canning, in which a crowd of witnesses on either side persisted in support- ing entirely conflicting statements without any evident motive whatsoever. He endeavored to dissect the evi- dence of Mr. William Withers ; be sneered at that worthy citizon’s wholesale slaughter of the English of Her most Gracious Majesty and her subjects. He tried to overthrow that nae by ten minutes on the wrong side of the Slopperton clocks; he did his best to damage him by re him as to whether the truck he spoke ot had two legs and one wheel, or two wheels and one leg; but he tried in vain. Mr. Withers haa bled himself to death by nieans of a lancet, acetal | was represent ‘was not to be damaged ; he stood as firm asa rock and still swore that he carried the dead body of Jim Lomax out of Blind Peter and on to the heath, and that the man who commanded him so to do was the prisoner at the bar. Neither was Mr. Augustus Darley to be dam- aged, uor yet the landlord of the “‘Bargeman’s De- light,” who, in spite of all cross-examination, preserved a gloomy and resolute attitude, and declared that that young man at the bar,’ which his hair was then light, had had a row with a young woman in the tap-room, and throwed that there gold coin to her, which she chucked it back savage. In short, the defense, though if lasted an hour and a half, was a very lame one, and a close observer might have seen oné flash from the blue eyes of the men standing at the bar, whioh glanced in the direction of the eloquent Mr. Prius, Q. C., as he uttered the last words of his peroration, revengeful aud murderous enough, brief though it was. to give to the spectator some idea that the Count de Marolles, in- nocent and injured victim of circumstantial evidence as he might be, was not the safest person in the world to offend. The judge delivered his charge to the jury, andthey retired. There was breathless impatience in the court for three-quarters of an hour; such impatience that the three-quarters seemed to be three entire hours, and some of the spectators would have it that the clock had stopped. Once more the jury took their places, “Guilty !’’ A recommendation to mercy? Not Mercy was not for such as-he. ‘Not man’s mercy. Oh, Heayeii be praised that there is One whose mercy is far above the mercy of the tenderest of earth’s creatures, as Heayen is above that Earth! Who shall say where is the man so wicked he may not hope for this ? The judge put on the black cap and delivered the sentence, “To be hanged by the neck”—— The Count de Marolles looked round at the crowd. Tt was beginning to disperse, when he lifted his slender ringed-white hand. He wasaboutto speak. The crowd, swaying hither and thither betore, stopped as one man. As one man, Nay, as one surging wave ot ocean changed, ina breath, to stone. He smileda bitter mocking, de- fiant smile, “Worthy citizens of Slopperton,” he. said, his clear, enunciation ringing through the building, distinct and ‘musical: I thank you for the trouble you have taken this day on my account, [have played a great game, and Ihave lost a g-eat stake; but remember, I first won that stake, and for eight years held it, and enjoyed it. Ihave been tie husband of one of the most beautie ful, and richest women in France, I haye been'a mil- lionaire, and one of the wealthiest merchant princes of tle wealthy south. 1 started from the work-house of this town, Inever in my life had a friend to help me, ora relation to advise me. To man I owe nothing. To God, I owe i this, a will as indomitable as, the stars He made, which have held their course, through all time, Unloyed; unaided, unprayed for, unwept, motherless, fatherless, sisterless, brotherless, friend- less, [have taken my own road and kept to it, de- fying the earth op which I have lived, and the sky above my head. The road has come to an end, and brought me—here! So be it! I suppose, after all, the sky is strongest—gentlemen I am ready. He bowed and‘followed the officials, who led him from the dock to a coach waiting for him at the entrance to the court. The crowd gathered round him with scared faces and eager eyes. ’ P . he last Slopperton saw of the Count de Marolles was a pale, handsome face, a sardonic smile, and the delicate white hand which rested upon thie door of the, hackney coach, . Next morning, very early, men with grave faces con- regated at street-corners, and talked together earn- stly. Through Slopperton like wildfire spread the rumor of something, which had only been darkly hinted at the jail. : se The prisoner had destroyed himself! ‘ Later in the afternoon, it was known that he than a pin which he had worn for years conce : a ae gold ring of massive form and exquisite w manship. Eade ae The jailer had found him, at six o’clock of the morn- ing after his trial, seated, with his head lying ona littlp table of his cell, white, tranquil, and dead, . . - The agents from an exhibition ~ of waxworks, ‘and several plirenologists, came to look at and to take c of his head, and masks of the handsome and aristocrat face, One of the phrenologists, who had given an opinion on his cerebral development ten years before, | wien Mr. Jabez North was considered a mode) of all. Sloppertonian yirtues and graces, and had been treat- ed with ignominy for that very opinion—was now in the highest spe and introduced the whole story in- to aseries of lectures, which were afterwards yery popular. The Count de Marolles, with very long eye- jashes, very small feet,and patent leather boots, faultless Stulsian evening costume, a white waistcoat, and any number of rings, was extrem: adn. in ely ired tho Room of Horrors at the eminent waxwork exhibi-— tion above mentioned, and was considered well worth the extra sixpence for admission. Young ladies fell in loye with him, and vowed that a Paneer call him a being—with such dear blue glass eyes, with beautiful curly eyelashes, and 8 milion in each corner, could never haye committed a horrid murder, but was, no doubt, the innocent victim of that cruel circumstantial evidence. Mr. Splitters put the count into a melodrama in four periocs—not acts, but periods. 1,—Boyhood—the Work-house. 2.— Youth—the School. 3.—Manhood—tie 65 im Death—the Dungeon. This piece was very popular, and as Mr. Bares. Cordonner had prophesiod, tue count as living—en pern ein, boots with gold tassels ; and as a. ways appearin, a spirited disregard to the unities or timo and bpebe, specks of lovely ver: — ee a. Sa a / 4B THREE TIMES. DEAD. grade he was alike beloved, alike admired, as a ash ining example of reckless courage and military mius. “The arrest of the soi-disant Count de Marolles had prought Richard Marwood and Gaston de Lancy ae contact. Both sufferers from the consummate fidy of one mi “Some e acquaintances, an ote rel friends. mo of Gaston’s story was told to Richard and his young wife Isabella; but_ it is eedless to sa; tbat the dark past in which Valerie was concerned, remained a secret in the breasts of her husband, Laurent Blurosset and herself. The father clasped his son to heart, and the wife whom he had pardoned long ago, and ‘whose years of terrible Sorta pat atoned for the wildly-attempted crime of tht It was on fchara and Gaston becoming frien et that it was agreed between them, that Rich: should join de Lancy and his wife in South America; a far from the scenes which association made foe ul to both, they might commence a new exist- ence. Valerie once more mistress of that immense fortune of which De Marolles bad so long had the command, was enabled to bestow it on the Fboatind of her choice. The bank was closed in a manner satisfactory to all whose interests had been connect- ed with it. The cashier, who was no other than the lively gentleman who had assisted in De Marolles’ attempted escape, was arrested on a charge of em- — on and made to disgorge the money he had The juis de Cevennes elevated his delicately- arched eyebrows on reading an abridged account of the trial of his son and_ his subsequent suicidé; but the ee Parisian did not go into mourning for this unfortunate scion of his aristocratic house; and, indeed, I doubt, if five minutes after he had thrown aside the journal, he had any recollection of the painful aoe