A Brilliant and .} ascinating Novelette; “KEEPING HER YOW,” will appear eek Aller Next } L : ; i | j ‘ i i ; i ; : | | ' ; ‘2 [ . , : ~z i ' r ; t L : - . \ ; ) 3 3 } b . 3 > 3 5 L , | E ’ : % } . t - | } } | } } } | 1 > : c ; « ° \ Na WA —— , ror pa } \\ OTST me i LH | ll i Uy P.O. Box 2734 N.Y. Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1886, by Street & Smith, in the Office of the hibrarian OF Congress, Office 31 Rose St. JULIAN BLAIN, IN HIS FIERCE New York, Julv 24, 1886, ANGER, SPRANG TOWARD THE DETE( Washington, D. C. TIVE hits——-— ‘ HH re Me titattai: t Wu psN Inn | i ilies WITH CLENCHED HANDS. | Entered at the Post Office, New York, as Second Class Matter. Gast Three Dollars Per Year, Two Copies Five Dollars. s ANY STEVE STRUGGL WN YS TOWN Se =. HIM UNDE \\ AW SS D DESPERATELY TONESCAPE. Inder His CIEX, THE RIVAL DETECTIVES’ BY THE AUTHOR OF “The Wall Street Wonder,” “The Murray Hill Mystery,” “The Grand Park Sensation,” Etc., Etc. ‘Lhumb: CLEWS. CHAPTER I. THE PRINTING-HOUSE TRAGEDY. The sharp report of a pistol rang through the great printing-house of Blain & Waldron. And almost simultaneously a loud, clear voice shouted: «Waldron has killed himself !” Not less than fifty of the employees of the establish- ment heard the pistol-shot, and half that number heard and understood the cry. As this fact has an important bearing upon the great mystery which was speedily to be developed, the reader will please bear it in mind. None heard the sounds more distinctly than Steve Lawton, a young apprentice, who chanced at the mo- ment to be ‘sorting pi’? in an apartment directly over the counting-room. The youngster dropped the handful of types that he held at the instant, and darted toward the stair-way. At the foot of the stairs he collided with George Dyer, the foreman of one of the composing-rooms, and was brought to a halt by a powerful grasp upon his arm. Dyer gave the lad a violent shaking, with the gruff remark: “Til teach you better than to run over a fellow in that way !” Steve struggled to free his arm, retorting : “Let go of me, won’t yer? You ain’t my boss. yer, let go!” But Dyer clung to him tenaciously, only too glad of this chance to yent the natural spitefulness of his dis- position upon a young apprentice. ; ‘Where are you going in such a rush ?” he demanded, giving Steve another shake. «Going to see who is shot,” the boy replied. «You go back to work. You are not a cop yet, so you are not obliged to run every tlme you hear a pistol fired.” “I guess I’ve aright to find out what’s the matter. I heard somebody say that Mr. Waldron had killed him- self. Mr. Waldron is a friend of mine, heis. He picked me up out of the street and took me in to learn the trade. If he’s shot, then l’m jest going to know, and don’t you forgit it!” Steve was both angry and horrified. That others had heard the shot and cry he knew be- cause of the hurrying footsteps in all parts of the great Duilding. Doors opened and closed ; there was a confusion of ex- Cited voices; girls, boys, men, and women ran hither and thither, white, horrified, and breathless. “What has happened?” “Shot, did you say ?” ‘Mr. Waldron, killed ?” “Tt can’t be possible !” Such were the excited utterances on all sides; but no coherent reply was made to any of them. The clanking of the great printing presses in the base- ment had ceased, and from below a great number of men and boys poured into the passage-way where Steve I tell The speaker was Dyer, the ydaing foreman, and his voice was full of anger. “To call the cops, of course,” iteve returned, a flash of defiance in his small, dark eyes «What have.the police to do wfh a case of this kind ? Mr. Waldron committed suicide, md——” Steve interrupted, in a tone of oOnviction : «Tt ain’t a suicide, George Dyer,and you know it!” «What do you mean ?” Dyer retirted. “It is a murder.” ‘“‘Why do you think so 2” The lad pointed at the open winiow, and replied : «Cause that is never opened atthis time of day, you know. Somebody shot Mr. Waldnn, and then jumped out into the court. I can show wlere he struck.” Steve drew the young man towird the window. As he drew near the latter he saw something upon the white sash that caused him to ejaailate : “What do you think of that? Guess I know some- thin’, if I don’t happen to be bos over.a lot of stype- sticker.” George Dyer, for the first time, «xhibited intense ex- citement. He was rather apathttic by nature, and those who knew him were wont to lemark that an earth- quake wouldn’t make him change color. and the young foreman had encountered each other. None of them seemed to know which way to turn. Some thought the sounds proceeded from one of the up- per rooms; to others it seemed as though the pistol re- port was in the street, or the adjoining building. Several stopped to question Dyer, and this gave Steve the desired opportunity. He adroitly freed his arm from the young man’s grasp, and before the latter could again seize him the lad reached the next door-way and darted through. In another moment Steve was at the door of the counting-room. It was closed, and as yet no one had arrived upon the scene. Evidently, to all save the young apprentice the startling sounds had appeared to proceed from another quarter of the building. But the lad, being directly over the room in question at the moment, cou/d not have been deceived. He was surprised to find the door closed.. It was cus- tomary during business hours to allow all the doors communicating with the counting-room and main office to stand open. «This is a queer go!” Steve exclaimed aloud. His hand rested upon the knob, but.an indefinable dread caused him to hesitate. He listened intently for a moment. He could hear footsteps coming and going in all parts of the building; but from within the counting-room not a sound pro- ceeded. Steve was a plucky lad; there was not a timid hair about him; yet, as he turned the knob and slowly opened the door, his form was convulsed by a violent shudder. He crossed the threshold, and again listened before venturing to glance about the room. How.still it was! A cold current of air swept past, rustling some papers upon the row of desks behind the long railing; and with it came the pungent odor of burnt ow der. : Instantly Steve was aroused to action. He heard nearer footsteps, this time unmistakably approaching the counting-room. He saw, first, an open window, beyond which was a narrow court inclosed by grim stone walls. Upon the floor were several newspapers, evidently blown thither by the draught. This was all there was to be seen out- side the desk-railing, and Steve hastened to open the lattice-door leading to the private quarters of the clerks and proprietors. He cast a single swift glance across the space beyond. Then he drew back, his face growing white, a gasp of horror parting his lips. As he turned he found himself face to face with Mr. Blain, the senior member of the firm. «What it it, boy? What has happened ?” that gentle- man exclaimed, in a husky voice. “Look for yourself, sir. It’s awful! awful!” So much the boy managed to articulate, and without waiting to see or hear more he darted past the throng of employees who had followed Mr. Blain into the room. An instant lateran alarm was rung at the nearest police-station, and Steve Lawton, the young apprentice, was at the other end of the wire. He had scarce sounded the signal before his arm was seized and an angry voice demanded : “Why did you do that ?” “You're right, Steve!” he exclaimed, in a low, husky tone. ‘It is amurder, andabold oe at that. It seems as though it would be easy to catch the culprit, though.” Quickly the tidings ran thnugh tie increasing throng which was gathering in the spacious counting-room, and many crowded close to the open window and stared shudderingly at the tell-talesgn which Steve’s keen eyes had detected. The sash was broad, smoth, and painted white. Near the middle, just where one would naturally take hold to raise the window, wa the bioody imprint of a man’s thumb. This was all; yet how sigificant, even to the inex- perienced eyes of those wh) stared at it in morbid cu- riosity. At this juncture several Officers arrived upon the scene, and the crowd was frced to retire. Only Steve, Dyer, Mr. Blain, and two oithree others, besides the policemen, were allowed to rmain. Steve noticed one slender, hin-featured man who en- tered behind the officers, ad of whom the latter ap- peared to take not the least !otice. This man wore spectacis,and seemed to be very near-sighted. He also appared to be quite deaf. for he trequently placed his hnds to his ears as though trying to catch something vaich was being said. “A reporter,” was the 1d’s mental decision, after watching him curiotisly for €veral moments. The absurdity of this irerence struck him imme- diately, however, and he aded, half aloud: “The idea of a deaf and tar-sighted reporter, when itis their business to see ind hear everything. Ha! What is the chap up to now! wonder ?” The odd-looking strangeriad crossed over to the open window, and seemed to be Osely inspecting the bloody thumb-print on the sash. And the next moment Stré saw him do a most extra- ordinary thing. With a tiny saw which hproduced from a pocket, the man quickly made a slot inhe sasl#on each side of the mark. Then, with a keentaded knife he deftly clipped off a small section of the sth, wrapped the piece in tis- sue paper, and then stood 10tionless as a statue, gaz- ing out into the court, All this was accomplisid so quickly that, with the exception of Steve Lawtoniot a soul in the room no- ticed the action. And bef€ Steve had time to conjec- ture concerning the strazer’s purpose, his attention was diverted by a most thiling occurrence. He heard the sounds oft scuffle behind the railing. Turning quickly, he was — time to see aman spring past the guard at one cthe doors, followed by two others in swift pursuit. The fugitive was Georgoyer, the foreman; the pur- suers were policemen. At the same instant a s)ut was raised that electrified all who heard it. “Stop him! Stop the mctreant!” Half involuntarily Stevéprang past the guard into the passage-way beyond-n, until he reached the stair- way leading to the basemit. The policemen had kepon past this stair-way, sup- posing the one of whonthey were in pursuit to have made tor the street door.But a significant sound from below caused Steve to dart down the stairs instead. Reaching a small room below, which was dimly lighted, the lad paused to listen. Why he was pursuing George Dyer he did not know. Why were the policemen chasing him? What had the young foreman done? Surely he’could not be the Steve’s hasty reflections were interrupted by a shadow falling athwart the floor. At the same instant he turned and met the gaze of George Dyer. “Not a sound—on your life, be quiet!” the foreman huskily exclaimed, emphasizing his command by thrust- ing a revolver close to the startled youngster’s face. Steve knew better than to disobey an injunction like that. Yet he was not frightened, for there was an ex- pression in the young man’s eyes more likely to excite pity than fear. «‘Why are the cops chasin’ you ?” Steve found voice to ask. “Hush! I must hide, and you must not betray me, Steve. You will not betray me!” Dyer exclaimed, in low, earnest tones. CHAPTER II. THE DETECTIVE. We will not mystify the reader with vague complica- tions. The occasion of George Dyer’s sudden flight from the counting-room and the hot pursuit of the officers can be quickly explained, so far as it was understood by the pursuers themselves. As yet no formal investigation had been held. Along with the policemen a coroner’s deputy had arrived, and as he was a physician, he had proceeded to { examine the body of Mr. Waldron. The latter lay upon the floor, and in one hand he grasped a revolver. One chamber of the latter was empty ; and the fatal bullet had penetrated the victim’s heart, causing instantaneous death. So much was revealed at a glance, and so far it ap- peared like a suicide. The physician’s examination was quickly made, in the presence of Mr. Blain and two policemen, one, of the latter being a sergeant from police headquarters. In the meanwhile, the other circumstances of the ease, which pointed strongly to the theory of murder were | freely discussed by those present, as was natural, and during this discussion George Dyer had appeared upon the scene. The young man’s face was rather pale, as was natural under the circumstances. As he stood gazing upon the lifeless form of his late employer, Mr. Blain lightly touched his arm, and said: “I think you can give valuable evidence at the inquest, George.” There was no particular significance in the gentle- man’s tones. Mr. Blain was agitated, of course, and he had an abrupt way of saying things which was a trifle Startling to a stranger. The young foreman quickly glanced up, his pallor deepening, and in an indignant tone, he exclaimed : «What do you mean, sir ?” The tone, rather than the words, caused all present to fix their gaze upon his face. Mr. Blain hesitated an instant, and then, as though prompted by a sudden impulse, he said : “Tt was you who said, ‘Waldron has killed himself!’ I heard the shout plainly, for Il was coming up from the basement at the time the shot was fired. And it was your voice |” Mr. Blain did not, in the beginning, intend to make this accusation. Only at this moment had he been con- vinced that it was Dyer who had uttered the startling words. It was only the young man’s singular agitation that had given birth to the conviction. Dyer was silent'a moment. His eyes blazed with a strange expression. The coroner’s deputy and the police- men continued to stare. «Do you accuse me ?” Dyer then demanded. “Only of uttering the words I have repeated,” was the reply. «And if I did utter them ?” *Explain—that is all.” «‘T have nothing to say, sir.” The young man cast a swift, furtive glance toward the officers. Then ‘he turned away hastily, seemingly, at least, with the intention of flight. Mr. Blain and the deputy coroner made simul- to observe. Then the former himself sprang to inter- cept the foreman. He caught the latter around the waist; there was a momentary struggle, then Dyer fiung off the grasp of his employer and darted through the gate-way leading from the désk-room to the outer office. One of the policemen bounded in pursuit, and thus occurred the scene which had so mystified Steve Law- ton, the young apprentice. Neither Mr. Blain nor the coroner passed the guard at the entrance of the passage. They were confident the policeman would overtake the fugitive. ‘What can the fellow mean? It cannot be that he is the guilty one! No, no!” It was Mr. Blain who said this, and his tones express- e sudden anguish, tor George Dyer was a trusted em- ployee. At that moment his glance rested for the first time on the slender spectacled man, whose mysterious manue- vers had excited the curiosity of Steve Lawton. This individual had left the window and was in the act of passing through the railing gate-way, beyond which lay the victim of the tragedy. Blain and the doctor followed. The latter said, in an undertone: “That is Croly, the new detective. Rather cranky they call him, but he has worked up one or two extra- ordinary cases, it is said.” They saw the spectacled man examine the revolver which had been taken from the hand of the corpse. Then he inspected the fatal wound, scanned the floor, the ceiling, and the walls in turn. mt Blain and the coroner’s deputy turtively watched im. “A detective quack—a pretender!” was the former’s mental decision. This verdict had scarcely crossed his mind, however, before he was impelled to change it. ‘A quarrel; pistols drawn ; other party fired first ; Mr. Waldron the victim.” This was spoken by Croly, the detective, in a mild, low voice. He had abruptly ceased his investigations and addressed the remark to Mr. Blain. You think Mr. Waldron was killed in a quarrel?” Blain demanded, in his abrupt way. “Evidently. He might have drawn his weapon for self-defense, but he certainly had no chance to use it.” “So you did not notice the empty chamber of the cylinder ?” “Oh, yes. Been empty a good while, too. Cartridge- shell removed ; barrel not smoked ; weapon hasn’t been used since it was thoroughly cleaned and oiled. You did not hold to the suicide theory, Mr. Blain ?” The latter felt strangely thrilled as the spectacled eyes of the detective were fixed penetratingly upon his face. “Certainly not, since the bloody thumb-mark was dis- covered on the window-sash.” “Still you thought this pistol was the one used ?” “I supposed the murderer placed the weapon in the hand of his victim before escaping.” “Not at ali. Hedidn’t stop for that. Mr. Waldron was shot by an enemy in a quarrel. Yow ought to be able to name the culprit, Mr. Blain! Who was Mr, Walron’s bitterest enemy, eh ?” “J did not know he had one in the world.” ‘You are his partner ?” ‘- Yes; sir.” “And didn’t know he had an enemy ?” “JT did not.” That is queer, I declare. in, business together ?” ‘For ten years.” “And {[ suppose you mately 7” “Ofcourse. We were warm personal friends.” “Still you did not suspect -that he had an enemy ? Why, have you kept your eyes shut for ten years ?” «Business men may be friends and still not pry into each other’s private affairs,” said Mr. Blain, a trifle sharply. Croly cast a peculiar glance toward the coroner’s deputy, and said : “T suppose, Mr. Blain, that you have no enemies ?” “lam not prepared to say, sir. I have intended to treat every one squarely, yet [ may have unconsciously How long have you been know each other rather inti- taneous signs to the policemen, which the latter failed | his mild tones. excited enmity.” The detective stepped quietly forward, and tapped the rich man lightly upon the shoulder. “Let us understand each other, Mr. Blain,” he said, in waa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #285 wionn As we have before stated, Julian Blain was the senio| ‘And the shout, which several have stated that they partner of the firm. men in New York, and it would be hard to find one Whose reputation for integrity stood higher than his, He was wealthy and honored. He had held various public offices; and, unlike many, he had not betrayed the trust reposed in him. He was called in all respects a ‘‘square” man. Woe to the employee, foreman or apprentice, who should quibble or prevaricate in their dealings with Mr. Blain. And woe likewise to the one who should dispute or defy this gentleman upon his own premises. He was abrupt of speech and rather hasty in temper. The words and tones of this slender, spectacled detective irritated him, and he sharply retorted : “Well, sir, What have you to say ?” The coroner’s deputy bent eagerly forward. that something startling was about to occur. “Simply, Mr. Blain,” Croly began, with studied de- liberateness ; ‘‘simply this, sir: you have stated to me an out and out Salsehood |” The deputy searce repressed a startled exclamation. re Blain recoiled, as though he had received a blow in the face, “Dare you tell me that I have lied?” he fiercely de- manded. «About the same thing, sir,” was the mild response. “Do you mean it ?” ‘Tmeanit. Itisagood plan for us to start witha good understanding with each other. We shall be bet- ter friends in the end.” Julian Blain, if his fierce anger, sprang toward the detective with clenched hands. But the blow which he impetuously sent out was skillfully parried ; and in another instant the rich man was whirled around by powerful arms and forcibly seated in a pivotal chair close at hand. For a moment the gentleman panted helplessly from exhaustion and the excess of passion. ; He did not attempt to rise. But he glared up at the face of the detective, who seemed not the least excited by that which had taken place. “You must restrain your temper, sir,” Croly quietly remarked, while he waited for the other toregain his breath. Mr. Blain’s anger subsided as quickly as it had been | aroused. “If you thought I was deceiving you,” he said, speak- ing quite calmly, ‘‘you should have stated your sus- picions more courteously. «Then you would have denied their truth. will admit it. You know that Mr. Waldron had an en- emy, and so have you. That enemy was a former busi- ness partner of yours, whom you ‘crowded out’ of the partnership because he was dissipated and seemed likely to disgrace you. The man’s name is Carl Bran- don, and he swore vengeance against you both. AmI not right ?” Mr. Blain rose slowly to bis feet, the flush of anger upon his face having given place to a slight pallor. “What you say is true,” he declared; ‘though Heaven | only knows how you became possessed of the informa- | tion. Isupposed the secret was dead and buried. At all | events, it can have nothing to do with this tragedy. a Brandon was a reckless man, but he would never | 0 this.” | “T have not charged Brandon with the crime. But it | is well to question every circumstance in the case, even | to the graceful, closely vailed lady who called upon | your partner early ie, rning, You saw this lady | come and go, Mr. Blain. — do not think she could} have instigated the murder ?” | Mr. Blain’s visage turned to the hue of ashes, his lips | trembled, and he clutched the arms of his chair as) though for support. . “Great Heaven, man! how knew you of her visit ?” he hoarsely asked. *T saw her as she entered and came forth—pretty fair evidence, you see,” the detective replied. “I even know that Mr. Waldron’s visitor was a certain pretty compos- itor in your printing-house. Her name and the object of her visit | shall ascertain in due time. As you now understand that I have a faculty of discovering all sorts of facts, you will see how useless your attempts to hide them from me must prove. But hush! Here come the officers who started out after that foremanof yours. And he has given them the slip.” 5 oe He felt Now you | CHAPTER III, THE DETECTIVE’S STRANGE CLEW. Croly, the detective, did not stay to hear the report of the policemen who had failed in their attempt to over- take George Dyer, , : He hastened out upon the street, quickly walked to the elevated railway station at the Bowery and Canal street, took the first train, and, a little later, alighted at East Forty-seventh street. His private rooms were close by, and he went to them directly. as : Opening from his chamber was 4 small room, little larger than a closet, the door Of which he kept constant- ly locked, ‘Nie foom had no window, and his first act upon en- tering was to light the gas. Then he closed the door and seated himself at a table. The room was fitted up with shelves. These, as well as the table, were laden with an indescribable jumble of curiosities. . There were d-sha' nives, mu rous-1o¢ oreisbols of Ail Sizes MART SApES, eRe irks, 7 a namite bomb, several burglars’ tools, and various other implements taken from criminals, or preserved as clews to unsolved mysteries. On the table was an open scrap-book, in which were pasted portraits and sketches of numerous criminals, clipped from the newspapers. There were also several labeled vials containing liquids and powders. In a glass jar, floating in alcohol, was a severed finger—a clew to a crime recently solved by this wonderful detective. Upon another table, over which a mirror hung, were materials for every conceivable disguise that one might wish to assume, * Croly took from his pocket the piece which he had cut from the window-sash in the printing house counting- room. He unwrapped it carefully, and then studied the bloody thumb-print with eager intensity. From a shelf he took down a tattered book and opened it ata marked page. A single line on the printed page was underlined with blue ink. The line read as fol- lows: ~ “The lines on no two human thumbs are exactly alike.” The detective had read this statement a great many times, but never with such vital interest as the present. The book was an old, curious affair, containing many wonders of human research and science. It also con- tained some exploded sophistries, no longer of value. Whether the curious statement underlined by the de- tective was true or not, Croly was uncertain. He had carefully studied the subject, vaguely im- pressed that at some time it would prove of value to him. Whatif the print of a human thumb, and the lines upon the same, should at some time prove to be the only clew to a great crime ? Often had this thought passed through the detective’s mind; and like a sagacious prophecy, it now seemed likely to be fulfilled. A crime had been committed—a crime enshrouded in. deepest mystery, and the only clew, save those of a most superficial character, was this bloody impression on the window-sash. He was one of the “solid” business | heard immediately afterward ?” He,” “What did you then do” &% “J ran to the counting-room entrance, and found it locked.” ‘Locked, eh! And then what ?” «I went around to another door and entered.” nae came directly to the scene of the tragedy.” “7 did.” «‘Whom did you first encounter ?” “George Dyer, in the passage with several others. Next was Steve Lawton, one of my apprentices, who was first to discover the crime.” ‘ . “Where is this youngster, who, I understand, was first to find the victim, first to sound an alarm, first to sum- mon officers ?” ‘He has disappeared—probably run off to escape testi- tying at the inquest.” “Probably he has done nothing of the kind. Has search been made for him ?” “We sent to his lodgings and made inquiries.” “And that is all ?” , “That is all.” “How about George Dyer ?” “That is what puzzles me, Hecannot be found, al- though this building has been searched from top to bot- Lon and the police all over the city are on the lookout for him.” “Then you think he knows something about the crime ?” ‘“T am convinced that he does. I am positive that it was he who uttered the cry, ‘Waldron has killed him- self,” which was heard directly after the shot.” “He would not utter such a cry without a motive ?” “That is what looks dark for him.” “Do. you think he killed Mr. Waldron ?” “Under other circumstances I should as soon think of »| suspecting the Governor of the State.” ‘‘What is Dyer’s character ?” “Excellent. He is temperate, a good compositor, faithful in all respects. He has a weakness for bullying the boy apprentices—and thatis the only thing 1 have ever seen in him to dislike.” «Was he on good terms with Mr. Waldron ?” “J have no-reason to think otherwise.” «When you first encountered him in the passage, did he appear agitated ?” “He was calmer than the others.” “Tn case he committed the crime, could he have jumped out through the open window in the counting-room, and | afterward