therein related. He ex- at sn e gentlemanly surprise upon being formed of ‘the marriage of his niece with Captain Lansdown, late of the East India Company’s service and of her approaching departure with her husban for her South American estates. He sent for his blessing and a breakfast service; with the portraits — Louis the well-beloved, Madame du Barry, Choi- and D’Aiguillon, ainted on the cu , in oval ms, with a ba: und of turquoise, 3, packed in a. eueank of bub], lined with white velvet; and I Bay» he dismissed his niece and her troubles fsa his recollection quite as easily as he dis- patched this elegant present tothe Calais packet, which was to convey it to its destination. The bell rings: the friends of the passengers drop down the side of the vessel into the little saeenodl cere There are Mr, Peters and Gus Darle ing their hats in the distance. Farewell, old an faithful friends, farewell; but, surely, not ‘forever. Isabelle sinks sobbing on her husband’s shoulder. Valerie looks with those deep, unfathomable eyes, out toward the blue horizon line, that bounds far-away to which they go. “There, Gaston, we shall forget.’’ “Never, your long su: Barings my Valerie,’ he murmurs, a8 he presses the little hand resting on his arm; ‘those shall never be be Lormobien. | agi the horror of readful night, Gas- “Was the madness of a love which thought itself ‘Stee ed, Valerie; we can forgive every wrong which ngs from the hee of such a love.” thy white wings, O ship! The shadows a Ea into tht Re distance. I see in that OPaHPy Attics, glistening white-walled thas had buried te the luxuriant gardens ‘of. that Ea Thear the voices of the children in rk eo th Saas rae, the scented blossoms pea. Patit of the fountain. I see “wa into reclining in an easy-chair under the ver- ates brie idden by theta trailing jessamines at it from the evening suns! ei fe - Fong cher -stemméd pipe which his wif for him paces, with his sha: rita step, up and down the terrace at their f top: as “he | Sous lay a caressi hand onthe k the son he loves. And, Valerie she ns - Sfaingy the the y mot pillar of the porch, sora y ellow roses are twined and watches, oon caret ayes, the husband of her earliest choice. foriunat Suny die Peete a dear dreams of your yout. The Sunnyside Library. ey hae Rooxu. By Thomas MOOKG 4.05 near 5 10c. 2 Don Juan. By Lord Byron... .....0........ We. 3 Panavise Lost. By John Milton ............. 10c. 4 Tur Lavy or THe Lake. Sir Walter Scott... 10c |S Lucmz: By Owen Meredith... ..... P9700. 8 10c. 6 Unping on, THe Warer-Srinr., From. the. German of Friederich De La Motte Fouque... 10c, For sale by all newsdealers, or sent, postage paid, on receipt of twelve cents for single numbers. double numbers twenty-four cents, ; jot ay borg TCISD CO., Publishers, William street, N.Y. The Half-Dime Singer's Library. 1 Wxoa, Emma! and 59 other Songs. 2 Caprain Curr and 57 other Songs. 8 Tux Gaixsporo’ Hat and 62 other Songs. 4 Jounny Morean and 60 other Songs. 5 P'tn Srrixe You Wirs a Fearuer and 62 others. 6 Grorcr THe Cusrmer and 56 other Songs. 7 Tax Bruix or Rockaway and 52 other Songs. 8 Youne Futian, You’re Too Fresx and 60 others. 9 Say Youne Girt and 65 other Songs. 10 I’ rau Governor’s OnLy Son and 58 other Songs. 11 My Fan and 65 other Songs. 12 Comin’ Toro’ Tar Rye and 55 other Songs. 18 Tax Rowucrine Inisaman and 59 other Songs. 14 Oty Doe Tray and 62 other Songs. 15 Wxaoa, Cuaniie and 59 other Songs. 16 In ra1g Wueat By AND By and 62 other Bongs. 17% Nancy Lex and 58 other Songs. 18 I'm THE Boy THAT’s Bound To Biazg and 87 others. 19 Taz Two Orpnans and 59 other Songs.’ 20 Waar ARE THE Witp Waves SAYING, Sister? and 59 other Songs. 21 InpIGNaNnt Potiy Woe and 59 other Songs. 22 Tur Oty Arm-Cuarr and 58 other Songs. 28 On Corry Istanp Bracu and 58 other Songs. 24 OLD Simon, THE Hot-Corn Man and 60 others. 25 I’m mm Love and 56 other Songs. 23 Parape or THE Guarps and 56 other Songs. 27 Yo, Hrave, Ho! and 60 other Songs. 28 "Twit Never po To Gis rr up So and 60 others. 29 Biuz Bonners Over THE Borpgr and 54 others. 30 Tue Merry Laventne Man and 56 other Songs. 81 Sweet Forarr-mu-Not and 55 other Songs. 82 Lerrie Bapy Minx and 53 other Songs. 83 Dx Banso am pe Instrument FoR Mx and 58 others. 84 Tarry and 50 other Songs. 85 Jusr ro PLEASE THE Boys and 52 other Songs. 86 SkaTING oN One IN THE GuTTER and 52 others. 87 Ko.torep Kranxs and 59 other Songs. 88 Nu. DesprranpuM and 53 other Songs. 39 Tur Giri I Lerr Benixp Mx and 50 other Songs. 40 "Tis nur a Lirrie Fapep Fiowsr and 50 others, 41 Prerry WaILuE mina and 60 other Songs. 42 Danorna IN THE Barn and 68 other Songs. 43 H. M.S. Prvarore, compLeTs, and 17 other Songs, Sold everywhere by Newsdealers, at five cents per copy, or sent post-paid, to any address, on re- ceipt of Sia cents per number. BEADLE AND ADAMS, Ponrzestins; 98 Wittram Street, New Yor«, The Saturday Journal “The Model 1 Family Paper —AND— Most Charming of the Weeklies.” A pure paper; good in’ in, every thing: eh brilliant and attractive. Serials, Tales, Romances, Sketches, Adventures, Biographies, Pungent Essays, Poetry, _ Notes and Answers to Correspondents, Wit and Fun— All are features in every number, from such celebrated writers as no paper in America can boast of. What is best in POPULAR READING, that the paper always has; hence for Hom, Suop, Lr- BRARY and GENERAL READER it is without a rival;and hence its great and steadily increasing circulation. Tho Saruxpay J OURNAL is sold everywhere by newsdealers ; price sia cents per number; or to subscribers, post-paid, at the naeatis heap rates, viz. : Four months, one dollar; one year, three | dollars; or, two copies, five dollars. ‘Address BEADLE & ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William Street, New York. BEADLE & ADAMS’ STANDARD DIME PUBLICATIONS. Speakers. Brapix AND ApAus have now on their lists the fol- lowing highly desirable and attractive text-books, prepared express oe schools, families, etc. arene ee 100 large pages, printed from clear, open comprising the t collection of Dia- logues, earns Late citations, (burlesque, comic and otherwise.) The Dime Speakers for the season of 1881—as far as now issued—embrace twenty-three volumes, viz.: American Speaker. igi 13, penees Speaker, _ 2. National Speaker. Tudicrous Speaker. 3. Patriotic Speaker. is. Komikal Speaker. 4, Comic Speaker. 16. Youth’s Speaker. 5. Elocutionist. 17, Hloqpent Bpeaker. 6. Humorous Speaker. | 18. Columbia Speak, 7, Standard Speaker. er. 8. Stump Speaker. 19. Serio-Comic Speaker. 9, Juvenile Speaker. 20. Select Speaker. 10, Spread-Eagle Speaker 21. Funny Speaker. 11, Dime Debater. 22, rn Speaker. 12. Exhibition Speaker. | 23, Dialect Speaker. These books are ee with choite pieces for the School-room, the Exhibition, for Homes, ete. They are drawn from FRESH sources, and contain some of the choicest oratory of the times. 75 to 100 tions and Recitations in each Nt Dialo; The Dime Dialogues, e: Sohail 100 pages, em brace twenty-seven books, viz.: Dialogues No. One. Dialogues No. Fourteen: Dialogues No. Two. Dialogues No. Fifteen. Dialogues No. Three. cee No. Sixteen. Dialogues No, Four. Dialogues No. Seventeen. Dialogues No. Five. Dialogues No. Kighteen Dialogues No. Six. Dialogues No. Nineteen. | Dialogues No. Seven. Dialogues No, Twenty. Dialogues No. Hight. fe eect No. Twenty-one. Dialogues No. Nine. Dialogues No, Twenty-two. Dialogues No. Ten. Dialogues No. Twenty-three Dialogues No. Eleven. Dialogues No. Twenty-four. Dialogues No, Twelve, | Dialogues No. Twenty-five. Dialogues No. Thirteen. | Dialogues No. Twenty-six» Dialogues No, Twenty-seven. 15 to 25 Dialogues and Dramas in each book. These volumes have been pre; with especial reference to their availability in all school-rooms. They are adapted to schools with or without the fur- niture of a stage, and introduce a range of charac- ters suited to scholars of every grade, both male and female. It is fair to assume that no yolumes yet offered to schools, at any price, contain s0 many vats and useful dialogues and dramas, en and comic. j Dramas and Readings. 164 12mo Pages. 