have made his way unobserved to the pas- sage where you found him ?” “Ie could not.” “Why not ?” «Because | was near enough to have seen him.” “Then he certainly did not commit the crime.” “How are you so positive ?” ‘Because the murderer escaped by the window.” «Perhaps he raised the sash as a ‘blind,’ and then ran into the passage where I saw him.” “No, he did not. Some one leaped through the open window. The marks where the man struck underneath the window were very plain. That isn’t all. | | ' again, and add tothe bruises trom which he already There was | a window openin the building upon the other side of | the court, and evidently the fugitive escaped from the court in that direction.” Mr. Blain sprang to his feet in his eagerness. “Then that building must be searched and guarded! The wretch may be hiding there at this moment !” He would have rung an-alarm, had his hand not been | arrested by the detective, who calmly said: “Wait—it is all right. I caused the place to be searched, very quietly, while the coroner was making | his investigations here. But nothing was found.” Mr. Blain gazed at the detective with an expression of admiration. ; «You keep your wits about you, I declare, Mr. Croly !” “TI always find them handy in my business,” the other dryly replied. Croly rose and added : “Have I your consent to search this building on my own account ?” ‘You have, and to come and go at pleasure. A noble, Christian gentleman has been foully dealt with—a man whom [loved as a brother—and I wish no stone to re- main unturned in the quest of the murderer !” Mr. Blain’s tones soitened with emotion, and he ear- nestly added : és : shall depend upon you to solve this mystery, Mr. roly.’ 5 At that moment both were startled by the sound of rapid footsteps outside the door, followed by the cry: “If yer lay a hand on me I—I'll strike |!” And the place is now guarded. CHAPTER IY: STHVR’S THRILLING EXPHRIENCE: Steve Lawton, facé to fae witli Dyer, the foreman, was strangely impressed by the speech of the latter. “Why did you run from the cops?” the boy reiterated. “Because I did not wish them to take me,” was the weak reply. i “That’s a slim reason, I callif. Why shouldn’t 7 run from ’em? Why shouldn’t everybody in the city take to their legs when they see a couple of cops comin’ along— hey ? I guess you’ve done something, George Dyer,” ‘It you dare to betray me it will go hard with you,” he hissed. «1 don’t see how I can betray yer when I don’t know as you’ve done anything.” The footsteps of the pursuing officers grew louder over their heads. The sounds increased the anxiety of the foreman, who said : “Steve, you must help me to escape.” “Me—help you?” 2 ; «Yes. You must throw my pursuers off my track.” ‘“‘Why should I do that ?” eS ‘Because I have done nothing deserving of the punish- ment which I am sure to receive if I am taken.” “Then what are you hidin’ for ?” “Because there is evidence against - me. Quick—will you aid me or not ?” “T ain’t goin’ to do nothin’ in the dark. 1 ain’t so fresh as all that.” . : The boy halt-regretted his words the instant they were uttered, for Dyer glared upon him with such intense | ferocity that he half feared he would use the weapon. In that moment a horrible fear flashed upon the young apprentice. What if George Dyer were, in truth, the murderer? If he were capable of such a heartless crime, would he hesitate to strike down a boy who stood in the way of escape ? Steve shivered with sudden dread. But he did not try to escape. He only stared at his captor, and waited to see what the latter would do next. ~ Dyer did not have the reputation of possessing a great stock of courage. Nor was he, ordinarily, a passionate fellow. Hence it seemed absurd to Steve to even sus- pect him of so bold a crime. Nearer drew the pursuing footsteps. George Dyer suddenly flung one hand over the boy’s mouth, and quickly lifted him in his arms. The young man was possessed of more than ordinary muscular power, and Steve was utterly helpless in his arms. The foreman darted through an open door-way, and deftly closed and locked the door. The impression was wonderfully perfect, every line being distinctly traced. It seemed as though Fate had | placed this piece of evidence in the hands of the great | scientific detective, that the truth or fallacy of the curi- | ous statement might be proven. | Croly placed this strange clew carefully under a glass globe, to protect it from dust and accident. Then he closed the book, and said aloud : “Most detectives would consider such a clew as this a | rather slender one. Iguessitis. But somehow, I am |} impressed by a conviction that the wretch who shot |! Hiram Waldron left behind a fatal imprint, and that I | Shall soon have him under my thumb !” The detective went out, carefully closing and locking the door. Later in the day he attended the inquest in the coro- ner’s office, in East Houston street. He wascalled upon to testify as an expert. The verdict implicated no one, but declared the case to be one of murder, not of suicide. After the inquest Croly returned to the printing house. Of course, business in the building was suspended, buta number of employees and others lingered about the premises under the impulse of morbid curiosity. Croly found Mr. Blain in a small private office. That gentleman had just concluded a consultation with a de- tective sergeant from police headquarters. “Tam glad to see you, Mr. Croly,” the gentleman promptly said, placing a chair for his visitor. «I was afraid you would not be,” was the quick reply. Croly seated bimself in a position whence he could fur- tively watch the expressions of the other through his spectacles. “Why not, sir?” Mr. Blain demanded. «On account of our encounter of this morning.” «You were discourteous and I was hasty.” “T was outspoken, that is all. I gave youa fair chance to tell me the truth, but you persisted in an out and out falsehood.” The detective’s tones were mild, but his words were blunt. No one ever dared before to use such language to Ju- lian Blain. «You tried to entrap me,” the latter declared, an angry tremor in his tones. “J tried your veracity, and found it wanting, sir.’’ “Did you come here to insult me ?” “I came to have a plain talk, You will gain nothing by flying in a passion.” ‘7 claim the right of resenting insult.” : “Of course you do when you are insulted. But since you have admitted your fault I fail to see where the of- dense on my part comes in.” “Never mind, let it pass. What do you wish to know?” “In the first place, do you wish this mystery to be solved ?” “By all means.” |, «Are you willing I should take the case ?” - «You are privileged to do so, but I Shall not undertake to keep other detectives from working on it.” " “Of course not.” i Croly bent slightly forward and rapped the table which was between them with his forefinger. “Mr. Blain, where were you when the fatal shot was fired ?” he asked. “1 was on the street.” ‘How far from the building ?” “Only afew yards. I was on the point of entering.” ‘“You heard the pistol-shot ?” “Distinctly.” They were now in the great, silent press-room. Several lights glimmered faintly; and the large cylinder presses looked like silent monsters, petrified in the midst of their labors. Motionless pulleys and shafting; motionless belts, looking faint and shadowy in the dim light. Great stacks of printed and unprinted papers on every side. On, past these objects, ran George Dyer, with the ap- prentice hugged elose in his arms. Steve might have uttered a shout for help, but prudence forbade his doing so. He realized that his captor’s mind was in a condition ‘ desperation, and that it was unsafe to goad him too ‘ar. Reaching the end of the main press-room, Dyer passed through another open door-way, and thus entered the engine-room, Here could be heard a faint hissing of steam from a loose valve. The monster engine, like the other machines, was silent and motionless, as though all were paralyzed with the horror of the dreadful crime which had been enact- ed above. Beyond this was another apartment, the last in that | end of the building. Here were boilers where the power for running the presses was generated. Here the hiss- of steam was more pronounced. On the threshold of this room the fugitive halted, and cast a penetrating glanceforward. He half-expected to ae fireman sitting in the broken chair opposite the oilers. But the chair was vacant, dispute his flight. Here Dyer set Steve upon his feet, and closed the door between the boiler and engine rooms with his left hand, while he clung to the boy with the other. This was a massive iron door for protection against fire. But it was provided with ho lock or bolt. But the foreman was not long in finding means for fastening the door. Upon the floor he found a piece of steam-pipe, and he thrust this through the handle of the door, wedging it in place with a block of wood. Now he was Satisfied that no ordinary effort from the other side could succeed in forcing admittance to the boiler-room. Once more he confronted Steve with the low exclama- No figure started up to tion : “Now let them take me if they can!” The lad still maintained his coolness, although he realized that he wasin danger. “Do you expect to keep them out that way 2?” the lad questioned. “T can, for a time.” «And then what ?” “Then they won’t find me here.” ‘What are you goin’ to do with me ?” “That depends.” “Depends on what ?” ‘‘Whether you promise not to tell how I escaped.” “Got a secret way to git out out of here, have you ?” “T have a way, yes.” Steve glanced swiftly around the room. Butit was only dimly lighted, and he could detect no spot by by which it was possible fora man to escape from the room save by the door. ‘Do you promise ?” Dyer repeated. ‘‘Supposin’ I do ?” “7 will leave you here, and when the officers break in | you will be free.” ‘‘What shall I say to them ?” ““Make up any kind of story you please.” The grasp upon the boy’s arm tightened and a jaen-} Bf shot trom | self up through the opening into the boiler-room, he «Make up a lie, and help to hide a murderer, eh !” The young man clutched the boy’s arm more tightly again. and hoarsely said. «You wrong me. I have committed nocrime. It was not I who shot Hiram Waldron.” “Do you mean it ?” “It is true, Steve. I am innocent.” The boy was silent a moment, his brain intensely ac- tive. Hesuddenly exclaimed : “Are you truly innocent, George Dyer?” ‘“«As igmocent as you are,” é “Ther I know what the racket is. I know why yer are so’ r ‘ rd of being caught.” . “Why?” ie «Cause yer knows who fired the shot! I seenitdone. Thatswhy!” — “T admit it, Steve; I witne: young man, in a low, trembli There was a moment of intense si ded : the «crim f VOICC. ‘e, and then he «“T should not have admitted this ev not already guessed the truth, Will not to betray me ?” de baht “That would be helpin’ to shield the murderer from justice,” Steve declared, shaking his head. «You will do so much for 7ée ae a “No, I won’t, and don’t you forget it!” «Is your decision final ?” é “Yer can wait a week if yer think Till change my mind. I ain’tinno partickler hurry.” — These words had scarcely passed the boy’s lips when he was suddenly lifted in the arms of his captor, and borne swiftly across the room. *‘Help—help !” shouted the lad, assailed by a desperate ft to you, had you ear. But the thick walls sent back his cry with a dead sound, and he knew that it could have reached the ears of no one outside. ’ George Dyer stooped and grasped an iron ring which was fastened to a small, square section of floor. He raised the section, disclosing a black, yawning opening. Steve struggled desperately to escape from the power- ful arms of his captor. But in vain. And again he shouted for help, with the same hopeless result as before. Then, despite his resistance, despite his cry for mercy, the boy was thrust downward through the opening— down into the black abyss below! - } For an instant Dyer clung to the lad’s collar, allowing him to hang in suspension. Then he released his hold, and the youngster was sensible of the awful horror of dropping down, down through invisible space. He struck with a shock, and then his senses for- sook him, partly from terror and partly from the violent contact of his head with the } earth upon which he had fallen. Nearly an hour passed before he had fully regained his senses; and it required another hour to clamber up the wet, slippery wall that ‘helped to support that end of the building. Several times he made the attempt, only to fall back suffered. : And when he had af last succeeded in drawing him- was so exhausted that he sank down upon the floor and lay there a long time, faint, weak, and breathless. At length he recovered and sprang to his feet. Fora short space he had slept, overcome by exhaustion, and the sleep refreshed him wonderfully. Then he glanced about him in sudden terror, lest Dyer should reappear and agi consign him to the dark space below. : But the young foreman was not there. Atthe same time he discovered that the door of the boiler-room was open, while the piece of steam-pipe with which it had been fastened lay upon the floor. Steve seized this, feeling that with it he could make a desperate defense, if necessary. Then he made his way back through the engine and press-rooms, past the. silent monsters whose clangor of life was accustomed to shake the massive building from top to bottom. . As the boy made . Way toward the stairs he im- agined that he saw k figure skulking in his rear. This caused him to quicken his footsteps. A back- ward glance showed him that the skulking figure like- wise moved more quickly. There was no longer any doubt. The boy realized that he was pursued, and, his nerves weakened by the re » ar, ie — had ron subjected, he un SW up the stairs—switt ong ssage toward the counting-room. * , pi Be And after him glided the shadowy pursuer, (TQ BE CONTINUED.) Se a : (THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IY BOOK-FORM,] TWO KEYS;- | OR, 7 Bhs By MRS? GEORGIE SHELDON, Author ot “‘ Brownie’s Triumph,” “The Forsaken Bride,” *“‘Audrey’s Recompense,”’ etc. , . (“Two Krys” was commenced in No. 30. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.] CHAPTER XXIII. A NOVEL PASTIME. Margaret stood motionless until she heard the door ou promise, now, |'§ row alley, which led at right angles through to another street running parallel with the one they were on. She had never noticed it before, but now she saw that there were entrances all along, as far as her eye could reach, to the empty buildings on her right. : Suddenly her attention was attracted by seeing a man come out of one of these doorsin the alley—the third one from the corner. ‘ Apparently, he was an old man, having white hair, and a full, grizzled beard. He was very ordinarily dressed, wearing a long, Coarse gray coat, a tall black hat of somewhat antiquated shape, and cheap, thick shoes, He stop) a moment to lock the door after him, after which he tried it to see if he had fastened it securely; then he turned and came down the alley toward the street, swinging his keys carelessly in his hand. ; Margaret noticed the keys particularly—there were two of them—because one hit against the other, making a little musical ring; and she saw, too, that they were fastened ether by a small brass chain, She drew back out of the man’s sight, although she him, as he came out of the alley almost me Ret: but his head was bent as if in deep thought, and at first he did not appear to observe the carriage standing so quietly there. . When he did, however, he gave a start of surprise, and shot a keen glance at the driver sitting so dignifiedly upon his box. Then he swept a startled look into’the carriage, and though he could. not see Margaret, she caught the brilliant flash of those eyes, and her heart gave a frightened bound. The next moment he resumed his thoughtful mien, and passed on, up toward the larger and broader street which crossed, a few blocks above, the one he was on. The minute his back was turned, Margaret leaned out of the carriage window and closely watched him. She noticed that he limped slightly as he walked—limped with the left foot—and also that the ungloved hand, from which the keys were still swinging, was not the hand of an old man at all, but white, and delicate, and rose-tipped, like a lady’s. She watched him out of sight, until he turned a cor- ner, then she sank back, weak and trembling, among the cushions of the carriage, where Mrs. Houghton found her soon after, white as death and as strengthless as an infant. “T have tired you out, Margie, keeping you waiting here in the cold so long,” she cried, in a voice of self- reproach. ‘I believe I will never bring you into this dismal place again.” ‘‘T think I am rather more tired than usual, mamma,” Margaret answered, weakly; ‘‘there is a disagreeable chill, too, in the air to-day; but I shall be all right again when we get where there is a cheerful fire and I am rested. How did you find Annette this after- noon ?” : “She is much better, and declares that she will be able to return to us by another week,” Mrs. Houghton answered. In spite of her assurance that she should be all right when she was rested, Margaret did not get over the effects of her excitement for a day or two, but seemed nervous, depressed, and preoccupied, while she would start violently and glance about her in a half frightened way at every unusual sound. The third day, however, when Arthur Aspinwall called, he found a pleasant change in her. She was looking much better, while she seemed more cheerful and animated than she had appeared since her lover’s disappearance. She greeted him very cordially, and immediately fell into a social chat with him, and was so kind and affable that he could hardly believe she was the same person. “Come and see, whatI am doing,” she said to him, after a while, and, rising, she led him toatable at the other end of the room, and upon which there stood a glass case, having a black velvet bed within it, to which various coins and curious designs in red sealing-wax were attached «Ah, you are making a collection of coins, Margie,” he said, bending down to examine them more closely. “Yes; I began it several years ago, and for a time was very much interested in it; but after a.while I grew weary of it and put my case away. It occurred to me, however, a few days ago, that I had plenty of time now and a good opportunity to gain something new, being in a foreign country, soI have brought it forth, hoping to get some amusement out of it.” ; “You have quite a variety of coins—some rare ones, too,” Arthur observed, ; “Yes; there are two or three—these,” touching them Bene Sees the tip of one of her dainty fingers, ‘‘that I have been very enticingly invited to dispose of upon two or three ons. That very fact, however, only served to make me desire more earnestly to keep them.” ‘But what are these designs in red wax ?” the young ‘man inquired, turning his attention to them. “These,” pointing to four or five,” are copies of some ee which a friend in Boston allowed me to “But how were you able to reproduce them so nicely ?’» “JT made a mold; or impression, of plaster of Paris, explained. ; to represent ?” Arthur asked, that i received a curious im ifn a S Witt, s king up a circular tablet ron ig Nilte2+7- ea; Du LD) “Yes, and perhaps a foolish one; but I think very few people have. ea ot the many curious keys that ex- | The question was lightly put, but a close observer would have seen that the young girl was waiting with consideravle interest, if not anxiety, for his reply. “I don’t know of anything,” Arthur answered, plung- close after him. Then she glided into that corner of the | ing his hands into his pockets and bringing forth several room where she and her lover had sat that last night, | keys of various shapes and sizes. ’ Her eyes lighted for a moment as her quick glance and getting down upon her knees, she began to look passed from one to another; then a look ot disappoint- carefully all about for Arthur’s missing diamond. She | ment swept over her face. moved the tete-a-tete aside, and lifting the draperies from the floor, searched carefully along the edge of the carpet, but she found nothing. “I do not believe that he lost it here,” she said ; «but he lost it that night, and—where ?” She was about to rise from her kneeling posture when her attention was attracted by the arrangement of the | rich curtains where they were drawn back from the | window and the arch between the two rooms and fast- | ened in folds in the corner. ‘How awkwardly the girls arrange these things,” Margaret said. ; She took the massive tassels in her hands, untied the heavy cords, and was on the point of shaking out the draperies preparatory to gathering them up more grace- | fully, when something made her stop. The next mo- | ment she was bending oyer them even closer than be- ) fore. : “An!” It was a sharp, startled ery that broke from | her. And what she saw was sufficient to cause any one a shock of surprise, for there, caught among the over- shot threads, and almost in the heart of a rich crimson rose, like a great drop @ glittering dew, was a pure, gleaming diamond! iy “1¢ is his!” she cried, came it here?” . } She stood as if paralyzed fora moment; then, with resolution evident in her pale face, she added : ; “I have a clew at lasf; but, oh! itis such a slight thless voice, ‘‘but how one, I fear it will lead to nothing tangible. Neverthe- less I shall follow it, if it tikes me as long as I live.” - * - ; * * * = hton’s maid was taken vio- jan, upon being called, pro- fever of a malignant type, removed at once from the her present delicate condi- The next day Mrs. Ho lently ill, and their phy nounced her. disease to [ and advised that she be house, as Miss Houghton, tion, was liable to take it. So the poor girl was being fortunate enough trained nurse was provid Every day Mrs. Hough was progressing, and M though she was not allow in alone to ascertain the her comforts and delicaci The house where she w’ oved to her own home— ave one in.the city—and a to give her proper care. n drove out to see how she garet accompanied her, al- to alight, her mother going eds of her maid and to carry ill was an humble one, in a narrow street which had ofce been an important busi- ness locality. Years beforéthere had been a fine array of shops and bazaars upon dne side of it, while upon the pee immense warehouses loomed gloomily above them. 7 But as the tide of humanity rolled more and more into the city, pushing and crdéwding into every available nook and corner, business interests had gradually been removed to the more aristo@atic portions of the town, and then the buildings on the south side of the street had been made over into dwellings for the poorer class- es, and those on the north rented for storage, or left empty and deserted. i. It was not a pleasant locality, but rents were low there, and as the poor are forced to take what they can get for their money, they flocked into every available space. t It was a Singular fact, however, that people shunned the side of the street that was uninhabited; the side- walk there was almost deserted, while the opposite one was teeming with life. After dark the inhabitants of that place were disinclined fo walk in the shadows of those great, gloomy buildings, and thus, after a time, the belief gradually prevailed that they were haunted. Into this place, however, Margaret Houghton and her mother drove every day upon their errand of mercy, and after Mrs. Houghton alighted, the driver was in the habit of turning his horses about and driving up to the opposite sidewalk, while waiting for her reappearance, in or, to be out of the way ot other vehicles passing through. ; Thus Margaret sat in the carriage one day, waiting for her mother, who, for some reason, remained muc longer than usual with Annette, her maid. The young girl was extremely nervous and impatient ‘Those are all modern,” she said, indifferently. that they have . | seached for it,” she sa ee Sa ou shall have ‘Oh, that is alittle inv n,” she said, 1g carel . “After making-a co the medallionsI| “Wi to gin S lost.” Ar- spoke of, I conceived the idea of taking the impression | thur returned, of anxie sed his of different kinds of keys. I first. aa nt e tablet | ‘Yet, even never see it ag it would be from melted wax,” showing him one that was perfectly | some satisfa “now how I happen lose it.” plain, ‘then, whenever I find 8 Cer. shaped key, Margaret was with the fastening of other heat it moderately and stamp it upon the smooth sur-| glove and did notreply. : face.” oe he servant at that moment answered th e, and, “That is a novel idea.” bidding her good-by, Arthur returned } wen directly to al Ay steel-like ucky’ diamond indeed!” she muttered be- Ween her white teeth as she shut and locked the door CHAPTER XXV. MR. ASPINWALL BECOMES UNEASY. It was later than usual, the next day, when Mrs. Houghton’s coupe drove into the Rue de Bianc and stop- ped before the home of her servant, and the-day being clouay, it was almost dark as she alighted from the ¢ar- riage. “Jacques, you May go in with me and carry this basket and wait until it is Pm ig while I see how An- nette is; thatis, iLyou are sure the horses will stand p hese whiie you are gone,” Mrs. Houghton said to the river. “Oui, oui, madam,” and he pointed to the heavy weight which he had attached to the bit of one of the noble creatures. . “Very well; we will not be gone long, Margie.” Mrs. Houghton remarked to her daughter, and then the two disappeared within the house. a ‘ “It will take them ten minuteés,.at least, to unpack that basket,” Margaret murmured, aS she saw the door close after them. ‘‘I shall have time to do what I wish.” The next instant the door on the opposite side of the coupe was opened, a slight, darkly clad figure stepped out upon the ground and sped nimbly across the street in the gathering gloom, : She made directly for that narrow alley before men- tioned, turned the corner and passed quickly on until she came to the third door on the left. She sprang up two or three stone steps, turned the handle and tried to push the door open. It was locked as.she had expecte: ee bent her head and put her ear to the keyhole to en. : There was not a sound within the building; it was as silent as a tomb. : She pressed her face close against one of the small diamond shaped panes of glass which were upon each side of the entrance and tried to peer into the gloomy ane but all was dark as midnight and she could see nothing. i , ; She stepped back down the steps into the alley, and looking upward counted three windows, one