20 Cents. For Schools, Parlo & Entra a and. seer Am- 2, ‘comprisi Comed; ‘arce, D ess Pier ‘Humorous ae A toistenetne by .oted "Beco, ‘ atte Salebetty ‘and interest. mg lander, ot A. ht. Russell DIME HAND- BOOKS, Young People’s Series. Brapix’s Dime Hann-Boors ror Youre PrOPLE cover & foe range of subjects, and are especially adapted to — end, They constitute at once the cheapest and most useful ae yet put into: the market for “nreg ar ectoalatias Ladies’ Leti riter. §° Book of Games. - Gents’ Letter: Writer. Fortune-Teller. Book of Etiquette. - Lovers’ Casket. k of Verses, Ball-room Companion. Book of Beauty. Hand-Books of Games. Brapixe’s Dims Hanv-Boors or Gams anp P pee oes ora a sere of pubjecte: an and are POON, WO Handbook of of er Book of Croquet. Br Ainwe Chess Instructor. Cricket and Football. 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Cody). 4 fhe Wild-Horse Hunters. _ By Captain Mayne Reid and Captain Wrederick Whittaker. 5 Vagepona Joe, THE Younc WANDERING JEW; or, ‘G For A Legacy. By Oll Coomes. 6 Bill Biddon, ‘Crapper. By E.5. Ellis. 7 Whe Flying Yankee}; or, Tux Ocean Ovt- cast. By Col. Preatiss Ingraham. 8 Seth Jones. By Edward 8. Ellis. ) Adveutures of Baron Munchausen, 10 Nat Todd. By E. 5. Ellis. 11 The Two Detectives; or, Taz Fortunes or 4 Bowery Giri. By Albert W. Aiken. 32 Gulliver’s Travels. By Dean Switt. 13 The Dumb Spy. By Oil Coomes. 14 Aladdin; or, Taz WonperrcL Lamp. 15 Whe Sea-Cat. By Captain Fred. Whittaker. 16 Robinson Cruséde. (27 Illustrations.) 17 Halph Roy, tae Boy Buccanugr; or, Tar Fueitive YacuT. ey. Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 38 Sindbadithe Sailor. His Seven Voyages. 19 The Phantom Spy. By Buffalo Bill. 20 Khe Double Daggers; or, Deapwoop Dicx’s Deriuance. By Edward L. Wheeler. 21 The Frontier Angel. By Edward 8. Ellis. 22 Whe Sea Serpent; or, Tue Boy Rosinson Crusor. By Juan Lewis. 23 Nick o’ the Night} or, Tue Boy Spy or "76. By T. C. Harbaugh. 24 Di int By Colonel P. Ingraham. aur amond Dirk. 25 The Boy Captain. By Roger Starbuck. 26 Cloven Hooft, rut Burrato Demon; or, TRE Borper Vouurores. By Edward L. Wheeler. 27 Antelope Abe, THe Boy Guinz. Oll Coomes. 28 Buffalo Ben, Tue Prince or THE PisTor; or, DEapwoop Dick oy Discuisr. E. L. Wheeler. 29 The Dumb Page. By Capt. F. Whittaker. 30 Roaring Ralph Rockwvwod , THE Reck- Less Rancer. By Harry St. George. 31 Keen-Kuife, Proce or raz Praimims. By Oll Coomes, 32 Bob Woolf, rue Borprr Rvrrtay; or, THE Girt Deap-Suor. By Edward L. Wheelcr. 33 The Ocean Bloodhound}; or, Tat Rep PrrsTES OF THE C ae og . W. Pierce. 84 Orezon Solj or, Nick Wuirries’ Box Spry. By Capt. J. F. G. Adams. Ww. Ivan, THE Boy Ciavpe Duvat; or, Tax BroruerHoop or Deatu.' By Ed. L. Wheeler. 836 The Boy Clown. By k 8. Fi 87 The Hidden Lodge. By T. C. Harbaugh. 38 Ned Wylde, Tuz Boy Scour. By Texas Jack: 39 Death-Face, Tan Derecrive; or, Lirr AND Love in New Yoru. By Edward L. Wheeler. 40 Roving Ben. A Storyor 4 Youne Arr can Wao Wantep To Sez THE WoRLD. Marshall, 41 Lasso Jack. By Oll Coomes. 42 The Phantom Whiner; or, Drapwoop Dick's Bonanza. By Edward L. Wheeler. 48 Dick Darling, Taz Poxy Express Romer. a Cot Frederick Whittaker. 44 Ratfling Rube. By Harry &t. George. 45 Old Avalancho, Tye GREAT ANNIHILATOR; or, WiLp Ena, THE Gm Baicanp. ¥. L. Wheeler. 46 Glass ee THE Great SHoT oF THE WEST, ey Capt. J. F.C. Adams. 47 jehtingale Nat. By T. C. Harbaugh. 48 Black Ihn, THE RoAD-AGENT; or, THE Ovt- LAWS’ T. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. 49 Omaha Ol), raz Maskep Terror: or, Dman- woop Dick my DANGER. By Edward 50 Burt Bunker, THz Trapper. C. 61 The rer Rifles. _By Archie C. Irons. 562 The White Buffalo. 0. E. Lasalle. 53 Jim Bludsoe, Jr., rae Boy Puenrx; or, Tsrover To Dears. By Edward L. Wheeler. §4 Ned Mazel, tHe Boy Trapper; or, Tux Puan- TOM cuss. By Capt. J. F. C.. Adams, 55 Deadly - Kye, raz Unknown Scour; or, Tar BRANDED BrorHEernoop. By Buffalo Bill 56 Nick Whilfiies’ Pet. t. J. F. C. Adama. 57 Deadwood Dick's os or, THE Parps of Loop Bar. Ey Rienerd Wheeler. 58 Whe Border King. By Oll Coomes. 59 Old cron. By Harry 8t. Geo $7 The White Indian. Capt. J. F. C. Adams. 1 Buckhorn Bill ; or, Tak Reo Rute Tram. ae L. er. ; 2 Phe Shadow Ship. By Col: P. Ingraham. 3 The Red Brotherhood. W. J. Hamilton. Dandy Jack, By T. 0. Harbaugh. Hurricane Bill, By Jos. KE. Badger, Jr. Single Hand. . J. Hamilton. 7 Patent-leather + By Philip 8. Warne. 68 Border Robin Hood. By lo Bill. 69 Gold Rifle, ran SxHirpsHoorer; or, THE Box a or THE Buack Rano, By Wheeler. 70 Old Zip’s Cabin}; or, Taz Greennorn oY THE Woops, a J. F.'O. Adams, 1 Delaware Dick. By Oll Coomes. 72 Mad Tom Western, Tu: Texan Rancen; ox, THE QUEEN OF THE . By Hamilton, 73 Deadwood Dick en Deck; or, GaLamrTy Jang, THE Hernore or WHoor-Up, By 74 Wiawk-eye Harry. By Ol 75 The Boy Duelist; or, Taz Ceurss or tre Wi By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. Bea- Weir, 916 Abe Golt, THE $ or, Toe Great fy See ari es tn ord mre Oy + OF, > Puck's Act. By 8. T. Wheeler’ ie Dick. By Ca) Mayne Reid. 9 Sol Chega Que i By A.W, Aiken. BRosebu: b3; 9, Nvogar Nj The GuicH. By ard L. Wheeler. ting Jo. By Captain J. ¥. 0. Adams, 82 Kit Haretoot me Woop-Hawxz; or, Ou PowpER-Fack AND His Demons. By Harbaugh. 83 Rollo, the Boy Ranger. By Oll Coomes. 84 Kdyl, the Girl Miner}; or, up Row ON Dp. By Edward L, Wheeler. ; 85 Buck Buckram) or, Bess, tHe KEMALE Trapper, “By Captain J. F. C. Adams. 86 Daudy Buck. By G. Waldo Browne. $7 ‘The Land Pirates. By Capt. Mayne Reid. 88 Photograph Phil, raz Boy Siuvrs; or, Roszsup Rop’s REAPPEARANCE. Ly E. L. Wheeler. 89 Island Jim. by Bracebridge Hemyng. 90 Whe Dread Rider. By G. Waldo Browne. 91 The Captain of the Club; or, Tae Youne Rival Arauerrs, By Bracebridge Hemyng. 92 Canada Ciet; or, OLD ANACONDA IN SITTING Bui.’s Camp. By Edward L. Wheeler. 93 The Boy Miners. By Edward §, Ellis. 04 Midnight Jack, ‘THE Roap-Acent; or, Tux Boy Trapper. By T. C. Harbaugh. 95 Tho Rival Rovers. Lieut. Col. Hazeltine. 96 Watch-Eye, tHe Smapow; or, Arars AND ANGELS OF 4 Great Ciiy. By E. L. Wheeler. 97 The Outlaw Brothers. By J. J. Marshall. 98 Robin Hood, Tre Ovrtawrp Ear; or, THE Merry Men or Greenwoop. Prof. Gildersleeve. 99 'The Tiger of Taos; or, Wimp Karz, Danpy Rock’s ANGEL. By George Waldo Browne, 100 Deadwood Dick in Leadville; or, A Srrance STROKE FoR Liserty. By Wheeler. 101 Jack Harkaway in New York. By Bracebridge Hemyng. 102 Pick Dead-Eye, Tax Boy Sivecier; or, Tue Orvis or THE VixEN. By Col. Ingraham. 103 The Lion of the Sea. By Col. Delle Sara. 104 Deadwood Picks Device or, THE Sign or THe Dovsie Cross. By E. L. Wheeler. 105 Oid Rube, tm Hunter. Capt. H. Holmes. 106 Old Frosty, THz Guipz. By T. C. Harbaugh. 107 One-Eyed Sim. By James L, Bowen. 108 Paring Davy, THE Youne Bear-Ki.eR; or, Tue TRAUL OF THE BorpER Wo r. H. St. George. 109 Deadwood Dick as Detective. By Edward L, Wheeler. 110 The Black Stecd of the Prairies. A Thrilling Story of Texan Adventure. By Bowen. 111 The Sea-Devil. By Col. P. Ingraham. 112 The Mad Hunter. By Burton Saxe. 1183 Jack Moyle, tye Yorne Srrcviaror; or, - Tr Roap To Fortune. By Ed. L. Wheeler. 114 Tho Black Schooner. Roger Starbuck. 115 The Mad Miner; or, Danvy Rocx's Doom. By George Waldo Browne. 116 The Hussar Ea ee or, THE Herurr or Heui-Gare. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 117 Gilt-Edged Dick, rue Srort Derective; or, Tu& Roap-Acent’s Davcurer. Wheeler, 118 Will Somers, Tur Boy Drrective. Morris, 119 Mustang Sam, rae Kine or Tax Piams, By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. 120 The Branded Hand. By Frank Dumont. 121 Cinnamon Chip, tHe Gmu Srorr; or, THE GoLpEN Ino. or Mr. Rosa, #d. L.Wheeler. 122 Phil Hardy, trx Boss Roy; or, Taz Mys- TERY OF THE STRONGBOW. By Charles Morris. 123 Kiowa Charley, Tat Wirt Musranare. By T. C. Harbaugh.” . 124 Tippy, THx Texan. By George Gleason. 125 Bonanza Bill, Mivir. By Ed. L. Wheeler, 126 Picayune Pete; or, Nicoprmus, THE Doe Derective. By Charles Morris. . 127 Wild-Fire, Bossorrn: Roap, By Dumont. 128 The Young Privateer, By H. Cavendish. 129 Dead*vood Dick’s Bouble; or, Taz Gzost or Gorcon’s Guicu. Ed. L, Wheeler. 130 Betective Dick. By Charles Morris, 131 The Golden Band; or, PAxvy Rock To TuE Rescuz. By George W. Browne. 132 The Hunted Hunter. By Ed. 8. Ellis. 