above an- other, and a dormer above those; showing that-the building was more than three stories high. Then with a long drawn sigh, she glided like asomber ghost from the place, sprang across the street beyond, and regained her seat in the carriage, panting and frightened, just as her mother and the coachman reap- peared from the house of Annette’s mother; the next moment they were driving toward home. That evening, a dismal, rainy night, Arthur Aspinwall pe bed appearance in the Houghtons’ parlors at an early hour. He found them sitting cozily around a bright wood fire, and busily engaged in disposing of a basket of pop- corn in true New England fashion. It was one of thése attractive, home-like pictures that do the heart good, and one that is seldom seen in the heart of a foreign city like Paris. Margaret was perfectly lovely ina white cashmere neglige, With a full ruching of lace about her throat, and fastened with a cascade of white satin ribbons ; a heavy cord, with massive tassels, was drawn about her waist, while her golden hair was gathered into a careless knot at the back of her small head and fastened with a silver arrow. Her only other ornament was that flashing dia- ae with its guard, on the third finger of her left and. She sat on the right of the fire, her small feet, incased in bewitching slippers ot bronze, surmounted by black velvet bows, resting upon a handsome crimson hassock, She made a picture that an artist would have delight- ed in copying, and to Arthur Aspinwall nothing had ever seemed so beautiful. “IT got homesick enough to—to do almost anything desperate. I could not stay by myself another hour this dreary night,” he said, with a rueful face, as he came into the room where this cheerful party was gathered, «You will think I am always lonesome or homesick,” he added, Pee. “Then you did the right thing to come to us.” Mr. Houghton responded cordially, as he arose to draw a chair forward for him. ‘Come and yourself and eat a dish of our Yankee pop-corn, then, if agreeable to you, we will have an old-fashioned game of euchre.” “T should think you would get lonely, Arthur?” Mrs. Houghton remarked regarding him gravely. ‘‘What do you ta oe about all day long ?” “Oh, [read, smoke, and look in upon the club, or drive on the boulevards.” Mr. Houghton turned upon him suddenly and said kindly, though bluntly : — «That kind of life isn’t just the thing for a man of your years ; why don’t you do something, Aspinwall ?” “In what way ?” deration,.» think the temptation you . aaa ae —_ "an re VOL. 41—No, 88. cata THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. — we “Why, take up some employment—go into business— anything to make yourself useful.” in the way of work. I know nothing of business.” “What could I find? I never did anything in my life | “Try book-keeping.” “T abominate figures.” «Well, Pl set you at work; you write a good hand. I can give you plenty of copying.” The young man shrugged his shoulders, thought a moment, then replied, indifferently : “Thank you. Vl think of it and let pou know my de- cision when Uncle Albert returns ; perhaps he may have different plans for me.” , He glanced at Margaret as he spoke. She was ing him fixedly, while there was an un- mistakable curl of contempt on her beautiful lips, which brought a dot flush to his cheek. “«Confound it ! she measures everybody by that inter- nal puppy,” he said to himself, wrathtully; ‘‘but if she imagines that I am ever going to make a drudge of my- self, as he has done, she is mightily mistaken.” This fire is very comfortable, and the corn tastes like old times at home,” he said, to break the awkward pause that followed his last remark, and to change the subject. ‘The night is an ugly one outside, but no one would ever dream of it here; and now, if the rest of you desire, I believe I am ready for that game of euchre.” “Allright. Come, Margie ;” and Mr. Houghton sprang up, drew a small table into the glow of the fire, and ar- ranged chairs about it. s Seating himself in one he took a pack of cards from a drawer in the table, and be to shuffle them vigor- ously, for he was always eager for his favorite game. ; Margaret left her corner at the grate, came forward, and quietly slipped into the seat opposite her father. «Ah! going to play with me, my lady ?” he questioned, with a fond glance into her fair face. “Yes, sir. I know too much toallow you and mamma to have everything all your own way,” she replied, with, a significant smile. F Mr. Houghton laughed heartily as he began to acat{ while Arthur, somewhat disappointed not to have Mar- garet for a partner, seated himself opposite Mrs. Hough- ton. and the play began. They played for two hours, and at the end of that time the count was in favor of the father and daughter. Margaret had seemed to concentrate all her powers upon the game, and had joined but very little in the gen- eral chat. “How much in earnest you are, Margie,” Arthur ob- served, as he saw her perplexed face when once her father had ‘spassed,” and she was-uncertain as to just what course she ought to pursue. She flashed a lightning look at him, and it seemed to him as if there was something of defiance in it. “Of course Lam in earnest. {| am play ng against you with al my might. I amdetermined to beat you if such a.thing is possible,” she answered. -The words were lightly spoken, but, somehow, they affected him unpleasantlyy They grated upon his nerves, and made him angry in spite of himself. But he bent more close to his own work after that. “Whatever Margie does, whether it is work or play, she does it with her whole heart,” Mrs. Houghton re- marked, as she observed that he was stung by her re- mark. “But though they both did their best they were badly beaten, and, at ten o’clock, Arthur arose from the table or nettled than he would have been willing to con- ess. “That was pretty well done, my lady fair,” said Mr. Houghton, winding his arm about his daughter’s slight waist. “I never knew you to play so well before.” «Thank you, papa. It was ‘diamond cut diamond’ you YOU GAVE ME A FLOWER. he Ss BY E. N. G. You gave me a flower, and your smile was so sweet, __As you vanished from me, in the midst of a throng, That my heart from that moment knelt down at your feet, And life seemed to me full of laughter and song. I caught but a glance of your wonderful eyes— I saw no more in that bright, festive hour— But I knew, from that moment, that mine was the prize, For you gazed at me fondly, and gave me a flower. There was music and dancing, and jesting and wine, And beauty shone bright in the midst of the mirth ; But never a heart quite so happy as mine, In the love of the dearest and sweetest of earth. Yet our love was unspoken—no word had been said ; I caught uot an accent, and heard not a tone ; And yet, in that moment, I fondly had read Your heart was forever and ever my own! —__—____—__ > © ~+-—____—__ (THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] (GE REVENGE; OR,/ \ Fae A P # 3 THE’ UNDERTAKER'S SECRET. By JOHN F. COWAN, Author of ‘“‘O’'CONNOR’S CHILD,” “PRETTY POLL,” “NORAH GLENN,” etc. {*A STRANGE REVENGE” was commenced in No. 31. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.] CHAPTER XX. MR. BILKS DRAWS A CORK TO DRAW A SECRET. Dr. Maynard and Mr. Trimwick were called from their close conclave by the bustle, and ran into the other par- lor, with eager inquiries as to the cause of the trouble. No one could tell but Dan Banks, and even he was very muddy on the subject, and very loth indeed to give expression to his opinion. His principal feeling was a vague bewilderment, mingled with sorrow and shame, at this untoward acci- dent having happened to cause confusion and disturb- ance in a house where they were strangers. «It is nothing,” he said—‘‘a mere trifle. My wife is know—when the enemy use keen weapons, we need to subject to these little turns once in a while (Heaven for- sharpen our own,” she answered, with downcast eyes | give me for lying!) She will be better in a minute or and flushed cheeks, “J am afraid you have allowed yourself to get excited over the game; you are almost in a fever,” he said, touching her hot face anxiously. “Oh, no,” Margaret replied, carelessly, ‘the room has | only been getting too warm,” but she turned away from him as if the subject was distasteful. “By the way, my friends,” Arthur suddenly remarked, “I came near forgetting something very important. Doubtless you all know that there is to be a grand fete here in Paris, to-morrow.” “Yes, great preparations are being made for it through- - the city—it will be a regular gala-day,” returned Mr. ioughton. two.” Under the superintendence of the young doctor and the ladies she did recover quickly, and after the appari- tion had appeared she droppéd her head on her hus- | band’s shoulder, and said, in & trembling tone, that totally astonished him, for he had never heard any such weakness from her before : “Let us go, Dan—let us leave this.” Maynard pronounced it a simple attack of hysteria, and insisted upon her retiring until her nerves were “Well, I have a programme here,” Arthur continued, | quieted. But the fright had been too much for her, and taking a folded paper trom his pocket, ‘‘and the route of | She quietly but firmly insisted on going home. the procession is all laid out. I noticed it is to pass through Avenue del Opera and directly past our rooms, which, as you-know, are on a corner, and will therefore command a fine view of the whole thing. for you all to be my guests for the day and enjoy the | sights with me.” | “That was very thoughtful of you, Arthur,” Mrs. | ¢ Houghton tection, appreciatively, ‘and of course we | that there might have been some gfounds for the Bo- cannot resist such a temptation. only wish Mr. Forest had returned to make one of our | number.” | “TI wish so too,” Arthur replied ; then turning to Mar- | garet who had said nothing regarding the plan, he ask- | ed: “Doyou think you will enjoy it, Margie ?” “Oh, yes, I would like to see the procession ; doubtless it will be very fine—all glitter and sparkle as these | Parisians always are. I shall like too, to see how you bachelors live,” she added, appearing to feel_ more inter- est in that than inthe procession. 0 es +: «I did not suppose you ever gave a thought to that,” he said, smiling. ‘I will come for you at ten so as to avoid the crowd if possible.” As he spoke he arose to ha’ ; Sra that lameness yet, Avr- thur,” remarked Mrs. Houghton, seeing that he limped slightly in going toward the door. “No, not entirely—I always feel it more after sitting a long time as I have done to-night.” e glanced back as he spoke and was struck with the ige expression upon Margaret's face. She stood leaning forward, observing him intently, her head bent, her eyes fastened upon his feet, her face pale, a look of cunning mingled with fear in her ated eyes. As she felt his glance upon her she suddenly stood erect, and met it witha look that he was sure had a flash of triumph in it. The next instant she quietly remarked : “Ttis your lest foot, isn’t it, Arthur ?” “Yes, andl am getting out of patience with it for being contrary so long.” «TJ should say you ought to have advice about it,” she continued. ‘If you neglect it, the peculiarity of your gait may become permanent, and then,” she added, more lightly, ‘if youshould ever want to do anything wrong—commit a crime, for instance—it would be very a to track you, no matter how you disguised your- self.” d The young man started, flushed a quick, angry crim- son, then grew as white asthe collar about his neck. + “Why, Margaret, what—what a queer thing for you to oK he stammered. ‘What did you mean by it ?” “Oh, nothing that need toalarm you, I hope; only the idea struck me that it would be comparatively easy to track any one by such a peculiarity,” she returned, com- posedly. “I still advise youto attend toit. It would have been wiser, though, if you had done so at the out- set.” He searched her face keenly, but she had resumed her usual high-bred calm, and was carelessly toying with the silken cords that fastened her robe. There was a frown upon his brow as he bade Mr. and Mrs. Houghton good-night, and he would have gone without a word to Margaret if she had not come forward of her own accord, and with a smile that he had no power to resist, said : «Arthur, you have not brought me your keys yet. I am waiting to take the impression of some of them. Have | treated you so badly to-night that you wish you could lock me up with one of them ?” “Lock youup?’ he repeated, like one dazed by the question. Then recovering himself, and smiling back into the innocent eyes raised to his, he continued : «No, indeed, Margie; but I forgot the keys. I will show you some to-morrow, however, and you can select for yourself.” And with a brief good-night he departed: «Margie, what a queer thing for you to say about Ar- thur’s lamenéss,” Mrs. Houghton remarked, chidingly, after he had gone. ‘And about his being tracked for crime !” «Perhaps it was,” she answered, indifferently, ‘but you know the old adage, mamma, ‘idleness leads to crime.’ Arthur Aspinwall is a very idle young man ; whether he isaboye being led into anything worse re- mains to be seen.” “J am afraid you are growing uncharitable. Margie.” «Perhaps Lam, mamma,” and Margaret vanished for the night, leaving Mrs. Houghton deeply perplexed over her very unaccountable manner that evening. (T0 BE CONTINUED.) > o—<____— NECESSITY OF EXERCISE. The benefit of exercise, to those whose occupation does not lead them to physical exertions, cannot be too highly estimated. The body must undergo a certain amount of fatigue to preserve its natural strength and Maintain all the muscles and organs in proper vigor. This activity equalizes the circulation, and distributes the blood more effectually through every part. Cold feet or chill anywhere, shows that the circulation is lan- guid there. The muscles, during exercise, press on the veins, and help forward the current, quickening every vessel into activity. The valves of the heart are in this Way aided in the work of sending on its stream, and re- lieved of a certain amount of labor. If exercise is neg- lected, the blood gathers too much about this central region, and the oppression about the heart, difficulty of ‘breathing, lowness of spirits, anxiety and heaviness, numerous aches and stitches, are evidences of stagna- tion. People are afraid to take exercise, because they fancy they want breath, and feel languid. But the very effort would free the heart trom this burden, by urging the blood forward to the extremities; it would ease their breathing by liberating their lungs from the same superabundance ; it would make the frame feel active and light, as the effect of equalized circulation and free action, ——————_>-6 =< _____—_- Horsford’s Acid Phosphate In Sick Headache. Dr. W. W. Gray, Cave Spring, Ga., says: “I have given it in several cases of habitual sick headache, with perfect success.” / Dan was as egeer to depart as she was. He felt a great desire to alone with her, that she might ex- plain in- full the cause of her extraordinary behavior. Lhad planned | The accusations of poisoning made against his wife and Verazzi by Arthur Bilks loomed up in his mind, and as he had not caught even a glimpse of the figure that caused her fright, the thought would: force itself on him We will all come—I | hemian’s charge. Verazzi he believed to be capable of any villainy ; and what if bis wife, though not actually assisting, had winked at the Frenchman’s crime. What if this frightsome vision was but the diseased | creation of a troubled conscience. The thought horri- | fied him, and he imagined that every eye that fell upon them read their guilty secret. “Yes, dear, we will go,” he said, kindly, in answer to her whispered entreaties, for he had suffered the tor- ture.of hidden thoughts himself, and when he looked on the frightened tace of the woman so firm and self-reliant generally, his heart was touched with pity. ‘You must forgive us for marring your enjoyment,” he said, ad- dressing the doctor and his family, ‘‘and for our intru- sion in the first place. We are exceedingly sorry it hap-_ ned. Permit us to retire, Mr. Trimwick, I shall send another carriage.” “No—no!” exclaimed Maynard, ‘‘Mr. and Miss Trim- wick shall have the use of mine. We are sorry at your parting, but will not press your stay against your lady’s wishes, and remember we only let you go on the con- dition that you come again.” meen you. I hope that we shall often meet. Come, chel.’ So they departed with their secret and their trouble, and before they were long on the road Dan was in full possession of the cause of his wife’s sudden faintness. Though sorely puzzled to account for the apparition she spoke of, there was one gleam of happiness which sprang out of the recital. This was the surety that his wiie was guiltless in the act or knowledge of the in- fluencing of the woman’s death. To her the death was a true and accomplished fact, the burial bona fide. She believed this late appearance of the deceased to be supernatural. She had none of the misty suspicions of her husband. He had never hinted his doubts to her, nor did he now, though he thought all the more deeply of them to himself. He let her en- joy her superstitious belief, if its effects upon her could be called enjoyment, and he determined, on arriving at home, to settle this matter, and satisfy himself of the truth, whichever way it was. The idea struck him of returning to Albert Maynard’s and inquiring if there was in the house a person answer- ing the description given by his wife. But he feared a use- less exposure of his secret in following up this shadow of her imagination, which at the furthest might have been caused by mere resemblance. He would first see his two employees and demand the truth from them. When they alighted at their home there was no sign of any living person in the store, and they entered un- noticed and unheard. Confused sounds of talking and hilarity proceeded from the back room, and the under- taker, stepping to the glazed dividing door, looked through the net curtain, and was rewarded for his ear- ly and unexpected return by a genuine surprise. The bothersome Bilks sat in garrulous majesty on the box in which he had been incarcerated, with his long knees nearly up to his chin, and a green glass rum-bot- tle between them, His glasses were stuck upon the very’point of his!Wellington nose, his head thrust forward like a serpent’s, and his green eyes glittered with all the foreed humor of a professional anecdote-teller. He prided himself very much on his ability in that line. His audience was composed of Bullfrog and Ricketts. The first-named young gentleman ldy at full length upon the lid of a coffin likea errieene monumental effigy in bronze. One hand and elbow supported his head, the other supported a glass of rum, which he sipped ever’and anon as he blinked with drunken gravity at the face of the dealer in facetia. Ricketts sat upon a work-bench, cracking bis heels together ahd sipping his rum with all the easy freedom ofan expert. The effectsof his imbibations were very palpable. An idiotic grin seemed to be settled perma- nently On his wooden face, his goggle eyes were more goggly than ever, and his head moved continuously with a dislocating action like that of a wooden mandarin ina tea-store window, Dan was astonished at finding them and Bilks on such good terms after their former antipathy to the inter- viewer, but the bottle told the tale. Mr. Bilks had dis- covered their assailable point, and like a good general had brought his guns to bear upon it. The angry undertaker was about to burst in upon this outrageous scene, when the joke or story, or whatever it was, that Mr. Bilks was telling, came to a close with that double, striking emphasis which says so plainly to the listener: ‘‘Ready now, for now’s your time to laugh ;” and the maudlin employees. took the hint, though they had no inkling of the matter, and chuckled their applause. “But, by the height of Hecla,” said Bilks, taking the bottle from his head, ‘‘nothing can match the strange story you told me. A woman dead and yet alive, buried and not buried.” «No more buried than you are,” croaked Bullfrog in his glass. ‘Though the boss thinks she is, and so does the furriner that wanted her stowed away. But let ’em think it. Eh, Ricketts? We know a thing or two, don't we »” “A thing or two—don’t we?” echoed Ricketts in a sepulchral tone. ‘But the thing that puzzles me most condemnedly,” said Bilks, replenishing Bullfrog’s glass, ‘is how you came so very opportunély, so pat to the nick of time, to open the coffin and save her from the horrors of suffoca- tion.” Bullfrog laughed with deep significance, and Ricketts thought the joke so good that he upset his liquor and lay down on the bench to enjoy it: Bilks looked from one to the other in a mystified manner, and then re- turned to the attack. “Had you any suspicion of her—trance state ?” “Nary a s’picion.” hiccoughed Bullfrog. ‘What we did we did on perfect knowledge. If I hadn’t a twisted her finger summat she might a been a trancing yet. Mightn’t she, Ricketts ?” A light began to dawn on the mind of Mr., Bilks. “Then it wasn’t any thought of her being alive that led you to it, but-——’ ; that showed the rapidly increasing effects of the rum. “That's it. You're a friend, and you ain’t the boss, so what’s the use 0’ makin’ bones about it? Eh, Ricketts.” ‘What's the use 0’ bones ’bout it ?” reiterated Ricketts muddily. “What's the use 0’ goin’ to Californy an’ Australy to dig gold out o’ the ground an’ burryin’ gold at home. Eh, Ricketts?’ said Bullfrog, with a deep sag of his heavy head, for the stupor was creeping over him, his eyes were becoming clouded and unfocused, and his lips were rapidly losing the power of articulation. He had forgotten the presence of Mr. Bilks, and ad- dressed his maudlin mutterings solely to Ricketts, who was nearly as far gone as himself. “What was the use 0’ leavin’ jewelry to be dug up at judgment-day, Ricketts ? We saw it and we went for it, and the gal come to life and run away ‘ithout waitin’ to demand it back. Was that my tault, Ricketts? No. siree. That was one o’ them arrangements they calls providential. She got her life, and we got the trinkets. She ought to be satisfied; for life’s better ’ithout trin- kets than trinkets is ’ithout life. Eh, Ricketts 2” “Trinkets ‘ithout life,” bubbled Ricketts, in the last stage of consciousness. sear the trinkets,” said Bilks, leadingly, ‘where are ey?’ ‘ ‘He locks them in his safe,” stuttered Bullfrog. “That’s the way I know how yaluable they be. Be- tween you’n ime, Ricketts, old Cliquot is a skinflint, an’ ‘ll never see heaven. Them fixin’s should ’a brought us enough stamps to kept us on the blaze for a twelve- month. But they’re all shoved a’ready, and I got on’y a pocket-full 0’ yellow pawn-tickets.” He drdpped the glass on the floor, and tried to put his nerveless hand to his vest-pocket, but could not man- age to, and it dropped helplessly at his side. The other hand slipped, and his head fell heavily on the coffin-lid, and he was lost in slumber. . Mr. Bilks leaned toward him one moment to make sure that insensibility had set in, and then laying the bottle carefully on the floor, he knelt beside the reeking form, and dextrously inserting his fingers into the pocket indicated by the futile action of the inebriate, drew forth the roll of pawn-tickets, glanced at them triumphantly, and was transferring them to his own pocket, when his wrist was caught in an iron gripe, and the precious scraps of paper snatched from bis hand. He was face to face with the infuriated master of the establishment. Startled, but unabashed, he assumed his blandest smile, and oscillating the wrist which Banks held, as if he were shaking hands, he lifted his sombrero with his left and opened his lips for a flowery greeting. But Dan was in no humor to listen, and being too full for utterance himself, he cut the Bilkian rhetoric short by action. With his free hand he seized the intruder by the scruff of the neck and ran him with undignified haste across the store toward the front door. “Confound it, my dear sir, what does this mean?” gasped Mr. Bilks, trying to dig his heels into the floor like a balky donkey. ‘Consider what you do, sir. Be- ware how you ill-treat a gentleman. This is an insult, sir, an. outrage, for which you will have to answer. Be- ware! But, for alt his warnings, Dan Banks, with a reckless disregard ot consequences, ran him to the open door, ane on the threshold gave him a vigorous propelling ck. Bilks turned, with trenchant cane, to avenge the in- sult; but the undertaker seized the door-bar and sallied forth, and the cane and its owner beat a precipitate re- treat, followed by the hooting, snow-balling rag-tag-and- bobtail of the region. Bram So the undertaker’s suspicions. were verified, and the apparition in the grave and that at Maynard's both ac- counted for. ‘ A half-hour later he stood before the counter of the pawnbroker with whom he had had the rencontre on the night when he followed Bullfrog and Ricketts on their hypothecating mission. — The man received him at first with an oily smile, but on his presenting the tickets and demanding the arti- cles they represented, which were pawned for paltry sums, the smile changed toa frown, and the pawnbroker positively refused *to release th cles, asserting that the tickets were stolen trom thi Sitorsy, 77" Dan had now no secret to ribe his actions, so he left the store, and shortly returned, an officer and a warrant. ‘This class of persuasion was effective. The sight of the bright buttons and the frightsome doc- ument tamed the tempe “man of pledges, and, with a gloomy visage, an y Sighs, he resigned the jewels and took back t tty sum which he hoped had made them his forever, f rhe had no idea that og would ever try to 2m them. ry 2 Possessed of these, Dan Banks determined the -next “That's it exactly,” interrupted Bullfrog, in a tone | morning to visit Albert Maynard, and endeavor to ob- tain the sequel to his present knowledge. \ cy Se CHAPTER XXI. THE LOWERING OF A STORM—RENEWED | The incendiary letter of Bilks had the intended effect of relighting the fires of paternal passion in the heart ot Simon Osborne. But the’wealthy man dissembled to his son. He would rather, in fact, he had never known of further cause for anger. The re-opening of this quarrel, so lately healed, seemed like tearing the last plant of hope from his heart, and giving up his age to desolation. : The source from which the accusations came was cer- tainly one to be