133 Boss Bob, tHe Kine or tax Boorpuacks: or, Tar Pawnsroker’s Prot. Ld. L. Wheeler. 134 Sure Shot Seth, rar Boy Rirtrman; or Taz Youne Patriots or THE Nortu. By OllCoomes, 135 Captain Paul, tre Kenrocry Mooxsurer; or, Tux Boy Spy or Tar Mountains. By Clark. 136 Night-Mawk Kit. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr, 137 The Helpless Hand, Capt. Mayne Reid. 138 Blonde Wilt; or, Drapwoop Dick's Home zB. ward L. Wheeler, ASE. “By Ed 139 Judge Lynch, Jr. By T. 0. Harbaugh. 140 Blue Blazes} or, Tan Break 0’ Day Boys or Rocxy Bar. sy ¥rank Dumont, 141 Solid Sam, Tm Boy Roap-Acxnt; or, T Branpep Brows. By Edward L. Wheeler, = 142 Handsome Har Tax Boorstack Dz- TECTIVE. By Charles Merris, 143 Sear-Face Saul. By Oll Coomes. 144 Dainty Lane THE Boy Srorr; or, Tre ; y Buck. J. E. Badger. 146 Captain Ferret, tm: New Yore Drrno- ae TIVES See fat wor" Jon. By Wheeler. 6 Silwer Star, rHr Kmenr. A Romance. By OL Goomes. ee 147 Will Wildfire, THz THoxovereReD; or, Tor Winnine Hanp. By Charlie. Morris, 148 Sharp: Sam); or, THE ADVENTURES oF A Frrenpiess Boy. By J. Alexander Patten. Game of Gold; or, DeEaApwoop Dicr's as By Edward L. Wheeler. 150 Lance and Lasso. By Capt. F. Whittaker, 151 Panther Paul, Tue Pram Prrate; or, ; Damry Lance To THE Rescus. J. E. Badger. 152 Black Bess, Wu. Wurie’s Racer; or, Wixnaxe Acamst Opps. by Charles Morris, 153 Kaglie Kit, mz Boy Drson. By Oll Coomes. 154 The Swerd Hunters. By F. Whittaker. 155 Gold Trigger, THe Sport. T. C. Harbaugh. 156 Deadwood Dick of Deadwood; or, Tue Pickep Party. By Edward L. Wheeler. 157 Mike Merry, THe Harzor Poiice Boy; or, Tue NicHI-HAWES oF PomiaDELPHEA. Morris. 158 Fancy Frank of Colorado; or, THE Traprer’s Trust. By Buffalo bill. 159 The Lost Captain; or, Tar Oren Poiar Sza. By Captain Frederick Whittaker. 160 ‘The Black Giant; or, Damvry Lance In Jrorarpy. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr. 161 New York Nel), THe Boy-Giri Drreorryr;: or, OLD BLAKESLY’S Monxy. By E. I, Wheeler. 162 Will Wildfire in the Woeds; or, Caw Live IN THE ALLEGHANIES. By Charles Morris. 168 Little Texas, Tex Youna Mustancgr. A Tale of Texan Prairies. By Oll Coomes. 164 Dandy Rocks Pledge; or, Husrep To DeatH. By G. Waldo Browne. 165 Billy Baggage, Tox Ramroap Por; or, Run To EarrH. By Charles Morris. 7 166 Hickory Harry. By Harry St. George. 167 Asa Scott, Tz Sreamnoat Boy; or, THs Lanp Pirates oF THE Mississippi. By Ed. Willett, 168 Deadly Dash. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. 169 Tornado Tom; or, Inson Jack Frou Bap Corr. T. C. Harbaugh. 170 A Trump Card; or, Wo. Wiprms Wars anp Loses. By Charles Morris. 171 Ebony Dan. By Frank Dument. 172 Thunderbolt Tom ; or, Tar Wo1s-Harpen ; or rue Rockies. By Harry St. George, 173 Dandy Rock's Rival. By G.W. Browne. 174 @®ob Rockett, rae Boy Doperr; or, Mys- TERIzs oF New YorE. By Charies Morris. 175 Captain Arizona, tHx Kine Pin or Roap AGENTS; cr, Patent Leather Joe’s Big Game. By Philip 8. Warne, 176 The Boy Runaway ’$ or, THz BucoaNEER oF THE Bay. Lieut, H. D. Perry, U.S.N. 177 Nobby Nick of Nevada; or, Tax Scamp or THE Sierras. By Edward L. Wheeler. 178 Old Solitary, THe ferwit TRAPPER; Of, THE DRAGON oF dunvEr Lax. By Ol Coomes. 179 Bob Rockett, tax Bank Runyur; or, Toe Roap To Rurw. By Charles Morris. 180 The Sea Trailer; or, A Vow Wei Kzpr, By Lieut. H. D. Perry, U.8.N. 181 Wild Frank, rez Bucxsxix Bravo; or, Lapy Lmy's Love. By Edward L. Wheeler. 182 Hittle Hurricane, raz Boy Oapran; or, Tue OaTH of THE YounG AVENGERS. By ou mes. 183 The Hidden Hand ¢ or, Wn Wiprmn’s Revenee. By Chas. Morris. 184 The Boy Trailers; or, Danrry Laxce on THe War-Pata. By Jos, E. Badger, Jr. 135 Evil Kye, Kise or Carrie Tuirves; or, THe ‘VULTURES oF THE Rio Granpe. By F, Dumont, 186 Cool Desmond; or, Toe\Gameusr's Bw Gams. By Col. Delle Sara. 187 Fred Halyard, tam Lrrx Boat Boy: or, Tue SMUGGLERS oF THE Inter. By C. Morrix, 188 Ned.Temple, THz Borprr Boxy; or, Tas Map Hunter or Powprr River. By Harbaugh, 189 Bob Rockett, rae Cracksman TO THE WaLL By Charles Morris. 190 Dandy Darke; or, THe Ticers or Hier Pre. By Wm. R. Eyster. 