wary of. But the charges were made plausible by the past, and if he did look u , Bilks as an unprine hung dventurer, he also thought Ls fu is fellow had heeusbis.son’s visi nfidant, 1d what confidence’cot re-be with ‘Such a person except that of a disreputable order. ~_ re That very position of confidant gave Bilks the power to back his words with proofs. Why look for dignity or respectability in an intormer, a discloser ef another’s secrets ? af Were not the common tools of justice, the informers and State witnesses, who turned traitors on their friends, looked upon as the lowest of the low? But did that affect their evidence ? In this torturing manner did Simon Osborne battle with his feelings. His self-respect and innate dignity revolted against the thought of entering into conspiracy with such a man as Bilks against his own son; but his pride and bis sense of propriety were wounded at the thought of being deceived and laughed at—of being courted only for his wealth and not from any filial love toward him. He thought of challenging the young man and placing | this letter in his hand, that he might thus have an op- | portunity of defending himself. In pursuance of this | idea, he sent to his room to summon him to his pres- ence, but he was absent, and then, with the quick re- vulsion of feeling pertaining to petulant age, he seated —— at his escritoire and commenced a note to Ss. At this time the door-bell rang, and a moment after- ward he saw the servant who answered it pass his room-door with a letter. . : «“What’s that ?” he asked. sharply. “Note for Mr. Walter, sir.” “Leave it here. Ill give it to him.” «The servant laid the letter on the desk beside him, a plain white envelope, without postmark or stamp, with the word “‘present” beneath the delicately written superscription. ‘How did thiscome? Who leftit?” said Osborne to the retiring servant. “Strange woman, sir. Never saw before,” answered the domestic, leaving the room. Osborne sat for some moments with his chin in his hands, looking at the letter with a rapidly growing de- sire to know its contents. At last self-respect and dig- nity succumbed to curiosity and suspicion, and lifting the note, he wetted the mucilaged edge with his tongue, and inserting his paper-knife, dextrously opened it. The blackness of anger overspread his face and the paper trembled in his nervous hands as he perused its contents. It read: f WALTER OSBORNE :—If you are desirous of seeing your child once more follow the guide who will await you at your gate at nightfall. One who loves you stole the in- fant to save its lite from a revengeful enemy, For your sake she loves it as its own mother might, were she alive, but, knowing that you have never seen it, she can- not bear to keep the light of its innocent smiles all to herself. Come to-night. ‘‘(LUCRECE.” So here, then, was unsought corroboration of Mr Bilk’s assertions. The hypocritally repentant prodigal, the ‘‘filial viper” was revealed. With the calmness of anger too deep for agitation, the father reclosed the son’s letter. It must never be known that he had des- cended to such a means of gaining information. He sent it up to Walter’s room, and paced the floor in angry cogitation. All the plans which he had laid since the reinstate- ment of his son were in danger of defeat, tor how could he, in honor, give his countenance before the world to such a profligate as this appeared to be, or how permit the union of a worthy lady to a broken roue like Walter? No, he would disinherit: him. He would lop off this crooked branch from the tamily tree. Better to leave his wealth to public charities or distant relatives than have it squandered in the purchase ot family disgrace. The answer to the letter sent by Bilks was hurriedly finished. For the sake of expedition Jones was sent with it to the general post-office, and, with a punctual- ity characteristic of neediness, Mr. Bilks made his ap- pearance shortly afterward. He had expected this call hourly, and watched the post-office anxiously, and when it came he smiled ep ee at the fulfillment of his popneny, that the hand of the millionaire should yet be hel out to him in welcome. He hastened on the wings of a horse-car to grasp that hand, but found that instead of being outheld it was kept frigidly buried{beneath the dignified coat-tail of its owner. Though Mr. Osborne found it necessary to use him asa tool, it was his inten- tention to use him at arm’s length. “Now, sir,”. said Simon Osborne, as soon as Mr. Bilks was seated, though he himself continued to stride the floor with his hands behind his back. ‘Be so good as to explain the letter you sent me.” “My motive in writing that letter, sir——” began Mr. Bilks. “Never mind that—I know your motive,” interrupted Simon Osborne, snappishly. ‘What I wish to know is about this marriage you mentioned. To whom was he married ? and wuen? and where ?” Mr. Bilks looked displeased and disconcerted at this opening, for it not only made little of him, but crushed his hopes of indulging in the rhetorical rigmarole on which he prided himself. But money was the main thing and he suited himself to cireumstances—replying to short questions by brief answers. “She was an English girl, named Lindsay, I believe. It was arunaway match. They were married about eigh- | Iris the principle, and not the manners, that makes teen months ago in Paris.” *‘And she is dead ?” said Osborne. “She was said to have died at the time of the child’s birth, by the assistance of poison.” «Poison !” cried Osborne, stopping short, “by whom administered ?” “By a Frenchman—a bosom friend of your son’s—one Paul Verazzi,” said Mr. Bilks, with slow emphasis on the middle phraze. : Osborne stood looking at him as he spoke, with some- thing like affright upon his face. “‘And——” he said, with painful slowness. think—that—he connived at this 2” “Pardon me, tis not for me to say. He introduced Verazzi to his home although he knew him to be a des- perate man, of very evil reputation, and shortly after that introduction came her death.” Osborne resumed his fretful walk with a choking gulp. It was on Bilks’ tongue to declare his belief that she was not dead, but, seeing the excellent effect the supposed death produced, he concluded to let well enough alone, and held his peace. “She was buried surreptitiously,” he continued, ‘lest an investigation should reveal the real cause of death.” «And the child ?” said Osborne. «Was put to nurse down town, but stolen thence some weeks ago, by whom or for what purpose, I cannot say, except twas through the agency of Paul Verazzi.” “Who is this Verazzi ?” ‘Formerly an actor, and general mountebank, now a soldier of fortune, an adventurer, a chevalier V@industrie —the most slippery criminal, the most expert gambler, and—and the most infernal scoundrel living.” Simon Osborne was startled to hear this string of superlative evil attributed to the bosom friend of his son. This sort of scene was too trying on his nerves, and he proceeded to bring it to a close.” “T have to-day received a letter somewhat corrobora- tive of what you have told me,” he said. Mr. Bilks looked astonished. Whohad the impudence to meddle with his job. “I shall need your services. You shall be well paid for them,” continued Osborne, unheeding Bilks’ pro- found bow. ‘‘You must remain here unseen until night- fall. At that time when you see my son leave the house and join a person waiting at the gate, you must follow them unseen, and learn their destination. Find out who lives in the house they go to, for there this infant “Do you Bilks was near giving vent to his surprise in a whistle. Was this a police-station, or the abode of aristocracy ? Was the venerable gentleman before him a chief of de- tectives, or Simon Osborne, millionaire ? At all events, he found himself regularly enlisted as an amateur detective, with the prospect of good pay and high living; and this so much elated him that only the presence of his employer kept him from singing his favorite two-line chorus. “I have reason to believe,” said Osborne, ‘‘that there is a woman in the case called Lucrece.” «Lucrece ! Lucrece! Lucrece!” said Bilks, rapping on his forehead with his cane to awaken slumbering mem- ory. “The name’s uncommon, yet familiar. By Jove, I have it! She must be Verazzi’s sister !” “His sister!” cried the old gentleman, in’ angry as- tonishment, ‘‘and has there ever been any intimacy, any affection, any love between my son and her ?” ‘ “Yes, Lord bless you, yes,” said Mr. Bilks, jovially, as if he were making the most pleasant communication in the world. ‘She nursed him when he was suffering from a stab wound, in Paris, and the consequence was natural. -_9-—+___—_————- Por your foot down where you mean to stand, and let no man move you from the right. Learn to say “No,” at it will be of more use to you than to be able to read n. |the man. The principle is the mainspring; the man- ners are only the figures on the dial. Take it in Time. Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral is a highly concentrated and powerful medicine. It is an anodyne expectorant, and, if promptly taken, in cases of Coughs, Throat or Lung troubles, soothes and heals the irritated tissues, and quickly allays all tendency to.Consumption. 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Positively reduce b Superfluous Cause no sickness; contain no 9 & PENNYROYAL PILLS! *- NEW YORK, JULY 24, 1886, DIO eeaeeaeee5—neere Orne EO OOoreev Terms to Mail Subscribers: (POSTAGE FREE.) 3months. ... . .15¢|2 copies. . . « + » $5.00 4months-.. - $1.00|4 copies . -.... 10.00 1 Years so tc: piv) SOR copies. . wh bake ROOD Remit by express money order, draft, P. O. order, or regis- tered letter. - We employ no traveling agents. All letters should be addressed to STREET & SMITH, P.O. Box 2734. 29 & 31 Rose St., N. Y. THE BIRD'S NEST. BY HARKLEY HARKER. It was over our front door. Our honest, unpoetic man- of-all-work has just knocked it down. Was that right? Was it cruel? Thisis the second demolition which he has visited upon the cozy new home of the pretty robtns; no doubt there will be a third or fourth. One summer we ‘‘persecuted” a charm- ing family of birdies all summer long; I believe nearly a dozen times we knocked the new and repeatedly recon- structed bird mansion out of the pillars of the veranda. Have we aright to do this, we men, being stronger ? What a tale this tells of man’s lordship over creation! “All things are put under man’s feet.” He is lord of the earth. He may drive out and destroy the fair lives of other of God’s creatures—if they are in his lordship’s path. He may break up the homes of his fellow-crea- tures, the beasts, for his own real needs. He may take life to live himself, and the lamb has no redress, indeed has suffered no wrong. Lambs were created tor this purpose. A lamb that dies to feed a man is fortunate ; he is honored above the lamb that dies to feed a wolf or a dog, or that dies of old age to fatten a corner of the pasture. Lions and tigers have no appeal toa higher court when we men say, ‘‘There is not room for both us and ye.” And yet what a weight of responsibility does this awful law impose on the creature with asoul. What an answer of a good conscience he, the man, having a conscience as the beast has not, must give to the Com- mon Maker. A wide world of difference, boys, between -. my regretful destruction of the bird’s nest which was injuring my house and soiling my home and the wan- ton, cruel knock of the schoolboy who throws down a nest ‘just to hear ’em cry,” or to feel his own superior ower. That is wicked; itreacts on the destroyer; it urts his young soul; it teaches him to be a bad man. So the birds are avenged. There is always that pecu- liarity about a deed of wanton cruelty; it is a two- edged blade ; it cuts the striker and the stricken. This absolute proprietor-right over animals should teach us manliness as nothing else can. It is because we are men that werule. Our right to rule is of itself a definition of manhood. What is man? He is the ruling, the owning animal. The bird does not own his home. The horse does not own his harness. The ox does not own his hay. Man alone ‘‘owns” anything. Then let him act the man. Nobleis that noble does. A king should walk forth every incha king. Whena man kicks a dog in angry petulance he is the dog, and the quadruped is manlier than he. He who abusesa dumb beast descends toa much lower plane than his victim. That rational man who acts without reason and without soul in his intercourse with the beasts, is at once their inferior. The beasts, as a rule, are stronger in body than man. A soulless man is their in- ferior decidedly, in that he has put away from himself that soul-power which is his sole superiority. There is nothing more complimentary to man than the occasional exhibitions of trust, in danger, exhibited Oe inferior animals. Did you ever ride a horse into a swo len river? How he trembles, yet how implicitly obedient heis! Asif he knew his safety were in your good judg- ment. But if you are by habit a reckless man, your horse will not so trust you; the animal is generally the first to find out your weakness. The drunkard’s horse will disobey the careless rein and often take his driver home in safety, despite the fool’s folly. What can be more humiliating than the contemptuous yet kind and merciful ‘‘thoughts” of such a steed? ‘My master is drunk, poor simpleton! I suppose I must take care of him.” For several years I have actually known of a cir- cumstance of this character. On the other hand, ob- serve the flight of birds to your lawn trees and roof when a summer hurricane blackens the sky. Notice how the dog, whining and scratching, cowers at the door at the mutterings of thunder. If there is anything will stimulate a man’s high estimate of himself, it is the wonderful respect that dumb beasts sometimes exhibit. It seems to me the basest of treason to insnare them by wonder. To build a mountain fire to astonish deer; then shoot, as they worship your genius, which can turn night into day! It is like slaying the devout at the very altar. Fish will draw nigh at sight of man’s wonder- producing traps. It is mean tosoinsnare them. There are few beings enough at best that respect me, in this world. Ill not reward by abuse or harm the respect of wondering, worshiping beasts. This whole question of our relation to dumb beasts is exceedingly interesting. They have rights to be respect- ed. Yet they are ours for the utmost use. The fine line of delicate distinction is worthy a good man’s careful study. IfI use and abuse wood and stone I alone am injured, and shall be judged on what harm I have done myself. But with a creature possessed of nerves, affec- tions, appetites, and passions, two are injured; and for a double wrong | shall bejudged. What an inestimable blessing are the animals! Yet how little we appreciate them as God’s gifts tous. Ido not now remember that Iever heard a preacher thank God for His gift of ani- mals. He thanks Heaven for bread and air, water and liberty, the Bible and home. But did you ever heara clergyman adda word of praise for the gift to us of a yast world-full of life, inferior to ours, given to do us good? What should we do without them? The city streets would grow hushed as death. The farm would lie untilled. This boasted product of invention, steam and electricity, would not do at all in the place of the million living muscles which serve us. The beauty of the earth would be gone. The flowers could not bloom without insect life. The spring-time would be a grave- yard without the song of birds that now come in at my window. God bless and preserve my humble fellow-creatures, the lower animals! : UNCLE MEDDLE’S LETTERS. No. 25. To Phil Meddle, who wants to go to some City for Culture. DEAR PHIL:—Yow're about the twentieth member of the family thet’s writ me in the past five year thet they want to locate in New York or Bosting so’s to git cul- ture. = From the way all-of you go on, any body that didn’t know the language very well might think thet culture wuz a kind of crop thet didn’t grow no where except in cities, an’ thet you could buy it by the load or ton, like firewood or guano. That’s all nonsense; ther’s no more culture in the city, to the thousand head of people, than ther is in the back- woodest part of the country. Mebbe you think that’s puttin’ it too strong, but I think I might pile it on a good deal thicker without doin’ the truth any harm. How doI know? Well, I’m fond of culture myself, an’ though I don’t talk ez elegant ez some, I’ve never had any trouble in gittin’ pleasantly acquainted with the men an’ women most wuth knowin’, an’ I’ve learned thet ef this kind of folks didn’t ’sociate with any but their own sort, they’d be the lonesomest folks on earth, even ef they live in the city. You don’t see ther names in the reports of the big balls, an’ parties, an’ other show-off doin’s in the city. Why not? Why, because the folks that’s got most money an’ put on most airs ain’t their style at all. You don’t see their houses described in the fashion papers. Why not? Because, though these folks know more of art than most of them thet write about it, an’ have got so much taste thet ther’s nothin’ in ther houses but is jest ez it should be, ther’s no one thing thet any body can put a finger on an’ tell how much money it costs. You don’t even see their names in the lists of ‘‘distin- guished visitors” at fashionable summer resorts, for they've got too much sense to travel with a crowd. Ar’ what’s more to the pint, ef you come to the city an’ inquire about ’em, you'll find they all live in the country ; when they come to the city it isn’t for culture, but for family supplies, thet’s easier got here than out of town. Ef you want culture, my boy, the genuine article, an’ not any three-quarter yard nor fourteen-ounce imita- tion, an’ are dead bent on gettin’ it, you needn’t come to the city, nor even go to the next town; you can git it wherever you are, for it comes from yourself, an’ not anythin’ nor anybody outside. ‘Ther’s folks an’ things outside that might help you, but the lack of ’em won’t hender you much, ef you're in solid earnest. You can git culture jest by studyin’ yourself until you krow where you're lackin’, that is, if you’ve got the a to make up the deficiency when you know what it Ss. You don't need to read all the poets, to git culture ; the favorite crony of the most cultured man I know is a en thet never reads scarcely any book except the e. You don’t need to live in a swell house, or even in a single room with Japanese fans on the walls, an’ Turkish rugs on the floor, an’a flat-tooted, red-headed, dowdy dressed servant-gal at the door, ef you want culture. You don’t even need to waste ten cents on a shirt col- lar so high that you can’t drop your head in prayer with- out cuttin’ your throat. You don’t need these things for culture any more than you need a lead mine because you want to learn to set type. Culture means bringin’ yourself into shape; not try- to steal the shape of somebody else. Culture means bein’ a full-fledged man inside, not an outside counterfeit of somebody who makes believe he knows every thin’, but don’t know how to behave tosuch of his neighbors ez don’t happen to like the put- tikilar fancy kick-shaws thet he does. . Its culture to clean the underbrush out of any corner of yer mind, not for what you can git for it, but because ther ortn’t to be underbrush anywhere. It’s as much culture to learn to plainly an’ pleasantly say just what you mean, no matter ef only about barn or kitchen affairs, ez it is to write a poem, for when you come to the root of it, that’s jest what a poet does about his subject. It’s ez much culture to train yer wits an’ temper so’s to talk to all yer nabersin a way that makes ’em wish they could see more of you, ez it isto be able to talk aera an’ books to chaps thet set up for artists an’ au- thors, Cultivate yer taste through yer eye all you can; it’sa mighty pure way of enjoying oneself; but you don’t have to go to picture-shows an’ crockery shows to do it. Ef it’s form you’re after, a stalk of grown corn can beat any drawin’ a-goin’. A great artist once told me so; an’ a han’full of autumn leaves, or a bloomin’ rose of any one of twenty kinds [I could name, will knock spots out of all the peachblow vases an’ blue Dutch teapots that’s been run On a long-sufferin’ public. Ef you’re in earnest, my boy, there’s nothin’ you ken do in the house, in the barn, on the farm, or in church, but will give you pints onculture. There's more diffr- ent openin’s fur culture in any man livin’ than there’s diffrent studies in high school; but when you think you need to come to the city for culture, you're thinkin’ about only one of them, an’ not the greatest one either. Long for the kinds you haven’t got a chance at, ef you like, but don’t lose sight of them that’s right to yer hand, for onless you’re livelier than anybody else in the family, there’s enough of’em to keep you busy all yer life, an’ not be more’n half ’tended to at that. Culture ain’t no new-fangled notion, or sudden dis- covery, ez you young fellows an’ gals seem to think. *Twas run On the public nigh onto two thousan’ year ago to my certain knowledge, furin my Testament I find an old missionary an’ preacher beggin’ folks to think on ‘“‘whatsoever”—not just one or two, but ‘‘whatsoever things are true, whatsover things are honest, whatso- ever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, what- soever things are of good report.” It’s a big contract, my boy, but ‘grab it all the same, an’ don’t lose your holt. Your affectionate UNCLE MEDDLE Oe « HOUSE-HUNTING. « BY KATE THORN. There are people who are given to moving almost every year. They want to better their condition. As soon as cold weather breaks in the spring, and dan- delion greens are in the market at a doilar a peck, war- ranted nice and fresh, and good for all kinds of bilious- ness, the women of the family which moves often, dress themselves up in their good clothes, and set out on the search for houses. Now, there is something fascinating in looking for houses. The very best and most inoffensive people in the world—people who wouldn't steal five cents to save the universe from going to perdition—like to prowl over other people’s houses, and pry out the shortcomings of other housekeepers, and under the plea of finding out if the cupboards are roomy, and the sink-drains in good order, they will peep into the depository of crockery, and notice that there are dirty dishes in there, and that the silver is plated, and the cups have lost their handles; and if the sink was not washed out clean when. last used, they will scent greasy dish water, and if they can keep that fact strictly private, when the character of the woman who owned that sink and that cupboard is un. der discussion, then we would like to know them. It would be worth while. The woman who is house-hunting wants a model es- tablishment for a low price. She expects lofty ceilings, and large glass, and handsome paper, and a good neighborhood, and near the post-office, churches, and schools, and she always finds the price for such accom- modations ‘positively outrageous !” She wants large closets and insists on marble mantels, and if the pump goes hard, she will groan and com- plain of her back; and she wants trees for shade, but the house must not be damp, and she knows she shall never take it at that rent! but still she goes on, and pokes her nose into everything, from attic to cellar, and says she will talk it over with Charles, and let you know. If one may believe the story of the landlord or land- lady, every house which is to let is simply perfect. Itis astonishing that in this world, so noted for the imper- ee of everything, there should be so many faultless ouses, Location ? Oh, yes, the landlord tells you, the location is superb. No place in the city where property has gone up tosuch an extent. Charming air. Beautiful pros- pect. Quiet neighborhood. So delightful nights. Healtay? Ah, that’s the best of it, he tells you. Why, it is almost like the phenomenal place ‘out West,” where they had to shoot a man to start a grave-yard with. With prope care, you feel assured that you might live to be a hundred, in this place. The chimneys never smoke. There are no flies, no musquitoes, no black or red ants, no water bugs, no stray cats, no carpet moths, no sewing-machine agents, no lightning-rod peddlers, no book agent fiends, no long- faced deacons soliciting subscriptions for churches—no, nothing that is disagreeable. And the woman who is house hunting, if she be an “old stager,” listens with the utmost politeness, and goes on to the next place ‘To Let,” and listens to another volley of the same description, and so on, through the day. And she comes home at night, ‘‘tired to death and ready to drop;” but next morning she will be ready for another day’s campaign, and she would be cross as two sticks if her loving husband skould go on his own res- ponsibility and hunt up a house for her. What does a man know about a house, indeed? Asif he could tell whether the sink was convenient, and the cellar suit- able, and the china closet what it ought to be. The idea! —___—__>- © +_____—_- STORM-WARNING WELLS. Some long disused wells in the village of Meyrin, can- ton of Geneva, Switzerland, have been rendered service- able in giving warning of approaching storms and fore- telling fine weather. After being hermetically sealed an orifice of about an inch in diameter is made in the cover of the well, by which the internal air is pnt in communi- cation with the external. When the air pressure out- side diminishes upon the approach of a storm, the air in the well escapes and blows a whistle in connection with the orifice, and in this way notice of a storm’s ap- proach is given to the inhabitants. If, on the contrary, the pressure increases, a different sound is produced by the entry of the air into the well, and the probability of fine weather is announced. The idea is a very good one for villages in which dis: used wells can be had for this purpose. The indications afforded by the sound of the whistle might notin all cases be correct, and in some might be misleading, but in many cases they might prove valuable warnings. In our Western districts subject to tornadoes abandoned wells could be put to no better use than to admonish the people of these fatal storms. —___-_ > 9 ——+______—_—_- CONVINCED OF HIS ERROR. 'A certain financial editor who came out strong one morning against the Missouri Pacific was waited upon by a gentleman who laid a twenty-dollar bill on the table. ‘What for ?” asked the financial editor. “Town ten thousand dollars’ worth of stock in the Missouri Pacific, and I want you to come out with an article to morrow admitting that you were in error.” “Can’t do it, sir.” Another twenty-dollar bill was laid down. “That is, I don’t believe I can.” : Another twenty-dollar bill fluttered out on the table. «That is, I can’t do it to-morrow—that would be alto- gether too soon—but I'll come out the day after and do sixty dollars’ worth of the finest crawfishing you ever saw. Whenever I make a mistake, come and see me.” A He who is truly honest loves honesty so much better than any possible reward that he chooses it every time, apart from any consideration of its results; and neither hope nor fear, neither bribe nor threat, could tempt hin { away from his loyal allegiance. DISHEARTENED. BY HENRY JAMES SNELL. Ambition! oh, Ambition! get you gone! I'm weary with this striving after fame ; And tired with struggling, and with battling on, To gain an unrest, and an unreal name. 1 started life with aspirations bright ; My horizon shone with refulgent hue ; And keeping well the wished-for goal in sight, I battled on, for all was fair and new. Yes, plodded on, by night as well as day, Burning the midnight oil till morning’s beams Sent me to rest; though even then some fay Would keep me plodding, even in my dreams. And I might plod, and plod, and plod me still ; For every step! take but seems to place The glittering bauble on some higher hill. No; let some bolder heart essay the race— Some braver one, who, when his lips would press The goblet’s edge, and finds it dashed to earth, Will strive again, and struggle none the less Because the world’s oblivious of his worth. be A DARK CONSPIRACY. - BY HENRIETTA OSBORNE, “In love with her—I want to marry her!” cried Tom Maxwell, in a fine fury. ‘I tell you I hate her, andI hope she may die a miserable, disappointed, cantanker- ous old maid!” Striding up and down the floor, his face flaming, his eyes flashing, his very coat-tail quivering with rage—a Bengal tiger, robbed of her young, could not have looked amuch more ferocious object. And yet ferocity was not natural to Tom Maxwell—handsome Tom, whose years were only two-and-twenty, and who was hot-headed, and fiery, and impetuous as it is in the nature of two-and-twenty to be, but by no means in- nately savage. But he had just been jilted, jilted in cold blood; so up and down he strode, grinding his teeth vindictively, and fulminating anathema marana- thas against his fair deceiver. . «The miserable, heartless jilt! The deceitful, shame- less coquette !” burst out Tom, ferociously. ‘She gave me every encouragement that a woman could give, un- til she drew me on by her abominable wiles to make a fool of myself; and then she turns round, and smiles, and puts her handkerchief to her eyes, and is ‘very sorry,’” mimicking the feminine intonation, ‘ ‘and never dreamed of such a thing, and will be happy to be my friend; but for anything further—oh, dear, Mr. Maxwell, pray don’t think of it!’ Confound her and the whole treacherous sex to. which she belongs! But I’m not done with her yet! Ill have revenge, as sure as my name is Tom Maxwell!” “How ?” asked a lazy voice from thesofa. ‘She’sa woman, you know. Being a woman, you can’t very well call her out and shoot her, or horsewhip her, or even knock ber down. A fellow may feel like that—I often have myself, after being jilted; but still it can’t be did. It’s an absurd law, I allow, this polite exemp- tion of womankind from condign and just punishment; but it is too late in the day for chaps like you and me to go tilt against peda rejudices.” Tom Maxwell pausec his excited striding to look in astonishment at th eaker. “You jilted!” he said. yYou! You, Paul Warden, the irresistible !’’ “Even so, monami. Like measles, and mumps, and tooth-cutting, it’s something a man has to go through, willy-nilly. I’ve been jilted and heart-broken some half- dozen times, more or less, here I am to-night not a bit the worse for it. So go it, T my boy! The more you rant and rave now, the: er the pain will be over. Tt’s nothing when you're used to it.” “The very thing!” cried Tom, suddenly. ‘I have it! She shall be paid in her own Coin, and I’ll have most glorious revenge, if you’ll only help me, Paul.” “To my last breath, Tom; only dont make so much noise. Hand me a match—my cigar’s gone out. Now, what is it ?” «Paul, they call you irresistible—the women do.” “Do they? Very polite of them. Well?” «Well, being irresistible, why can’t you make love to Fanny Summers, talk her into a desperate attachment to you, and then treat her as she treated me—jilt her ? she’s very pretty, uncommonly pretty; you’ve no idea how pretty, and she may turn the tables and subjugate you, instead of you subjugating her.” «Youre just a trifle out there, my boy. My heart is iron-clad; has stood too many sieges to yield to any lit- tle flirting brunette. Forewarned is forearmed. Come on, old fellow,” rising from: his sofa; “ ‘If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly.’ ” “How goes the night ?” ssid Tom, looking out; ‘‘it’s raining. Do you mind 2? ho A 8 se ~ «Shoulan’t ‘Thind if it hforks in so good a cause. Get yonr overcoat and come. I think those old chaps—what-do-you-callem, Crusaders ?—must have felt as Ido now, when they marched to take Jerusalem. Where are we to find va belle Fanny ?” “At her sister’s, Mrs. Walters; she’s only here on a visit; but during her five weeks’ stay she has turned five dozen heads, and refused five dozen hands, my own the last,” said Tom, with a groan. «Never mind, Tom; there is balm in Gilead yet. Re- venge is sweet, you know, and you shall taste its sweets before the mooh wanes. Now, then, Miss Fanny, the conquering hero comes?!” The two young men Ssallied forth into the rainy, lamp- lit streets. A passing omnibus took them to the home of the coquettish Fanny, and Tom rang the bell with vindic- tive emphasis. «Won’t she rather wonder too see you, after refusing you ?” inquired Mr.Warden, while they waited. «What do I care!” responded Mr. Maxwell, moodily ; ‘her opinion is of no consequence to me now.” Mrs. Walters, a handsome, agreeable-looking young matron, welcomed Tom with a cordial shake of the hand, and acknowledged Mr. Warden’s bow by the brightest of smiles, as they were ushered into the family parlor. «We are quite alone this rainy night, my sister and I,” she said. ‘Mr. Walters is out of town for a day or two. Fanny, my dear, Mr. Warden; my sister, Miss Summers, Mr. Warden.” : lt was a pretty, cozy room, ‘‘curtained, and close, and warm”; and directly under the gas-light, reading a mag- azine, sat one of the prettiest girls it had ever been Mr. Warden’s good fortune to see, and who welcomed him with a brilliant smile. “Black eyes, jetty ringlets, rosy cheeks, alabaster prow,” thought Mr. Warden, taking stock; ‘‘the smile of an angel, and dressed to perfection. Poor Tom! he’s to be pitied. Really, Ihaven’t come across anything so much to my taste this month of Sundays.” Down sat Mr. Paul Waxden beside the adorable Fanny, plunging into conversation at once with an ease and fluency that completely took away Tom’s breath. That despondent wooer on the sofa, side Mrs. Walters, pulled dejectedly at the ears of her little black-and-tan terrier, and answered at random all the pleasant things she said to him. t : He was listening, poor fellow, to that brilliant flow of smaill-talk from the mustached lips of his dashing friend, and wishing the gods had gifted him with a similar “gift-of the gab,” and feeling miserably jealous already. He had prepared the rack for himself with his eyes wide open; but that made the torture none the less when the machinery got in motion. Pretty Fanny snubbed him incontinently, and was just as bewitching as she knew how to his friend. It wasa clear vase of diamond cut diamond—two flirts pitted against each other; and an outsider would have been considerably puzzled on which to bet, both being so evenly matched. Tom listened, and sulked; yes, Sulked. Whata lot of things they found to talk about, where he used to be tongue-tied. The magazines, the fashion-plates, the stories; then a wild launch into literature, novels, au- thors, poets; then the weather; then Mr. Warden was traveling, and relating his “hair-breadth escapes by flood and field,” while bright-eyed Fanny listened in breathless interest. Then the open piano caught the irresistible Paul's eyes, and in a twinkling there was Fanny seated at it, her white fingers fiying over the polished keys, and he bending above her with an entranced face. Then he was singing a delightful love-song in a melodious tenor voice, that might have captivated any heart that ever beat inside of lace and muslin; and then Fanny was singing a sort of response, it seemed to frantically jeal- Sr Tom ; and then it was eleven o'clock, and time to go ome. Out in the open air, with the rainy night wind blow- ing bleakly, Tom lifted his hat to let the cold blast cool his hot face. He was sulky still, and silent—very silent, but Mr. Warden didn’t seem to mind. “So,” he said, lighting a cigar, ‘‘the campaign has be- gun, the first blow has been struck, the enemy’s ram- parts undermined. Upon my word, Tom, the little girl is uncommonly prett, Hie ? “I told you so,” said Tom, with a sort of growl. «And remarkably agreeable. I don’t think I ever spent a pleasanter rr, «So [ should judge. She had eyes, and ears, and tongue for no one but you.” “*My dear fellow, it’s not possible you're jealous! Isn’t that what you wanted? Besides, there is no reason, really ; she is a professional flirt, and understands her business ; you andI know just how much value to put on all that sweetness. Have a cigar, my-dear boy, and keep up your heart; we'll fix the flirting Fanny yet.” This was all very true; but, somehow, it wasn’t con- soling. She was nothing to him—Tom—of course, and he hated her as hotly as ever; but, somehow, his thirst for vengeance had considerably cooled:down. The cure was worse than the disease, It was maddening to a young -man in his frame of mind to see those brilliant smiles, those entrancing glances, all those pretty, coquettish, womanly wiles that had deluded him showered upon another, even for that other’s delusion. Tom wished he had never thought of revenge, at least with Paul Warden for his handsome agent. “Are you going there again ?” he asked, moodily. “Of course,” replied Mr. Warden, airily. ‘‘What a question, old fellow, from you of all people. Didn’t you hear the little darling telling me to call again? She overlooked you completely, by the by. I’m going again, and again, and yet again, until my friend, my heart- wounded friend, is avenged.” “Ah,” said Tom, sulkily, ‘‘but I don’t know that I care sO much for vengeance as I did. Second thoughts are best; and it struck me, while I watched you both to-night, that it was mean to plot against a woman like this. You thought so yourself at first, you know.” ‘Pid I? Iforgot. Well, 1 think differently now, my dear Tom; and, aS you remark, second thoughts are best. My honor is at stake; so put your conscientious scruples in your pocket, for I shall conquer the fascinat- ing Fanny, or perish in the attempt. Here we are at my lodgings. Won’t you come in? No? Well then, good night. By the way, I shall be at the enemy’s quarters to-morrow evening; if you wish to see how ably I fight your battles, showjyourself before nine. By-by!” Mr. Maxwell’s answer was a deeply bass growl as he ae. on his way; and Paul Warden, running up to is room, laughed lightly to himself. «Poor Tom! Poor, dear boy! Jealousy is a green-eyed lobster, and he’s a prey to it—the worst kind. Really, Paul, my son, little black eyes is the most bewitching piece of calico you have met in your travels lately ; and if you wanted a wife, which you don’t, you couldn’t do better than goin and win. Asitis—— Ah! it’sa pity for the little dear’s sake you can’t marry.” With which Mr. Warden disrobed and went to bed. Next evening, at half-past eight, Tom Maxwell made *| his appearance at Mrs. Walters’, only to find his faithful friend there enthroned before. him, and basking in the sunshine of the lovely Fanny’s smiles. How long he had been there Tom couldn’t guess ; but he and Fanny and Mrs. Walters were just settling it to go to the theater the following night. That evening, and many other evenings which suc- ceeded, were but a repetition of the first. An easy flow of delightful small talk, music, singing, and reading aloud. Yes, Paul Warded read aloud, as if to goad that unhappy Tom to open madness, in the most musical of masculine voices, out of little blue and gold books, Tennyson, and Longfellow, and Owen Meredith; and Fanny would sit in breathless earnestness, her color coming and going, her breath fluttering, her eyes, full of tears as often as not, fixed on Paul’s classic profile. Two months passed; hot weather was coming, and Fanny began to talk of the heat and the dust of the city—of being homesick, for the sight of green fields, fresh milk, strawberry beds, new-laid eggs, and pa and ma. It had been a very delightful two months, no doubt; and she had enjoyed Mr. Warden’s society very much, and gone driving and walking with him, and let him take her to the theater and opera, and playea for him, and sung for him, and danced with him, and accepted his bouquets, and new music, and blue and gold books; but, for all that, it was evident she could leave him and go home, and still exist. “]t’s all very nice,” Miss Summers had said, tossing back her black ringlets; ‘‘and I have enjoyed this spring ever so much, but still I’m glad to get home again. One grows tired of balls, and parties, and the theater, you know, after awhile, Mr. Warden, and I am only a little country girl, and I shall be just as glad as ever for aromp over the meadows, and a breezy gallo across the hills once more. If you or Mr. Maxwell,” glancing at that gloomy youth sideways out of her curls, “care much for fishing, and come up our way any time this summer, I'll try and treat you as well as you have treated me.” - “But you haven’t treated us well, Miss Fanny,” Mr. Warden said, looking unspeakable things. ‘You take our hearts by storm, and then break them ruthlessly by leaving us. What sort of treatment do you call that ?° Miss Summers only laughed, and looked saucy, and danced away, leaving her two admirers standing to- gether out in the cold. “Well, Tom,” Mr. Warden said, ‘‘and so the game’s up, the play played out, the curtain ready tofall. The star actress departs to-morrow—and now, what do you think of the performance ?” “Not much,” responded Tom,. moodily. ‘I can’t see that you have kept your promise. You’ve made love to her, l allow, with deep feeling, confoundedly asif you meant it, in fact ; but I don’t see where the jilting comes in; I can’t see where’s my revenge.” “Don’t you ?” said Paul, thoughtfully, lighting his ci- . ‘Well, come to think of it, I don’t either. To tell you the truth, I haven’t had a chance to jilt her. I may be irresistible, and I have no doubt I am, since you say so; but still,” with asudden change of voice, and slap- ping him lightly onthe shoulder, ‘‘dear old boy, I don’t despair of giving you your revenge yet.” Tom lifted his gloomy eyes in sullen inquiry. «Never mind, now,” said Paul Warden, airily; ‘give me afew weeks longer. Lazy as I am,I have never yet failed in anything I have seriously undertaken, and, upon my word, I’m more serious about this matter than you may believe. Trust to your friend, and wait. Miss Summers left town next day, and Tom—poor, miserable fellow—felt as if the sun had ceased to shine, and the scheme of the universe become a wretched fail- ure, when he caught the last glimmer of the lustrous his Damon was by his side toslap him on the back and cheer him up. «Courage, old fellow,” cried Mr. Warden, ‘‘all’s not post thaw, in danger. Turn and turn about; your turn next.” But some how, Tom didn’t care for revenge any more. He loved that wicked, jilting little Fanny as much as ever; and the heart-ache only grew worse day after day, but he ceased to desire vengeance. Five weeks later came a letter and a newspaper, in Mr. Warden’s familiar hand, to Tom, while he sat at breakfast. He opened the letter first, and read: “IN THE COUNTRY. “DEAR OLD Boy: 1 have kept my word—you are avenged gloriously. Fanny will never jilt you, nor any one else again.” At this passage in the manuscript, Tom laid it down, the cold perspiration breaking out on his face. Had Paul Warden murdered her—or worse, had he married her ? With a desperate clutch, Tom seized the paper, tore it open, looked at the list of marriages, and saw his worst fears realized. There it was, in printers’ ink, the atrocious revelation Correspondence. GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS. ' ("Communications addressed to this department will not be noticed unless the names of responsible parties are signed to them as evidence of the good faith of the writers, {We desire to call the attention of our readers to this depart- ment which we intend to make a specialty in our journal, Every question here propounded shall be answered fully and fairly, even though it take a great deal of research to arrive at the facts. No expense or pains shall be spared to render the answers to questions absolutely reliable. } > = David J. B., Mobile, Ala.--The question of fixing upon"a seat of government for the Union elicited after the adoption of the articles of confederation a great deal of sectional jeal- ousy. Congress, between the Revolutionary war and the adoption of the present Constitution, met at Princeton, An- napolis, Trenton, and New York. After March 4, 1789, ‘Con- gress was much excited over the location of the capital, and it was finally settled by the passage of an act (June 28, 1790) containing the fctlowiny: clause: *“That a district of territory on the river Potomac, at some place between the mouths of the Eastern branch and the Connogacheague, be and the same is hereby accepted for the permanent seat of the govern- ment of the United States.” The same act provided that Con- gress should hold its sessions at Philadelphia until the first Monday in November, 1800, when the government should re- move to the district selected on the Potomac. The area fixed upon for the district was a square of ten miles, or one hun- dred square miles. It embraced sixty-four square miles of Maryland, constituting the county of Washington, which was ceded by that State to the United States in 1788, and thirty-six square miles of Virginia, constituting the county of Alexandria, ceded in 1789. The portion of the Virginia side of the Potomac was retroceded to that State in 1846. The Con- stitution of the United States confers upon Congress the ex- clusive legislative control over the District, but does not allow the inhabitants any vote for Presidential electors. Orloff, Atlanta, Ga.—The history of the coast of Oregon, as known to civilized man, commences with the discovery of the Columbia River by Capt Robert {Grey, who entered its mouth in the American ship Columbia, from Boston, on May 7, 1792, and gave the name of his vessel to the river. The name Oren was long applied to all the territory claimed by the United States on the Pacific coast, extending from lat. 42 to 4 d es north. It was jointly occupied b Great Britain and the United States until 1846, when the lat- ter abandoned all claim to the country north of the forty- ninth parallel, and the name of Oregon was restricted to the region south of that line, to which in turn Great Britain re- nounced all claim. The emigration of Americans com- menced overland in 1833, and previous to 1850 several thou- sand reached Oregon. In 1857 a State constitution was formed, and on Feb. 14, 1859, Congress admitted Oregon into the Union. R. G. S., Salem, Neb.—Simple hooping-cough is rarely if ever fatal, but its complications in teething, unhealthy, or re- cently weaned children are dangerous, and it should be care- fully watched. It begins with the symptoms of ordinary catarrh, and when it is established, the catarrhal symptoms diminish or erent In the most favorable cases, after three or four weeks, the cough becomes looser and milder, and finally ceases in two or three months, if recovery be not de- layed by unpleasant weather or ex to cold. The general treatment consists of mild emetics and expectorants, and gentle laxatives. Sulphuric ether held to the child’s nose gener shortens the convulsive, paroxysmal cough. A solution of nitric acid in water, as strong as lemon juice, and sweetened, is rded as a very \aluable remedy for the dis- cone. a reduced still further with water, the d may drink it freely. D. G. D., Jersey City.—Filibuster, the signification of which is a freebooter, buccaneer, or pirate, is said to be derived from the Spanish word filibote, a fast sailing vessel. It is also said that the Spanish word itself isa corruption of the English word flyboat. In Holland there is a little river called Vly, the peculiar sailing vessels on which are called filibotes. The word filibostero or filibustier was coined from the appellation, and became the designation of the adventurers ‘under Lopez, who invaded Cuba in 1851. Filibustering is a cant term v in the legislative assemblies of the United States to designate the employment of parliamentary tactics to defeat a measure by raising frivolous questions of order, calls of the house, motions to adjourn, etc., in order to gain time or tire out the opposite party. Wm. L., Norfolk, Va.—The U.S. steam sloop Kearsargee that sunk the Confederate cruiser Alabama, was at last ac- counts at Constantinople. The Kearsarge was commanded by Capt. John A. Winslow, who became rear admiral in 1870, and died in Boston _on Sept. 29, 1873. He was born in Wil- mington, N.C., on Nov. 19,1811. The encounter took place off urg, France, on June 19, 1864. The Alabama was in command of Raphael Semmes, who was born in Charles nes Md., on Sept. 27, 1809. When his steamer was sunk he was taken up by the English Yacht Deerhound, and carried to England. After the close of the war he ente upon the ractice of law in Mobile, Ala., and continued to write and ecture upon subjects connected with his career until hi black eyes, the last flutter of the pretty black curls. But ; of his bosom friend’s perfidy. z «“Married,on the 5th inst., at the residence of the bride’s father, Paul Warden, Esq., to Miss Fanny Summers, second daughter of Mr. John Summers.” There it was. Tom didn’t faint. He swallowed a scalding cup of coffee at a gulp, and revived, seized the letter, and finished it. “You see, old fellow, paradoxical as it sounds, al- though I was the conqueror, I was also the conquered. Fanny had fallen in love with me, as you foresaw, but I had fallen in love with her also, which you didn’t fore- see. I might jilt her, of course, but that would be cut- ting off my own nose to spite my friend’s face, and so— I didn’t. i did the next best thing for you, though—I married her; and, I may mention, in parenthesis, I am the happiest of mankind; and, as Artemus Ward re- marks, ‘My wife says so, too.’ Adieu, my boy. We're coming to town next week, when Fan and I will be de- | lighted to have youcall. With best regards from my | dear little wife, I am, old fellow, your devoted friend. “PAUL WARDEN.” Mr. and Mrs. Warden did come to town next week, but Mr. Maxwell didn’t call. In point of fact, he hasn’t | called since, and doesn’t intend to, and has given his friend Paul the ‘‘cut direct.” And this was the end of the dark conspiracy by which Paul Warden got a wife, and Tom Maxwell his revenge. —_>_4—=+—_____- WONDERS OF THE SEA. The sea occupies three-fifths of the surface of the earth. At the depth of about 3,500 feet waves are not felt. The temperature is the same, varying only a trifie from the ice of the pole to the burning sun of the equa- tor. A mile down the water has a pressure of over a ton to the square inch. If a box 6 feet deep were filled with sea water and allowed to evaporate under the sun, there would be 2 inches of salt left on the bottom. Tak- ing the average depth of the ocean to be three miles, there would be a layer of pure salt 230 feet thick on the bed of the Atlantic. The water is colder at the bottom than at the surface. In the many bays on the coast of Norway the water often freezes at the bottom before it does above. Waves are very deceptive. To look at them in astorm one would think the water traveled. The water stays in the same place, but the motion goes on. Sometimes in storms these waves are 40 feet high, and travel 50 miles an hour—more than twice as fast as the swiftest steamer. The distance from valley to valley is generally fifteen times the height, hence a wave 5 feet high will extend over 75 feet of water. vaporation is a wonderful power in drawing the water from the sea. Every year a layer of the entire sea, 14 feet thick, is taken up into the clouds. The wind bears their burden into the land, and the’ water comes down in rain upon the fields, to fiow back at last through rivers. f The depth of the sea presents an interesting problem. If the Atlantic were lowered 6,564 feet, the distance from shore to shore would be half as great, or 1,500 miles. If lowered a little more than three miles, say 19,680 feet, there would be a road of dry land fromNewfoundland to Ireland. This is the plane on which the Great Atlantic cables were laid. The Mediterranean is comparatively shallow. A drying up of 660 feet would leave three dif- ferent seas, and Africa would be joined with Italy. The British Channel is more like a pond, which accounts for its choppy waves. It has been found difficult to get correct soundings of the Atlantic. A midshipman of the navy overcame the difficulty, and shot weighing 30 pounds carries down the line. A hole is bored through the sinker, through which a rod of iron is passed, moving easily back andforth. In the end of the bar a cup is dug out, and the inside coated with lard. The bar is made fast to the line, and a sling holds the shoton. When the bar which extends below the ball, touches the earth, the sling unhooks and the shot slides off. The lard in the end of the bar holds some of the.sand, or whatever may be on the bottom, and a drop shuts the cup to keep the water from wash- ing the sand out. When the ground is reached a shock is felt as if an electric current had passed through the line, death. L. M. D.