191 Buffalo Billy, Tex Boy BrLLwHAcken; or, ane oP Tureen. Capt. A. B. Taylor, 192 Cay tain Kit oo Wr-0'-THn-Wiap; or, ion Mystrry or Monravk Pont. By Leut. Harry Dennies Perry, U.5.N. Mareh 28th. 193 The Lady Road-Agent;: or, Parerr Luarser Joz’s Devzar. By Philip 8. 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By Mrs. Ma: Reed Crowell. 2 scr It Love? or, CoLLecians AnD SwEE?T- Wm, Mason Turner, ML. D, ~ 3 The « Girl Wifes or, Taz Trug anp THE Farsr. By Bar tley Tt. Campbell. 4 A Brave Heart; or, SraRTLinGty SrRanae. By Arabella Southworth. 5 ssie Raynor, the Work Girl. By Wm. Mason Turner, M. D, he Secret Marriuge 3 or, A Ducness is Serre or Hersey, By Sara Olaxton. 7A Daughter of Kve3 or, Buowep ny Love. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell 8 Heart to Hearts or, Farm Prruus’ Love. By Arabella Southworth, 9 Alone im the World; or, THe Young Man's WarD. By the author of “ Clifton.” 10 A Pair of Gray Eyes; or, Tac Emrr- ALD NecKLAcE, By Rose Kenn 11 Entangied; or, A Daycrrous Gance, By Henrietta Thackera 12 His Lawful W fe; or, Myra, Tar Carp or Apoption. By Mrs. "ann 6. Stephens. 13 oe the Litsle Quakeress. By Ad Why i Married Him: or, Tam Woman tn Gray. By Sara Claxton. 156 A Fair Faee; or, Our’ m tHe Worx. Bartley T. 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B ila Penne. 31 A Mud Marriage: or, Tax Iron Wr.1. By Mrs. Mary A. Denison. 32 Miriana,.the Prima Donna: Roses anp Liutes. By A. Southworth. 83° The ‘Three Sisters: or, Tat Mystmry or Lorp CHaLront. By Alice Fleming: 34 A Marrone or Con yeotentdt or, Was He A Co By Sara Claxton. 35 Sinned A apes. os or, Taz Wiytsrop a 36 ae Archer’s Br det" or, THE Pripr, Aa or 1s Huarr. By Arabella Bouthwo 37 The Country So Uae or, ALL 18 Nor Gop Tuar GuirTErs, Rose Kennedy. 38 His he Again Pr ig ea ta By Arabella Southwo 39 Wibrtation or, A Youra Grmu's Goop 40 Pediged Sara Claxton, 41 Blind Devotion; a Love AGarnsT THE Wort. By Alice Fleming. 42 Beatrice, the Beautiful; or, His Sxo- oxp LovE. A. Southworth. 43 The rons mi Seoress or, Taz Rrvau HAurSistrr. On. 44 The Only ain ater: or, Broramr aqarnst Lover, By Alice Fleming. 45 — Hidden Foe; or, Loves at Aux Opps. y Arabella Southworth. 46 The Little Heiress; or, oD. By Mrs, M. A. Denison. 47 Ltt ge fa fore Him 3. or, How Wir ir ‘ioscan, ice Fleming. 48 In Spite. of forselfs or, ARATION, By 8, RB. 49 His Heart's ticenanes 3 ).0r, Love’ ar First Stent, By Arabella Southworth. j 50 The Cuban Wotress; or, Tre Paworrn | ov La Virrresss;’ By Mrs. Mary A. Denison. 51 Two Young Girls}; or, Brmwe or 4y Earu,. By Alice Fleming. 52 The Winged Mcesoneer 36h RISKING Aut For 4 Hnarr, Mary Reed Ghrvell 53 Agnes Hope, the Actrenn or, Tar Ro- MARCE OF A Rosy Rive. M. Turner, M.D. 54 ene ef micurt( on By George 8, Kaime, or, Broormne bella Southworth. ; or, ph 15 to Marry ; or, ly Lovr’s Bonns. Unvrk a JexxeTTe's Rep- TO CONQUER, 56 Love-Mads Drvorcep snp or, _Brrroraep,. Marrmo, ——, By W. M Turner, MoD. 57 A Brave Girl; or, Sunsmre ar Lasr. - By Alice Fleming. 58 The Ebon ask; or, Ter Streance Guarpian. By Mrs. Mary Reed po iL 59 A Widow’s Wiles; or, A’ Errrrr Re- PENTANCE. By Rachel ermhardt. 60 bth Deceit; or, Tar Dismonp LrGacy. Mrs. Jennie Davis Burton, GLA ih Meart; or, Tre Farst anp Tre TRuE. By Sara Claxton. 62 The Maniac Bride; or, Tar Drap Srorer or Horrow Asn Hain, By M. Blount. 63 The Creole Sisters; oF 1He Perrys. By Mre. Anna E. Forter. 64 What Jealousy. Did; cr, Tar Hem or Worsiey Grange. By Alice Fiemin, ing. 65 The Wifes Secret «at ee ‘Twrxtr Ctr anp Ly. By Col Juan Le 66 A Brother's Sin wess. By Rachel Bern) 67 Forbidden Bans 1s Atma’s Disevrsep Prixcr. By Arabella uthworth. 68 Weavers and Weft; or, “Love TEAT Hares Us in His Net. By I! B. Braddon. 69 Camstites or, Tae Farm (or « Coquette. By Alex Dumas. 70 The Two Orphans. By D’Ennery. 7kMy Woung Wife. By My Young Wife's Husband. 72 The Tro Widows. By Annie TORN 73 Rose Michel; or, THe Truss or a Fa TorY Gil. By Ma Maude Hilton. 74 Cecil Castlemaine’s Gage; or, A Srory or A Brorrren Exretp, By Ouida, 75 ame Black BAY of Buna. By J.8. Le Fanu. 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