—In regard to the Joint Expedition of England, Spain, and France to Mexico, it may be briefly stated con- cerning the latter power, that the French army landed at Vera Cruz on Jan. 7, 1862, and that war was declared against Mexico on April 16 of the same year. The claims of England and § against Mexico were settled by negotiation, and in May the forces of both governments were withdrawn, us of the Joint Expedition only France remained, with the tacit avowal of overthrowing the existing form of government in Mexico. Maximilian arri on June 3 1864, but was left to his own resources in 1867; the last detachment of the French troops embarking at Vera Cruz on March 16, e ill- — emperor was captured on May 15, and shot on June 19, Lady Adeluide, Rome, Ga.—Christine Nilsson, (Mme. Rou- zaud), the Swedish vocalist, was born at Hussaby, near Wexio, on Aug. 3, 1843. Her father, though only a peasant, was a violinist, and had ch of the music at the vi e church. He taught his aa’ Col the violin, and pailese would pick out for herself on the instrument the tunes that she heard her father veo: At a fair her singing and playing attracted attention, and an offer to give her a musical edu- cation was accepted. She studied at Stockholm and Paris and made her debut at the latter city in Verdi’s “Traviata.” This was in 1864. In 1867 she appeared in London in the same opera. Her first =. ance in America was made at a con- cert at Steinway , this city, on Sept. 19, 1870. Ralph W., Madison, Kans.—Cornell University at Ithaca, N. Y., was named from its founder, Ezra Cornell. The uni- versity grounds embrace more than 200 acres lying on an up- land east of Ithaca, nearly 400 feet above Ca ee Lake. The university buildings are situated on East Hi J, outside the limits of the town, and half a mile north ,of the town hall. The institution was es on Oct. 7, 1868, with Andrew D. White as president. The number of students at that time was about 350. Last year the number was 649. e new presideat, Mr. Adams, presided at the eighteenth commence- ment held on June 17 Of this year, at which the degree of a of Laws was conferred on the ex-president, Mr. ’m. H. S.—1st. The book entitled “Le Roman d@’ une Americaine en Russie” cannot be procured, wnless from somebody who came in possession of a first copy. Only two thousand copies of the work had _been printed when it was suppressed, and prices advanced from five francs to one hundred in two days. 2d. Discolorations of the skin are sometimes removed by the use of ewcetine but we could not vouch for its oh the case stated. 3d. May 16, 1866, fell on Wednesday. 4th. Lave your skin occasionally in water slightly acidulated with lemon juice. 5th. ‘“The Mys- teries of the Court of London,” by George W. M. Reynolds, can be furnished in cloth for $1.75, or in paper cover for $1. Ariadne, Springfield, Mass.—The apteryx is a very rare and singular bird of New Zealand. It is called by the natives kiwi-kiwi from its peculiar cry. It belongs to the same family as the ostrich, having no power of flight, and its tail is not % arent. The plumage is loose as in other terrestrial birds. ey are nocturnal in their habits, and run swiftly, defending themselves vigorously with their feet. The na- tives pursue them for their skins, which for their strength are greatly prized for making dresses, cloaks, etc. Though a living a was on exhibition in London as late as 1847, it is the general impression that the apteryx is extinct. The largest species are about three feet high. C. B., Lincoln, Neb.—Whatever arctic explorations may be attempted in the future those who engage in them will doubt- less bear in mind the difficulties which have beset all con- nected with previous parties, and profit of their experiences ; and whatever plans may be adopted of course be de- veloped in time. As to the use of these arctic enterprises, apart from scientific considerations, opinions differ as widel as ever. A letter soliciting information on the subj P dressed to Lieut. A. W. Greely, New rt, Mass., re- ceive courteous attention. T. B. N.—The one-stanza poem, entitled “An Atlantic Trip,” which you quote, was written by Mrs. Frances Sar- gent Osgood. As some of our readers may not have read it we copy it entire, as follows: “But two events dispel ennui In our A tic trip ; Sometimes, alas! we ship a sea, And sometimes see a ship.” Gold n Hair, Oregon.—There are not more than three or and even in those States, we believe, they chiefly concern first cousins. Upon the propriety of cousins marrying other, opinions still differ. It is a matter which those most interested should decide for themselves. M. N. M.—George Hearst was appointed U. 8. Senator from California by the Governor of that State on March 23, 1886, vice John F, Miller, deceased. In politics Mr. Hearst isa Democrat. He will fill the vacancy until next January, when the Legislature will decide whether he shall serve out the term, which ends in March, 1887. J. S., Cincinnati, Ohio.—To rid dogs of fleas, use pennyroy- al. If youcan get the herb, make a decoction of it, and dip the dogs init. If you employ the oil of pennyroyal, saturate strings with it, and tie them around the necks of the dogs. By repeating these applications every week the fleas will leave the animals. B. L. A., Long Island.—Ascot Heath is a race-course in Berkshire, Eng., 26 miles from London, and 6 miles from annual meeting in June is one of the principal events of the turf. The first prize is a gold cup valued at £500. J. H. M., Allentown.—‘“Instructions for the Harmonica” will cost 50 cents. If you wish it, write direct to the NEw YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency. C. Aldrich, Newburgh, N. Y.—The U. S. Senators from Pennsylvania are John I. Mitchell and James Donald Cam- eron. Minton, Scranton, Pa.—No knowledge of it. W. E. B., Hickman, Ky.—No recipe. W. W. A., Susanville, Cal.—Yes. oe, a? aise ~THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3 woman four States that have laws against the marriage of cousins, - Windsor, near the London and Southwestern Railway. The © onex>> — 6. eI Q VOL. 41—No. 38, i BETRAYED. BY W. R. BARBER, A splash! a shriek! and all was o’er— Above her closed the ingulfing wave ; Too late that girlish form they dragged From the sullen tide where she sought a grave. Oh, woeful sight to gaze upon, That fragile Gorse on the rugged pier, With its tangled hair and its staring eyes! Yes, a sight to pity, and yet to fear. The motive? Aye it was plain enough, That secret sad that she could not keep. Another life beside her own Went out in that sudden, fatal leap. “A suicide,” ran from lip to lip Of those who gazed on the hapless dead ; Nor by man nor woman in the crowd Was ever a word of pity said. They called her wicked, wanton, mad, There were even jeers at the senseless clay, And epithets of a kind that shocked, And drove me from their midst away. Was there no tender-hearted one— No father there to condemn the wrong That drove the girl to her fatal deed— No mother to weep amid the throng ? And where was he who had wrought her shame— . Dragged her to ruin and disgrace ; Who had won her trust, her woman’s all, By hollow vows and treachery base ? There is one now treads the city’s streets Who seeks forgetfulness in vain ; For deeply seared on his wretched heart He bears the accursed brand of Cain. At night he tosses upon his couch, His brain oppressed by a vision dread Of the foully injured, early slain, Betrayed by him who had sworn to wed. Deep in his self-accusing heart, A life-long agony shall cling ; Remorse shall never leave him more, Nor cease to ply its scorpion sting. —__—_—_———__ > @—=—______ [THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] MARRIED IN JEST; OR The Heiress of Ferney. By MRS. HELEN CORWIN PIERCE, AUTHOR OF “THE CURSE OF EVERLEIGH,” “NAMELESS HAGAR,” “THE UNLOVED WIFE,” ETC, © (“MARRIED IN JEST” was commenced in No. 36. Back num- bers can be obtained of all News Agents.] CHAPTER VI. LADY SIBYL FINDS AN HEIRESS IN ENGLAND, WHILE HER LOVER SEEKS ONE IN AMERICA. Lady Sibyl Treherne’s handsome residence was in the most aristocratic portion of London. Her morning room *was one of the most elaborately furnished and decorated in that locality. In this apartment sat Lady Sibyl one morning, eagerly scanning the young girl who occupied the silken lounge opposite her, and received her gaze with an air of un- conscious hauteur. “The very thing,” she said to herself, and aloud, “Yes, they’re an odd pair, Mrs. Ellerslie and her nephew. How handsome you are, Miss Durward! and just the style, to turn the head of this childless old woman. If you could bewitch the nephew into marrying you, it would be likely to settle the chances of all fortune as- pirants for the heirship of Fernley.” Flora Durward colored vividly, and moved rather un- easily in her seat. esd . A lovely brunette, slender and tall, with great dreamy | black eyes and luxuriant jetty hair, she was more than handsome. She was dressed, not richly, but as only an artist can dress, such harmony of coloring, such ar- . rangement of draperies. She had been an actress. Lady Sibyl had discovered her on the boards of a little provincial stage, and had secured her for the carrying out of a plan of her own at the earliest possible moment. She had not accomplished this without much trouble, however. The young actress was a girl of instincts, and she shrank from a participation in y Sibyl’s wicked schemes with a dislike that my lady found almost in- surmountable. In vain she portrayed to her the mag- nificence and luxury of the new life she would lead. The poor actress, earning her precarious living before the footlights of a third class theater, yet found virtue and firmness enough in her soul to resist, till one day when she was riding out with Lady Sibyl, and my lady ointed out to her Mrs. Ellerslie and her devoted nephew harez, sweeping slowly by one of the many patrician equipages that lined the row. The nephew lifted his hat from the tawny yellow curls that garlanded the head of one of the handsomest men of his day, and Mrs. Ellerslie smiled a sweet smile, as she bowed to Lady Sibyl. Flora looked once, and caught her breath, convulsive- ly. Lady Sibyl did not see then the face she averted swiftly from those keen eyes, but a minute after she ex- claimed at its ghastliness : «Are you ill, Miss Durward ?” ‘Tam not ill, Lady Sibyl, and I consent to do as you wish,” Flora said, in a strange voice. “You, darling!” Lady Sibyl cried. “I would kiss you if there were not too many people looking.” ‘Flora smiled faintly at my lady’s raptures, but she listened rather vaguely to her rattling volubility as the carriage rolled slowly home. “You will be sure to win the day if you half try,” Lady Sibylsaid. ‘Your looks arein your favor, both because you are handsome and because you are like Mrs. Ellers- lie’s ideal of her lost darling, just as though any definite description could be obtained after all these years. Then your having been an actress will be an admirable as- sistance to you in carrying on your part. Oh, 1do hope you will succeed, my dear!” «You have never told me what your interest in this business is, Lady Sibyl,” Flora said, suddenly lifting her eyes, brilliant with the excitement of her new resolve. Lady Sibyl shrugged her graceful shoulders. «Well, if I have not. What then ?” “Nothing if you do not choose to tell me; of cSurse, I do not believe that you go to all this trouble merely to advantage me.” “Certainly not,” lady said, frankly, a red spot burning in either cheek, and a threatening light in the downeast eyes, which Flora did not see. There was an embarrassed pause, and then Lady Sibyl resumed tae previous subiect. “You must ex them to be a little shy of you at first. They have n deceived so many times, or rather they have deceived themselves. Why for years—I sup- pose ever since Mrs. Ellerslie’s child was lost or stolen— she and her nephew have been picking up these waifs, any motherless girl who could give no account of her- self, if she had only black eyes, a brunette face, and black hair. » They went so far once, as to seize upon the child of one of their tenants, because sbe so strongly re- sembled the lost one, and the true parents had to take legal measures to get the little girl back.” “IT should think your heart would revolt from deceiv- ing such loving craving as this,” Flora.said, sadly. “That is because you do not look at the matter as I do,” Lady Sibyl coolly answered. ‘The little heiress un- doubtedly died at the time of her mysterious disappear- ance. But whether she did or not, [look upon it as an act of the greates benevolence, to fill the hearts and arms of these child-craving people with some object not likely to be torn from them so cruelly as these others have been. in presenting you to their fond regard, I am doing them a great kindness.” To herself, Lady Sibyl said, compressing her finely formed lips. “My dear Felix, you hunt lost heiresses in America, do you? I find them at home ready tomy hand. We shall see, sir, if a woman’s wit cannot match yours.” Thirty miles from home, some twelve years previous to the time of which we write, the master of Fernley Manot, Morton Ellerslie had been murdered while on a brief journey with his young and beloved wife. A band of desperadoes eager for plunder surrounded his carriage. He resisted and in the melee was shot. . His widow, just rallying from this blow, was soon after prostrated by another equally harrowing misfor- tune. The sole daughter of the house, the little heiress of one of the proudest names and grandest estates in England, vanished from her ancestral home, under cir- cumstances so mysterious and unaccountable, as to com- pel the conclusion that she had been stolen. In default of the heiress, Pharez Ellerslie—the son of a brother of Morton Ellerslie and a beautiful gipsy whom he had married in open defiance of his family—became the heir of Fernley. He was a handsome, high spirited boy of twelve at the time of the disappearance of the little Regina. He was devotedly attached to his heiress cousin, and much be- loved by her parents, who had assumed his guardian- ship upon the death of his own father, and, as it was supposed. his gipsy mother. . His aunt turned to him in her affliction with touching sympathy, and the lad seemed to fairly come out of himself to comfort her. ” «We will never give up the search for our lost darling, aunty dear,” he said, with stern face for one so young, ‘ewe will look for her till we are gray, please Heaven, if we do not find her before.” & CHAPTER VI. THE FALSE HEIRESS. Mrs. Ellerslie was very much of an invalid. As she re- clined on a low couch the morning after the conversation recorded between Lady Sibyl Treherne and Flora Dur- ward, she looked more worn with sorrow than with years, and was lovely still. If her hair was streaked with gray its naturally flaxen hue helped to conceal that foot-print of time, and if the delicate high-bred face had grown thinand white, the large, light blue eyes only looked larger by this very wasting, and had a habit of gazing with a wistful, half-questioning earnestness into the faces about her that won the interest and often the affection. She was not sleeping, and as her beloved nephew softly gece the door for fear of disturbing her, she ex- tended her hand, smiling faintly. 'The smile died as she saw his face, and over her own passed a sort of quiver, like a ripple on smooth waters. «What is it?” she asked, sitting up and passing her jeweled fingers nervously over her banded hair. ‘Don’t keep me in suspense,” she added, impatiently, as he hesitated, «,you know I dislike suspense, and I am too used to reading your face not to know that you have heard something.” “Tt seems cruel to mock you with a new hope, aunt, after the failure of the last.” ‘And yet you do—you do mock me, Pharez,” Mrs. El- lerslie cried, wringing her hands with nervous excite- ment. Pharez sat down beside her, and put his arm tenderly about her agitated form. lis own face was strangely stirred, for Lady Sibyl had known well how to word her aie to make it thnill the hearts it was meant to pene- rate. ; “Lady Sibyl Treherne is here,” Pharez said. ‘She has just returned from a visit to Westmoreland, and she picked up while she was gonea young girl, who, she seems to think, has uncommon claims upon our atten- tion. Knowing all the circumstances, and our numer-. ous disappointments, Lady Sibyl has, as far as was in her power, investigated this young girl’s antecedents before exciting our hopes. She is not sanguine now, but she would like us to see her, and she gives us the opportunity this evening at her own house, when a se- lect party of friends will be with her, and can observe her protegee at our leisure.” “Why not now? Why did,he not bring her with her ? Why can we not go to her at once ?” exclaimed Mrs. El- lerslie, with passion. “Because this young girl does not, as yet, suspect the source of Lady Sibyl’s interest in her. Because it would be cruel to excite in her false hopes. Lady Sibyl can answer any questions we would like to ask, and she has besides a theory that for you to meet her unawares, neither of you suspecting the identity of the other, it may be the means of waking some sympathetic chord in the heart of each whose vibration will be a sort of proot of the real relationship between you, if such ex- Mrs. Ellerslie was trembling like a leaf. ‘Will you let me see Lady Sibyl ?” she asked. Pharez stepped to the door. Lady Sibyl was waiting outside, and came gracefully forward. : ae dear Mrs. Ellerslie,” she warraly exclaimed, kiss- ing that lady on both cheeks. “I don’t dare hope, and you must not; it would be too good to be true.” Then she sat down on the other side of Mrs. Ellerslie, and answered all her questions, with a charming frank- ness and eagerness, and so exactly as the poor lady had longed a hundred times to have them answered. She cried when Mrs. Ellerslie cried, and laughed with her when delighted hope rippled the quivering lips of that longing mother, and finally was firm in her refusal to ermit this new candidate for the Ellerslie love and eirship to be seen before evening.” ; MRS. ELLERSLIE HELD THE GIRL’S LITTLE HAND BETWEEN HERS, WHILE SHE TOLD HER HOW MUCH SHE LOOKED LIKE HER REGINA. ‘I must insist on being humored in my little experi- ment,” she said, with enchanting earnestness. ‘‘The sweet girl suspects nothing, and must not. You must meet her in my drawing-room just as you meet the rest of my guests. I shall not even tell you her name, or point her out to you. Your own heart must do that, and hers.” Mrs. Ellerslie laughed with delight one moment, and the next said, plaintively : «But I have been deceived so many times by a fancied resemblance, how can I trust my poor heart so torn with sorrow, so distracted wlth longing for my child ?” “J know ; but, dear Mrs. Ellerslie, you must not be discouraged. I shall leave you now; you may come by ten o’clock, not a moment sooner. I will not have my pretty plot spoiled by impatience or precipitancy.” Lady Sibyl spoke with playful emphasis, and gave her delicately gloved hand to Pharez Ellerslie to be conduct- ed to her carriage. “Tf my dear aunt’s hopes should be uselessly raised again,” he said, gravely, as he waited upon Lady Sibyl, «she is so delicate I don’t know how she would bear it, and you see how excited she already is over the pros- ect.” “JT did not encourage her too much, did I?” Lady Sibyl exclaimed, with an artfully distressed look. “I tried not to. Don’t let her hope too much, Mr. Ellerslie. JZ won’t be answerable for her dissappointment if you do, and perhaps we had better give the whole thing up now. It is really very unlikely, you know, that my beautiful protegee is your lost pet.” “T think so myself,” Pharez said, coldly. Something in Lady Sibyl’s tone and manner during this last speech repelled him, he scarce knew why, and he lifted his lustrious eyes to my lady’s pretty face with a glance of involuntary scrutiny. Lady Sibyl laughed musically. «That is what one gets for serving one’s friends too fuithfully. Idare say Ihave been too zealous, Mr. El- lerslie, and that my anxiety to be a chief instrument in the restoration of your dear aunt’s happiness has alto- gether misled me. Good-by, sir. Don’t let Mrs. Ellers- lie come before ten.” And Lady Sibyl drove off. This wasin the morning. To wait from that time till ten in the evening was almost more than poor Mrs, El- lerslie Was equal to. But the hour came at last, and punctually with its ar- rival, the Ellerslie carriage drove up before Lady Sibyl’s town mansion. Most of the guests were already assembled, and all wore a subdued air of expectancy, for, with a finesse for which Lady Sibyl was peculiar, she had artfully circu- lated the rumor of the little romance whose denouement was to electrify the guests in her elegant drawing-rooms that evening. Flora Durward had been left to select and arrange the details of her dress herself, and the three graces had surely presided at that charming toilet. Assisted by a portrait of the lost heiress, which Lady Sibyl had con- trived adroitly to become possessed of, aided also by those fine artistic perceptions which were hers naturally, and had been cultivated during her experience as an actress, Flora had made herself as much like the lovely a she was copying as it was possible for an imitation to be. Her luxuriant hair she had arranged in long curls like the picture, and her graceful form she had clothed in i such soft, fleecy white as Regina’s mother had de- ighted to garb her lost darling in. Brush and pencil did the rest; gave to the curve of the slender brows less depths and more length, to the dreamy eyes more soft- ness and shadow, to the face pale before, and sick with the inward struggle of Flora’s better nature, that dark resplendence of the picture. As Miss Durward she had been presented to Lady Sibyl’s guests before the arrival of Mrs. Ellerslie and her nephew, and as she moved gracefully about the room, in supposed unconsciousness of that which occupied the thoughts of every one else, she was the cynosure of all eyes. She was standing quite across the room, half shadow- ed by the friendly draperies of a window, when Mrs. Ellerslie and her nephew entered. Mrs. Ellerslie’s face was almost sey, and her great sad eyes darted wild glances about the apartment. Lady Sibyl’s artful management had raised in the breast of the poor lady the most tumultuous hopes. But Flora Durward scarcely saw this unhappy mother. e Her glances were devouring the beautiful girlish face of Pharez Ellerslie. The tawny, yellow hair, the long, soft Moorish eyes—ah! how well she knew them! Only for aninstant. The next, the gentleman whom Sibyl had requested to perform such attendance had drawn her hand within his arm, and was leading her down the long and brilliant room, with that strange emotion still blanching her beautiful face. In vain she strove to {master it, that she egy per- form her part as had been agreed upon between her and Lady Sibyl. In vain she strove tolift a smiling coun- tenance to the glance of her escort, to bandy graceful words with him, until she should be nearer Mrs. Ellers- lie. The words died unspoken, her eyes were fixed in a sort of fascination where they had first fallen. It was perhaps as well for the success of Lady Sibyl’s plan. No simulated emotion could have been more ef- fective than this which was so evidently real; and Mrs. Ellerslie, by tottering a few steps toward the young girl with outstretched arms, and then falling upon the car- pet ing dead faint, set the seal upon that success—at least f6r the present. : ro ll s {I | x! SS a SEN *"YOU RESEMBLE MY LOST COUSIN, BUT I DO NOT BELIEVE YOU ARE SHE!” Flora’s attitude of distress and perplexity, the pained, anxious look with which she ec the unconscious lady, were much better than as Lady Sibyl liad arranged t. Mrs. Ellerslie was conveyed to Lady Sibyl’s own pri- vate room, accompanied by Lady Sibyl herself and her nephew. _ Pharez came back presently for Miss Durward, who took his armin a sort of dream, and began to tremble before she had gone half a dozen staps. He stopped a moment in the hall outside Lady Sibyl’s door.¢ The light shone on Flora’s face, which, though pale, still glowed as from an inward fiame as she lifted her mournful eyes to his. «You are trembling, Miss Durward. Why ?” She shook her head : “T don’t know.” «Where have I seen you, Miss Durward ? met you before ?” “It is possible,” Miss Durward said, with a flickering color in her cheeks. “I could almost believe —’ Pharez began and stopped, abruptly, leading the way instead to his aunt, who re- clined in alow chair, and lifted her great eyes to Flora’s face with such an agony of eoning as made the girl's heart almost die within her. ‘Will you sit here, my dear?” Mrs. Ellerslie said, in a gentle, tremulous voice. “I have been talking with La- dy Sibykabout you. Did you know, my child, that 7 had a daughter once who would haye been as fair as you ?” “Surely, madam, fairer than those of earth, if she is an angel,” Flora murmured, ely above her breath. Lady Sibyl, guessing that this interview might pro- gress more satisfactorily for Flora if Pharez Ellerslie were away, made an excuse to take him down stairs with her, but might not have got him away had not Mrs. Ellerslie desired to be left alone with the lovely girl. To Flora this was an inexpressible relief. She felt that it would have been almost impossible to have performed her part well with his eyes upon her. Then Mrs. Ellerslie told the story of her lost darling, and Flora listened, and showed some emotion at certain parts of it; and Mrs. Ellerslie questioned her in her soft, laintive voice, and held the girl’s little hand between ers while she told her how much she looked like her Regina, till Flora cried out of sheer sympthy, and clung to her when she caressed her, and said ““Mamma,” in a shy, sweet voice, that thrilled the poor lady through and through. Mrs. Ellerslie meant to be very cautious this time, and she constrained herself much in order to be so. But her heart was an open one; it longed so for a tenant that, Have I ever almost unconsciousiy to itself, it took in this beautiful girl, whe looke ike OR h her with none of t of tact had been characteristic at lac of most of those other ‘‘waifs,” as Lady Sibyl had digni- nified the unhappy lady’s disappointments in this direc- tion. In reality, the matter was settled with that inter- view between Mrs Ellerslie and Flora, and it would be no easy thing to unsettle it. Mrs. Ellerslie refused to be separated from the young oak a moment, and insisted upon taking her home wit er in her carriage, in spite of her nephew’s rather du- bious looks. Pharez was not so easily convinced, and so plainly ace that he was not, that Mrs. ‘Ellerslie grew im- patient. “‘T suppose I can take the poor child home with me at any rate, can’t 1?” she said. ‘‘And I’m sure I love her already.” A weak, nervous woman was Mrs. Ellerslie, querulous sometimes, and impatient of being crossed. Miss Durward was not unconscious of the coolness with which Pharez Ellerslie regarded her claims, and she took the first opportunity to speak with him on the subject, bearing herself with such sweet humility that he could not help listening, half-charmed by that. and her lovely face. She set up no claims, she told him, with one of her rosebud smiles; she was there because Mrs. Ellerslie seemed so much to desire it; but for her own part she chose to occupy the position of the humble companion rather than that of the daughter of the house. She was poor and friendless, and it was sweet to be loved and cherished, but he should see that she should take no ag advantage of such blessings being showered upon er. “You resemble my lost cousin, but Ido not believe you are she,” Pharez said, frankly, yet with kindness, and puzzling himself all the while to think where he had seen this beautiful face, and why those soft black eyes thrilled him against his will. Flora Durward had not told all the truth to either Mrs. Ellerslie or Pharez, but she had told no absolute falsehoods, and she salved her somewhat troublesome conscience by protesting against being called ‘‘Regina,” Se fond and sanguine Mrs. Ellerslie would name er. ; . “EVERY INSTANT THAT I LINGER HERE IS DISHONOR FOR BOTH OF US. SHE IS MY WIFE!” She made some faint effort, too, to be merely the humble companion, but Mrs, Ellerslie would not permit it for an instant, and the temptation of society and dress to a beautiful girl like Flora Durward did the rest. She entered the whirl and gayety of London fashion- able life with more than usual eclat. She was more than charming in herself, and about her besides hung that halo of romance which Lady-Sibyl had taken care should precede her everywhere. The generous magnanimity which would not consent to be called by the name of the lost heiress while the least uncertainty remained on the question of identity was repeated and magnified over and over again by those who did not know of the partial but no less blam- able deceit by which Flora had at least suffered herself to be imposed upon the affectionate credulity of Mrs. Ellerslie. : The young and lovely ex-actress was the rage for the time. She might have wedded in these palmy days with some of the best matches of the season. But though she lavished her smiles and glances with ravish- emt THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. => ing graciousness, she dispensed both as royalty might, and gave no one encouragement beyond that. Her escort usually on these occasions was Pharez Ellerslie. ° He, indeed, was left no choice in the matter. Mrs. Ellerslie was set upon a match between these two, as all her life she had talked and dreamed of seeing her beloved nephew wedded to her lost daughter when she should be found. ° He had no choice in the matter, or would have none. His life had been deyoted in blind service to this wo- man whom he believed his own mother (who was not dead, aS was supposed), had rendered childless, and he would never have thought of really opposing one wish of her heart. He showed no unwillingness to accord Flora such at- tentions as Mrs. Ellerslie called on him for, and perhaps felt none. But Flora was not so sure about that, and this doubt was one of the bitter drops in her present cup of happiness. Notwithstanding that uneasy conscience of hers, she was happier than she had ever been in her life before. What young girl does not like gayety, pleasure adula- tion? And she had plenty of all. It was something of ‘a contrast to the old life of privation and_ suffering. Flora Durward had known what it was to be heart-hun- gry. But it is only fair to say that nothing of that had tempted her to the part she was playing. Years before, while yet an unformed girl with no beauty but those wonderful eyes, which so often and so strangely startled Pharez Ellerslie’s puzzled memory, she had met him in alittle provincial town, where she was playing such minor characters as her years fitted her for. She was only fourteen then, and Pharez Ellers- lie had sauntered into the dingy little theater as she stood before the footlights, resplendent in a very short dress of lace, covered with spangles. She had gone too near the footlights, and her dress had caught fire. The next minute Pharez Ellerslie had leaped upon the stage and smothered the horrible blaze in the folds of a cloak he tore from his own shoulders. Flora suffered no phy- sical harm beyond afew slight burns, but for the few days of his stay there Pharez Ellerslie, then about twen- ty, had shown her occasional kindnesses, and, young as she was, she had never forgotten him, but had treas- ured his memory with a romantic devotion possible only to women like her, to whom one love is either the bless- ing or bane of existence. To be near him she had consented to Lady Sibyl’s wishes, and taken upon herself a hypocrisy which she loathed, and for the present she was happy in that as- sociation, or nearer so, than she had often been in her friendless life before. But happiness with such insecure foundation as this, is not of the kind to last. Before the season was well over, it had begun to fall short of satisfying Miss Dur- ward. She was miserable, because amid all the delights of her luxurious existence, there was one thing to be de- sired, and this seemed beyond her reach. Pharez Ellers- lie, while he made not the faintest opposition to the distinctly expressed wishes of his aunt, still was as cold to Flora as though she had been an icicle. But Pharez Ellerslie was not so insensible to this fas- cinating young creature as he seemed. Really, his heart was torn between twoimpulses. The one, which had been the devotion of his life, bade him distrust beauti- ful Flora Durward and remain faithful to the search for his lost cousin, nor permit one witchery of another to cause him to grow cold in her interests. The other made him thrill when Flora’s soft fingers but touched his in formal courtesy, made his heart throb quicker when she looked at him and almost made him forget the first, when as sometimes chanced, amore than usually cold eo ot his caused her red lips to quiver with suppressed eeling. He could not be unconscious that Flora already loved him. The warm, impulsive nature could not help be- traying itself constantly even when she most imagined that she was hiding her heart from him. g There is no flattery so dear to the soul of man, as the love of a beautiful woman, and this sweet draught was ies sag to the lips of Pharez Ellerslie almost every our in the day. He was a strong man, who with that hot gipsy blood in his veins, still resisted, and gave only cold looks and brief icy speech in return. tf Flora had known how often the chill arm upon which she leaned thrilled to clasp her, she would have been comforted. But she did not. She saw only his averted looks, his cold distrust of her. She winced inwardly, every time Ellerslie called her Regina, for she felt that Pharez, IT WAS WORTH SOMETHING TO SEE HAVERSHAM’S FACE OF HELPLESS RAGE, AS THE ARREST WAS MADE. if he had known the truth, would have despised her in real earnest. Pharez Ellerslie knew that his mother was living. He had known it at the time of his little cousin’s disappear- ance. That very night, he had found among the trampled flowers under Regina’s window the string of richly chased gold beads, which his mother wore at her girdie, and which she was wont to finger anon, while she read the palms of the credulous fortune-seekers, who sought to profit by her art. He was but twelve years old then, a mere boy, but as he cowered there in the shadow, and stared affrightedly at the toy he had found, he grew in some things to the stature of aman. He re- membered the threats his mother had muttered against his little cousin in those rare interviews he had had with her, unknown to his uncle’s family, who believed her dead, and the suspicion that she had stolen the child, withered his youth and made him old before his time. Forbidden at first to disclose the fact of her existence and controlled by that principle of implicit obedience, so early and faithfully instilled with his gipsy blood, he had never yet named to any one the dark suspicion which coiled like a serpent about his own heart. CHAPTER VIII. PURSUED. Some time, far into the night there was a trembling knock at Penryhn Payson’s chamber door, and then, be- fore Pen, who had thrown himself dressed as he was on his bed could speak, an impatient hand turned the latch, and his mother looking like the ghost of herself by the light she carried came swiftly forward to his bed- side. «Penryhn,” she said, in a ghastly whisper stooping over him, and laying on his a hand so cold that it made him shiver, ‘‘I wish you would get up.” «Why mother,” Pen exclaimed, rising to his elbow and surveying her with wondering eyes. Mrs. Payson burst into tears. “JT haven’t been in bed this night,” she sobbed, trem- bling with nervous excitement. ‘Something is wrong in the house, Pen. I’ve been trying for two hours to get courage to run up to you. I want you to come up with me to Jna’s room. . The young man rose to his feet at once, and took the lamp from his mother’s hand. «What has happened ?” he asked, as he led the way. “J don’t know,” she whispered again. ‘‘Some one has | been stirring all night, and I fancied I heard steps about the house.- Then there seemed noises at’ the was too scared to come to you.” Pen thought for a moment his mother had lost her reason, as he stoppedin the hall and looked at her. Presently he strode forward and knocked at Ina’s door. There was no answer. He tried the door, openedit a a little way, and said ; “Ina, my motkheris here. She is anxious about you.” He turned to his mother in the silence that followed. «Go in,” he said, sternly. Then unable to endure longer the harrowing doubt, as she shrank back, he flung the door wide, and stood within it, flashing the light over those sacred pre- cints, and upon his own set face, which grew gray as he looked, for the room was tenantless ! “TI told you so,” wailed Mrs. Payson, wringing her hands, and rushing wildly to and fro to look in all sorts of impossible places. “Told me what?” demanded her son, laying heavy a hand on her shoulder, and turning his darkening eyes on her shrinking face. ‘For Heaven’s sake, mother, speak intelligibly if youcan. Thereis nothing so very wonderful in Ina’s not being here. She may have gone to some of the neighbors. She is always doing rash things when she is angry, and you know we quarreled last night.” Mrs. Payson suddenly stood still. “That is not it,” she said, in accents of conviction. ‘1 heard steps go down from here, and out through the Englishnan’s room.” She fell back as she spoke, as though Pen had struck her ; such a look of horrified incredulity came into his face. The next instant he had left her in darkness, and she heard him pounding on Haversham’s door like a mad- man. Following as fast as her trembling limbs would let her, she found him with his sheulder against the door which was locked. It yielded with acrash before that des- perate strength, and fell inward. arn. I ‘| the captain below ; ‘I don’t know about that. Crossing the parlor he entered the sleeping-room be- yond, which stood open. She knew by the groan that followed that no one was there. “Gone without a word!” he said, ina stifled voice. “Oh, my girl, I did not think it of you !” “Don’t, Pen, don’t take on so,” Mrs. Payson cried, pit- eously ; “if she would go off this way with him, she’s not worth your caring.” ‘‘Mother,” interrupted Pen, sternly, “if you had come to me sooner much trouble might have been spared. Tell m¢ now, how long ago did you hear those steps 2?’ And while he spoke he was moving toward the door. ‘You said something about two hours. Have they got two hours’ start of me ?” «Pen, Pen, you're not going to follow them. Mr. Hav- ersham carries pistols! Oh, my boy, wait till morning, at least.” . He put her from him with a stern hand, and held her so a moment, his hazel eyes flashing omniously. ‘‘Mother,” he said, ‘“‘ every instant that! linger here is dishonor for both of us. She is my wife!” Mrs. Payson’s head dropped till her chin touched her bosom, and as she tottered feebly away from him, strick- en with that last blow, she murmured, ‘‘Heaven forgive me, miserable sinner that Iam.” Pen left her so, and went out toward the stables. He was back-again almost immediately. «The wretch las taken the horses,” he said. borrow a horse and follow them on horseback.” He was hurrying away when Mrs. Payson stopped him. «Tell me when—when was it, my son ?” With a frowning brow he told her. “Tt Was two years ago last winter. I was mad with jealous fear of every man that came near her, and I got Phil Dawson to marry us. She thought it was all fun. She didn’t know Phil had been ordained then, and I paid the county clerk well for holding his tongue when { got the license.” ‘“Heaven’s mercy! your wife ?” “No, Heaven forgive me, she does not know it. such a coward I did not dare face her scorn.” Pen guessed that Haversham would take the road to- ward the river instead of over the prairie, for at that time the prairie was not dotted with habitations as it is now, and it required great familiarity with it to keep from losing the way. Having obtained a horse, Pen mounted and rode as though the Furies held his bridle rein. Butit seemed to him, in his mad impatience, as though the hoofs of his steed were weighted with lead. Morning was glinting over the bluffs as he eame in sight of the river. The landing was in the midst of the oy and was merely a rude platform only ,occasional- y used. He could see through the trees the Weston boat just rounding up toit. Two persons stood there waiting for the boat. They were Haversham and Ina. Pen’s horses, still attached to the buggy, had been turned loose, and trotted leisurely past their master without his looking at them. His eyes were fastened on the pair ahead, Haversham with his arm partially encircling Ina, who seemed to lean heavily upon him. The sight made Pen shiver with jealous rage. They were ina hurry on the boat; they always are. The plank was out as they touched, and Havershain, catching a glimpse of his pursuer over his shoulder, swept his shrinking companion on board as Pen dashed up. As Pen sprang from his horse, Haversham, with his own white hands, caught at the ropes and helped to draw in the plank, the men assisting him with a will in their sympathetic admiration for Ina’s beautiful, pale face. “IT want to come on board!” shouted Pen, at the top of his voice, as the boat moved off; but Haversham ae something to the captain, and no notice was taken of him. The boat swept: round, heading for the channel, and the Englishman and his companion, pausing on the second deck near the stern on his way to the saloon, was borne so near the wretched man on shore that for an instant Pen stuod face to face with Ina. Her vail was down, and though so near, she gave no sign that she was even conscious of his presence. A cold sneer curved like a snake across Haversham’s lips, as he drew her within, but Pen did not see it, as he staggered away among the trees and fell upon his knees, with a cry that was mingled agony and prayer. ‘Heaven help me !” Hark! What was that? they coming back 2 He leaped to his feet and ran tosee. A boat wasin sight, but it was not, he saw at a glance, the one which had just left the landing. It was heading the same way, for Weston, and suddenly he remembered that a pl line of boats was to begin running about this ime. He signaled her frantically ; she rounded to and took him onboard. . ; The horse Pen had ridden had been left untied. The animal viewed this proceeding with equine dignity, gave an expressive snort or two, and trotted leisurely away. é Pen’s horses, with the buggy, were secured and re- turned to their own stable by a farmer who knew them. The other horse was ultimately recovered from a remote portion of the country. The captain of the boat Pen was on proved to be an old acquaintance, and, in a sudden impulsive outburst pe! feeling, the miserable fellow told him the whole story. Captain Blane was a full-blooded Yankee. It was one of his boasts that his grandfather had been at that famous tea spoiling at Boston Harbor. Itenraged him to think that an. Englishman had so treacherously wronged his friend. He was all excitement in a moment, and long before the story was done he had yelled the order to put on more’s 3 “We'll fix him,” he said, with a sonorous laugh that went straight to Pen’s aching heart; we'll overhaul ’em or burst our boiler, old fellow.” And he kept his word, without any great risk, either. The new line boat had been built with especial reference to speed. “Vd not show myself if I were you,” he said, as the forward boat hove in sight, ‘let them think you are not on board, and you can take them off their guard as they land. We shall pass them pretty soon now, you’ll have plenty of time to take out a warrant for him betore they get to Weston. I calculate they’ll be about an hour and a half behind us.” “A warrant ?” echoed Pen, doubtfully, as he followed I should like to spare my poor girl all the pain I could, Heaven knows. I have been enough to blame already.” “Exactly. But arrest your Englishman for horse steal- ing, don’t you see?’ Pen smiled faintly. “IT might do that, but I haven’t any proof unless Ina is willing to testify.” “Humph, you don’t want any proof to arrest him. Only take him away with your warrant, and you can set- tle with the girl at your leisure, without him around to bother.” And the captain poked Pen cheerfully in the ribs, and indulged in one of his resounding laughs over the joke which he proposed to play on the Englishman. “1 think you are right, captain,’ Pen said, with a half defiant toss of his handsome head. ‘It does not seem exactly the thing, but I think Ill do it.” He was watching from behind the saloon curtain as they steamed past the old line boat, and the ache of his head got a negative sort of comfort from seeing Haver- sham smoking on the upper deck, alone, Ina was not in sight. . Captain Blane arrived in Weston in ample time to enable Pen to get his warrant and put it in the hands of the proper officer. The three were waiting in a close carriage as the old line boat came puffing and blowing up to the landing, and as Haversham came off her, half supporting, - half carrying Ina, who looked like the ghost of her sweet self, Pen pointed him out to the constable. It was worth something, after all the bitterness of that day, to see Haversham’s face of helpless rage and dismay, as that arrest was made. For a brief instant, Haversham thought of resistance, then he cast his angry eyes over the erowd for some one to take charge of the pale and half-fainting girl upon his arm. Pen, his face white, and his eyes glittering with ex- citement, had come close beside the pair, and the Eng- lishman had not'seen him. As Ina, worn with heart- ache and agitation, and totally overcome with the fright of this new shock, drooped and swooned away, it was Pen whose half-frantic hands tore her from Haversham’s encircling arm, and straining her close, regardless of his rage and threats, hurried her away to the waiting carriage. Haversham made one desperate effort to follow; but the constable was a powerful man, and the crowd, among which a rumor of the truth had arisen, swayed between him and the carriage. While he struggled, the carriage drove swiftly away, and was soon lost to view. There are two crimes which a Western crowd holds in peculiar detestation. They are the two of which this aristocratic-looking Englishman was suspected—wife- stealing and horse-stealing. Murder will scarcely so fire its hot, impetuous blood. The constable caught dark glances fixed on his pris- oner, and heard threatening words from the crowd. He turned to Haversham. “If you value your life, sir, you will come with me without more ado,” he said, in a low voice. Haversham, his face darkening with sudden fear, for he had heard of Judge Lynch, suffered himself to be con- ducted to a carriage, which the officer took for safety, his prisoner paying for the same, however. Very shortly Felix Haversham found himself enjoying a luxury new to him-—that of dwelling, free of expense, in the county jail. His examination could not take place till the following morning. (TO BE CONTINUED.] “T shall And she knows not that she is I was A boat’s whistle? Were >~o-~ PERMANENCE OF MARRIAGE. The home of a married pair who are united heart and soul is the happiest spot on earth. In the shelter of such a home, in the warm atmosphere of household love, springs up the pure affection of parent and child; father, mother, son, daughter; or brothers and sisters. Whatever makes this insecure, and divorces frequent, makes a marriage not a union for life, but an experi- ment which may be tried as often as we choose, and abandoned when we like. And this tears up by the roots all the dear affections of home; leaves children orphaned, destroys fatherly and motherly love, and is a virtual dissolution of society. We know the great diffi- culties of this question, and how much wisdom is re- quired to solve them. But whatever weakens the per- manence of marriage tends to dissolve society; for society is germinated and upheld by happy homes. nf ~~ ge % Os «o-~« (THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] For Another's Sin: OR, THE BRIDE’S CONQUEST By BERTHA M. CLAY, AUTHOR OF “A Fair Mystery,” “Thrown on the World.” “The World Between Them.” “Beyond Pardon,” Ete. [“For ANOTHER’s Srn,” was commenced in No. 17. . Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.] CHAPTER ISKXTI. A DEEPLY WOUNDED HEART. ‘Jt did. And it shall be done.” “Tt is a silly and quixotic idea. Albert told me of it | not long ago., Your father must have been insane.” “Not so. am glad to think that, at the last, he wanted to be just. And his wishes shali be obeyed, though it leaves me without a dollar.” “Indeed! and so you are as absurd as your brother ?” “T do not callit absurd. It is simply justice.” “Let it pass. We will not argue the point. Will you show me the paper your father left ?” “No, I will not.” “Your brother would have done so. Will you tell me ah? is to be benetited by this restitution ?” “NO. “T am wasting time. I called here to-night, Miss Eleanor, to ask you to think favorably of my cause. I love you. I want you for my wife. I had your brother's ear- nest: sanction. You surely would not run counter to his wishes, now that he is dead ?” “Tt is useless to waste words. Mr. Belford. I told my brother, as I tell you, that the thing is impossible.” «Can I not hope to change your decision ?”” “Never! It is unalterable !” “Not even after a time——” “T tell you,” cried Eleanor, passionately, “that under no circumstances imaginable would 1 become your wife. It I had my choice between that and death, I should in- tinitely prefer going down into my grave.” “Very well. There may be methods of changing your opinion. Do you value your brother's good name? Would you want anything made public which would re- flect Shame and disgrace upon it ?” “Ot course I should not. And I know of nothing to disgrace my brother. He had his faults, but he was no worse than many other men, I suppose.” “Do you know, Miss Trowbridde,” said Belford, ap- proaching her, and sinking his voice to a whisper, ‘‘that at any time during the past five years it was ih my power to send Albert Trowbridge to the gallows ?” “It is false! My brother is not a murderer ?” “Was he not? Listen! You have taunted me as re- gards the source from which my income is derived. I will tell you what you do not know. My income was hush money—blood money, perhaps, I had better call it.” «T do not comprehend you.” “No? I will explain. While in California Albert Trow- bridge committed a crime—a crime so black and terrible that I venture to assert that the annals of criminal oc- currences Go not record anything so monstrous. And I was cognizant of it. And for keeping his guilty secret he supplied me with money; and for keeping it after his death, he left me, in his will, the sum of fifty thousand dollars, a mere pittance for a man of my tastes and habits to live upon.” Eleanor had grown very pale, but she maintained her seli-control. If possible, she said to herself, this man shall see no sign of weakness in her. “7 do not believe it,” she said, coldly. ‘I do not be- lieve your assertion. It is got up for the occasion.” “Jt is not. Ican prove every statementI make. There are living witnesses who will substantiate my story when Icome to tell it before the proper authorities. And I tell you, now, that if you refuse to be my wife I will make the name of Albert Trowbridge a by-word and a reproach in the very streets! I will make public a terri- ble, secret tragedy, upon which the light of day has never shone! [ will drag the dead skeleton from its hiding place, and confront you with it, that you may see in its fieshless lineaments the atrocious handiwork of your infamous brother! Now choose!” He stood over her triumphant, with a sneering smile on his face, and watched the struggle which went on within her. ‘Will you be my wife, Eleanor ?” : “Never! Do your worst! Though-you murdered me at your feet, still 1 spurn and abhor you!” (TO BE CONTINUED.) —> 9+ —____—_—__ JOURNALISTIC COURTESIES. The editor of an Idaho journal adopted a novel plan to keep himself cool, if we may believe his statement, in the following words : “The weather has been hot again for the last few days ; the only relief we could get was to lie down on the Herald and cover ourselves with the Bulletin—there is a great coolness between them,” This kind of cool- ness often brings about an amusing interchange of in- civilities. A Michigan journalist declared in his paper that a cer- tain editor had seven toes. The slandered man there- upon relieved his mind in a “leader,” denouncing the statement as unwarranted, and its author as devoid of truth and ascoundrel to boot. The offending gentleman replied that he never wished it to be understood that all seven toes were upon one foot; and the victim of the sell was thoroughly laughed at. When a Western editor wrote, ‘‘We are living at this moment under a despotism,” his Opponent kindly ex- plained, ‘‘Our contemporary means to say he has lately got married.” ee A newspaper writer asserted that his ancestors had been in the habit of living a hundred years, to which another responded, ‘‘That must have been before the introduction of capital punishment.” The proprietor of a Western journal announced his in- tention of spending fifty dollars on ‘‘a new head” for it. “Do not do it,” advised a rival sheet. ‘Better keep the money, and buy a new head for the editor.” a Ot ee To buy cheap is a mania. Seldom does the buyer of cheap goods consider whether it is possible to offer first-class or genuine goods at cheap prices. The Liebig Co. offers no cheap no. offers only honest preparations at honest prices. e celebrity of its Coca Beef Tonic is due to uniformity of quality and price. Invaluable in dyspepsia, biliousness, de- ed The next day or two would bring changes to the Brooklands party. Sir Guy Vereton and his wife were about to go to their own home at Vereton Manor. Lady Carr and Alice announced their immediate departure. The Earl of Shirley was anxious for the speedy marriage of his heir, and there was the trousseau to be provided promptly. Beauty Randolph was to accompany his be- trothed and her mother part way to their Sussex home, and then repair to Shirley Castle to pay his respects to his kinsmen, and prepare the suite of rooms destined for the bride. With a brilliantly happy face, Captain Ran- dolph took counsel with Adelaide as to these apart- ments, which must contain everything attractive to the new mistress of Shirley. The looks of fair Alice bespoke her serene happiness, and Lady Carr glowed with in- nocent maternal triumph that the future of her child seemed so well assured. { “Let us go to the conservatories,” said some one at breakfast. ‘Our party will soon .be broken into bands like migrating swallows; let us have sunny, flowery memories for our last of this happy gathering.” No one guessed how full that festive time had been of care and pain to Adelaide. She had seemed circled by hot flames; there had been the anxiety for her strongly tempted husband; the woe of not winning the love that was hers by virtue of her wifehood and her tenderness ; there had been the secretly planted stings of the duchess, her own indignant jealousy at her cruel conduct, and deep sympathy and anxiety on behalf of Lady Carew. Now as she saw the joyful face of Alice in the light of a returned and confiding love, she wondered if ever such happiness should be hers. She felt anew and deeper tenderness for Alice; her own sorrows did not harden, but softened her heart, and broadened her sympathies. Among the group who left the breakfast-room for the conservatories, there was none so blooming with health and high spirit as the beautiful duchess. All trace of her accident had disappeared ; she was full of fire and audacity. The duke had indeed suggested to her that she had distanced in her recovery the expectations of the physician, and no doubt was able to make the jour- ney to Scotland, but at such hint she wore the air of a martyr, and the devoted old man felt sensibly rebuked. The note which the duchess had slipped into Allan Carew’s hand had had only these few words: «“T must see you and talk freely to you. I need your help and advice; your wife and others evidently intend to prevent it. They would not if they knew how I needed you.” Lord Carew had not answered this by look or word. He heartily wished that the end of the duke’s visit would put an end to this temptation. The manner in which the duchess pressed her affection on him made him in- dignant and repelled him, and yet she was so artful, so beautiful, so seductive in look and word, that one min- ute he admired, the next pitied, the next feared her. As the party rose to go to the conservatory, the duke turned to his wife. “Give me your arm. my dear, Tam not feeling well, your fresh young strength shall supplement mine, to- day.” He was looking worn, an ashen gray had crept under the florid health of his face; he’ had had no appetite and complained that he had not slept well. These symptoms which would have awakened the anxieties and provoked the attentions and precautions of a loving wife, made no impression on the hard and guilty duchess. She said pettishly : «Perhaps you do not wish to go to the conservatories. Do you wish me to ring for Dixon for you ?” «No. I think a slow walk in the sun among the flow- ers may benefit me,” he replied, placing his hand within her firm young arm. ‘My wife will be a far better help to me than Dixon.” This did not move Juanita. If she walked slowly, at- tending on her husband, she would be cut off from asides with Allan Carew. She rebelled against repaying any of the abundant attention that she had received from the duke. She moved sullenly along by him, mak- ing no effort to cheer or comfort him, impatient at his importunities; wondering if they were to increase—if she, in the heyday of her splendor, must become the nurse, the domestic companion of an aged invalid. At that price had her coronet been purchased? She went with him unresponsive, gloomy, as a slave attends a eres grudging him the aid of her magnificent strength. 3 ; The duke at first thought her gloom arose from anxiety or him. “Do not feel uneasy for me, Nita,” he said. “I shall be quite myself when ] can get the air of my own an- cestral heaths again.” «] don’t see how you could wish any better air than this at Brooklands,” she retorted. “It is much better than Scotland.” : “Not for me, my dear. I need that tonic air.” Not a hint from her that they should hasten there for his benetit. The duke looked at her curiously. What meant that clouded brow ?” «Am I tiring you, Nita ?” «Really, very much,” she said, coldly. Deeply hurt, he withdrew his arm. «IT beg your pardon.” ‘ «Probably Dixon would make a better support than I should,” said the duchess, tartly. ‘He is stronger.” «But not so dear,” said the duke, dropping heavily in- to a seat. She did not soften ; she did not sit by him, and soothe him with sweet words—did not say they would go at once to those sweeps of moorland where his boyhood had been nursed, and win back vigor from the breath of the heather and the northern sea. She stood before him, the cold, proud, handsome face never softening. Hs i I detained you from your friends, Nita?” he asked. «It seems I am soon to be deprived of them and shut ba Scotch glens and caves of the earth,” she said, artly. He looked up at her. He was a doting husband, exac- ting in his dream of love in age, perhaps, but he was a man of experience and keen observation. In that look she stood revealed before him, a loveless, ungrateful wife. She had married him from cold, designing am- bition, and grudged now any show of wifely duty or de- votion, any a of the royal gifts he had lavished upon her. he monstrous truth fell with crushing weight on that brave, true heart. , «Do not let me detain you. I will remain here,” he said. Unbending, unrelenting, she moved away. She had only one mastering desire in that hour, to see Allan Carew and arrange for a meeting, where she was re- solved the lava tide of her love should sweep away all barriers of prudence and honor. She would pour out her heart to him, and they would fly ete She gave no thought to the desolation they should leave behind. She had no realization of it. In all her life she had been her own bility, nervousness, and neuralgia.. Beware of counterfeits. idol, lived eed herself ; not a thought of others’ pain ever came to “ der her pursuit of her own satisfaction. | ee tie... tt <_—ltt, o = # 4 She moved on among the flowers, and the unhappy duke sat alone witli his deeply wounded heart. Lady Adelaide, who had been detained in the library, came by, her lovely eyes beaming kindness and sym- athy. , “Alone, your grace? I fear you are not well this morning. This warm weather oppresses you. Will you take my arm as we Walk on—or may I stay here and try and entertain you ?” Hie looked at her with a grateful, intensely sorrowful expression, that wrote itself on her heart. “You are very kind. I think I-will notgoon. When an old man is feeling poorly, he should withdraw his weakness out of sight. Tell me Lady Adelaide, can one live too long ?” «7 do not understand your grace.” «When the vigor of youth has failed, and locks are gray, and the buoyant spirits chill, is it not time to die, lest one becomes a burden to those they love the best ?” “Oh, no, no, your grace. With added years added wisdom, richer treasures of experience, of sympathy, and as the Scripture has it, ‘the hoary head a crown of honor. «To each rule its exception. Do you know, Lady Ade- jaide, it seems to me—Heaven knows how bitter the ta is—that Iam living too long, and that I ought to die ?” “That cruel woman is grieving him,” thought Lady Adelaide; then she said earnestly. “Banish such theughts, they come from a feeling of prostration. Take . Iny arm, I beg you. and let me lead you to your room; an o hour’s rest will make the world brighter.” She led him to his room, and while Dixon waited on him, she went and prepared an iced sherbet with her own hands, and brought it to him, with a sheaf of cool white lilies. As she thus ministered to him. resolute to do the nearest duty of the hour, even though she thus ae duchess dreaded opportunities—she saw tears n the eyes of the forsaken old man. . The duchess dismissed the thought of her husband with a scornful comment. “Let him learn not to look for a nurse in me. AmIto go-to the level of an hospital sister ?” The duke could not so banish thought of his wife. His eyes were opened. The shock was terrible. He had read aversion, dislike in those scornful black eyes. He had doted blindly on her—but he was undeceived. ‘She does not love me. She is young, beautiful. coquettish, if her heart is empty of lawful love, she may bestow it on another. [am enlightened before it is too late. Day after to-morrow we shall go to Scotland,” CHAPTER LXXIIL A SECRET MESSAGE. The party had returned from the conservatories, and Lord Carew had retired with his steward to the library. The duchess, conscious that she had exhibited herself unpleasantly to the duke, did not wish to go up to her own rooms which adjoined his. She paced slowly up and down the terrace, hoping Lord Carew might dismiss his steward and come out and join her. The conference of the other ladies of the party, concerning the affairs of the marriage of Alice, did not interest her. The duchess was only interested in things that concerned herself. As she swept up and down the shorn turf, at a stately pace, the one prominent figure, a little boy came darting out of the shrubbery, a barefoot little rascal, with a scanty forelock. and a rimless hat. Ile seemed like a hare seeking its covert, to have doubled and turned among the shrubs and walks, and now sprang into the path of the duchess. : ‘Be you the Lady Adelaide ?” he asked. “No,” said the duchess, harshly; then, detecting a folded paper in his sturdy hand, added, ‘‘Yes, I am,” and tried to take the note. The boy, suspicious, resisted. “Tt wasn’t to give it to nobody but my Lady Adelaide, nor let nobody know a word of it.” he protested. ‘ But the strong lithe fingers of the dominent duchess, had wrested the note away, and unfolding it she read ; “T could not go away as you told me. I will, if you will speak to me only this once. I swear to go forever. Come only this once to the little clemetis arbor at nine to-night.” ‘ She carefully folded up the note. “T¢ is not for me,” she said. ‘Go round to that room with a bay-window, put your head in and say, ‘The rector’s lady sent me to Lady Adelaide.’ Lady Adelaide will come out and be sure you give the note into her hand without any one seeing you.” “Thanky, mum,” said the boy, sturdily, “but you shouldn’t ought to read her note,” and with this rebuke, boldly delivered against iniquity in high places, he trudged round to the bay-window. “So you have, and I must answer, as far as Ican. I wish you had not met me, though. I have. been to the clematis arbor, and I was there ten minutes.” She looked innocently, bravely, tenderly, straight into his eyes. He could not distrust that angelic look. His heart and his face alike softened as he gazed on her; she was embodied purity, maiden innocence and fear- lessness. “My dear,” he said, holding out his hand, «I cannot believe that, even young as you are, and neglectful as I am, you could commit an imprudence.’ She seized his hand in both hers. ) : “How good you are,” she said; “how I thank you. There is something I cannot tell you, Allan. yet indeed you would not be the very least angry with me if you knew. I think, indeed, you would lo——be better pleased with me. You will believe what I say to you, Allan. The person I have met in the clematis arbor is no one that you know; a woman, poor, unhappy, older than your mother, perhaps.” “Ido believe you, Adelaide, and yet, if such people wish to see you, they should come by open daylight, when other people come.” “T shall try and not have this happen again, Allan.” ‘My dear,” he said, ‘there is a line that always comes to me when I look straight at you. ‘The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her.” Lady Adelaide stole up to her room, her heart scarce- ly able to contain her joy. CHAPTER LXXIV, “COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD.” “It is only right I should say toyou. that the person my wife met was a poor, unhappy woman,” said Allan Carew to the duchess before he bade her good-night. “Indeed. I am delighted to hear it,” she said, in a voice of fine mockery, and with a shrug of her shapely shoulders that enraged Allan Carew, and planted nevertheless, a dagger in his soul. She looked at him with solicitude. “Cheer up. These things will happen. I will try and comfort you. Tomorrow will be my last day, and I shall wear your colors all eay. Crimson and white. Good-night.” Ali through Brooklands next day was the stir of prepa- ration for deparfure. The duke and his suite intended to leave the next morning. Sir Guy Vereton and Lady Di in the afternoon, Lady Carr and Alice the day after. Even Lady Carew would soon be gone for a time, and Lady Adelaide and her husband would be left alone. What would be the manner of their life? Would Al- lan weary for the gay crowd that had filled their halls ? Would he fall back into that terrible isolation and cold- ness which marked the first months of their married life? Adelaide had grown used now to meeting him at all hours of the day ; to lifting her eyes at table, and seeing his handsome face opposite her own. She shiver- ed as she thought of the probability of being left to take her meals alone in her own suite of room, as had once been. Still as events hurried on the inevitable develop- ment of what would be, little time was left for dreading or forecasting. Callers from the Brereton and Grafton estates came over, and the fair hostess cf Carew was fully occupied. During the morning the duchess found her, just seating herself at a desk in the ‘“‘“Morning Par- lor” to answer a note that had been forgotten. A diabol- ical thought crossed Juanita’s excited brain. She went and leaned idly against the desk. “What a handsome pen,” she said. “Who gave it to you ? She held out her hand for the gold and agate pen. “My husband gave me the desk and all that is in ‘it on Christmas,” she replied. , “Remembers the conveniences scrupulously, does he not ?” said the duchess, lightly, as if love coald not by any. laide by her husband. - ‘Will you allow me to write a note here ?” it gave a fine flavor to her wickedness that she should write a note entreating a garden interview to Allan Ca- rew; write it under his wife’s eyes, at his wife’s desk, with the pen he had given her. This element of the fan- tastic entered into all the machinations of the duchess, | and gave them a certain lack of earnestness that made one always question whether at the very culmination of her plans she would not draw back, some better nature assert itself, and she herself fly the ruin she was drag- | ging down. : Allan Carew, shocked and alarmed at some of her a a eorentiiine judging her too sharply. The duke, awake at last to ee some lack of openness to your husband and > Ww e.” ‘Where is your wife now, Allan ?”—this with sly tri- umph. He looked about. No Adelaide was to be seen. «‘Where she was at nine last night!” said the duchess. “I deny it!” he cried, angrily. «But you believe it—you believe it so much you dare ne take me On your arm and stroll by the clematis arbor !’ { ‘I dare! You are utterly mistaken !” ‘The clematis arbor was on the way to the Ladies’ Walk. Once out, leaning on his arm, she could guide him as she would. She smiled with subtle sweetness. “Ah! you accept my challenge ?” They went out toward the clematis arbor. {TO BE CONTINUED.] >oe< [THIS STORY, WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] iran ark Sensation A THE SKILL OF HYJAH THE HINDOO, By poi McKENZIE, Author of “THE WALL STREET WONDER,’ “THE MURRAY HILL MYSTERY,” etc. {The Grand Park Sensation” was commenced in No. 21. Back numbers can be obtained of all Newsdealers.] CHAPTER LI. FACE TO FACE. It would have been hard to decide which of the two girls—Blanche Gerber, the Jewess, or Rose Crawford, the working-girl—was the more beautiful, as they sat side by side. So thought Chris Tobin as he looked at them, and thus early in his experience was his fealty shaken. After all, any pretty face has the power to make the heart of a youth beat more quickly, and Chris, with all his manliness, was no exception to the rule. “T have come to make a disclosure which will surprise you very much,” said Rose, in her low, sweet accents. “Concerning me ?” Blanche questioned. Chris would have left them alone, but the Jewess mo- tioned him to stay. “Yes, it concerns us both, andI think it will lead to the implication of your father’s murderer.” Blanche could scarce restrain her eagerness. | | | | words and acts, had yet a vagueidea that he might be | forth, Rose continued : That a great mystery was about to be solved she felt sibility make part in apy attention shown Ade-j; certain; and she was equally confident that Robert Kingsley—as we shall continue to call the young man who has figured under that name in our story—would be Lady Adelaide yielded her her place. To the duchess | cleared from all suspicion. “Tell me all—and tell me quickly !” the Jewess ex- claimed, almost breathlessly. Rose Crawford began, speaking rapidly : “What I know I have learned trom my mother. I supposed, until yesterday, that my name was Crawford, and that my father died when I was a very small child. | But in this I have been deceived. My real name is Ger- ber—and your father was mine also !” Chris Tobin displayed nearly as high a degree of ex- citement as did Blanche at this thrilling disclosure. After the flood of rapid comments that were called ‘My mother and your father were legally married, but | Exultant, the duchess flew to her room. Now, now | much of her true character, believed the quiet of his} never lived happily together. And at last he lett her, | she had the serene Adelaide in her power. Now, if Lord Carew hesitated about meeting her, she could say: - «Your wife keeps private appointments.” The shock of emotion in finding this power in her jp was almost too much for her; it seemed more gain ; her blooming face grew white, and ing limbs trembled. Already upon her ps to glow that tide of burning words which should protest to Allan Carew that he was dearer to her than heaven, dearer than all else,of earth, that if she could not have his undivided love she would die at his feet! He could not resist her, no, no, justice, loyalty, pride, honor must all go down in that unequal strife, aud her love, her caprice, her pride, jealousy, revenge should win and keep the field. Thus, in a whirlwind of passion, she went up the staircase down which Lady Adelaide had just a in hope and renewed comfort, for going to ask if the duke felt better, he had announced to her that he-should set out for Scotland within forty-eight hours. In forty- eight hours then she should be free of the toils of the clever duchess. Allan would be free! The heart of re castle would not fail to bring her to a better | mind. Lady Adelaide, with a keen intuition like second sight, read the duchess more clearly than any one. As she sat Waiting for the note to be written, she felt sure that it | was to her husband, demanding a meeting, and that at | that meeting she was prepared to say and to do desper- ate things. “Tf you were a queen ?” said the duchess, looking up, “would you like to sign a death-warrant ?” “What a terrible thought! queen, I should be so unapt at such duty, that it would | however, and have from tl need to be delegated.” “Now Lam of sterner stuff; like Elizabeth, I should sign the Warrants myself; and for my rivals or for /recreant lovers I don’t think I should weep over it. | Fancy a rival queen has been called a better dancer or a | to repay it. lovelier person than you; off with her head. A lover, | lixe Leicester, has taken to himself a wife; put him in | prison, terrify him with death, make the rival visit the | Tower. Or your lover, like Essex, does not respond to | your love; send him to the block. Jane Seymour is in | | | } } | { } Lady Adelaide sang like a bird; there was bloom on her | your way; abolish her. But say, would you write love- | cheek and light in her eye. She little knew what those forty-eight hours would bring to pass at Brooklands. The duchess, feeling that now her game was fairly in her hands, and her rival's doom assured, concluded it would be safest to undo some of the cruel impression she had made onthe duke. She slipped into his room. «You look better, Gervase. Shall I read to you ?” “JT am better,” was the cold reply. ‘Lady Adelaide and Dixon have been very attentive tome. I had need to be better. We shall start for Scotland on Friday morning at eleven.” | “For Scotland!” c the duchess, the doctor said about my health.” “J feel sure he was mistaken in thinking the journey could harm you. Il myself am breaking down. I need my native air, and my mind is made up.’ , “As you will,” said Juanita, suppressing her rage. “You were usually more thoughtiul for me, Gervase.” “My eyes are opened,” he replied, sternly. She drew near his reclining chair, and essayed all her fascinations. “You are angry with me! I was cross, and I have offended you! I am ashamed to say I was out of tem- per. Surely you will forgive that ?” “Very easily, Nita. Far easier than a pretense of love where love is not, and a een ot dignity to cover coldness and aversion. have at last under- stood !” “Oh, Gervase, how can you!” she cried, alarmed. “It will be open to you in Scotland to prove me wrong. To show that you have that wifely love that you pro- fessed at our marriage. A young wife who does not love will be safest in her own home, my poor child.’’ “7 am truly sorry if one exhibition of ill-temper, in a semi-invalid, has filled you with such suspicions, Ger- vase.” He reached out and clasped her hand. “Answer me as before Heaven. Do you love me! Have you ever loved me? Was your marriage, whim, ambition soon repented ?” «What are you speaking of? If I did not love why need I marry you! I hag other offers.” “True. But the human heart is a aeep mystery. But all is now done, Nita. You are my wife, a sacred trust. My love for you shall never fail, and I beseech you, strive to cherish in your heart that love for me which you swore at the altar of Heaven.” With her eyesfull of angry tears Juanita of Ormond shut herself in her own room. How keen were the eyes with which the duchess that day watched Lady Adelaide. She saw that some secret care preyed on the fair hostess’ heart. The note deliy- «Consider what ered by the barefoot boy had been more than sufficient | to counterbalance the comfort and joy caused by the an- nounced departure of the duchess. She had told Lord Carew of the intentions of his grace, and saw, with in- tense gratitude, that the proinised departure - was to him a relief and notapain. Naturally he redoubled his attentions to all his soon to depart guests, to the duch- ess prominently, as she tacitly demanded most, but that would soon be over, Only thirty-six hours, said Lady Adelaide, at the din- ner-table, to herself. The duchess had arranged one of her grandest toilets, and made a most superb picture; all that beauty, art, grace, talent could do to entrap, she lavished on Allan Carew, She leaned on his arm, looking into the night. “How foolish of Alice Carr to lavish her love on Ran- dolph, on any one,” she said. ‘J cannot agree with you,” he answered; “love is en- Cte : «‘Embittering if it is denied. But never heed me, my words are wild. I have asked but one boon of Heayen— and that one good is denied.” “And what could that have been—you seem so fortu- nate ? ; “It was your love, Allan Carew,” she replied, bitterly. He was silent—deeply pained—fairly abashed. The clock struck nine. a us gO out once more among the flowers,” she “Impossible. Do you not see the mist is pointing like Train, indeed, there is a fine penetrating one.” “Not enough to prevent your wife keeping a tryst, | though !” “What i: stung. “Lassure youitisso. In the clematis arbor in the Sede: The note, unsigned, came to me by mistake. Vhatmatter? Youtwo have never loved. Why not both go your own way to happiness? I think that would be best.” Lord Carew glanced about the room. His wife was gone. With dark brow he left the duchess and strode away without a word. He went straight through the hall leading to the rear door, Spent on the garden. As he laid hand on the knob the door opened, and Lady Adelaide, eran ina waterproof cloak, the rain trembiing on her golden hair, entered. «you, Adelaide ?” he cried. ‘‘Where have you been ?” "Jn the garden,” she said, softly. So late this stormy night? Where in the garden? «Please do not ask me questions, Allan.” “But I must. Ihave a right,” He dropped her hand from his arm as if letters or notes of courtesy with the same pen that wrote that potent word death ?” «Your grace is in a strange humor this morning ?” “TI was giving you a lesson, my dear. If you were not | quite so tame, you would be more effective. Men and for years she heard nothing from him. She obtained | a divorce; and upon some pretext he did the same, and | married the lady who became your mother, and, I under- stand, she died at your birth. So you see we are half- | sisters.” | The girl paused in her narrative to allow her listeners | to express their wonderment, and ask questions. Then | she continued: i “For some time a young man known as Ferd Creston | had paid me marked attention, and after awhile he | Ifancy, like our own | asked me to be his wife. I did not fancy his appearance, trusted him; yet I | 1e first dis ) My mother and I were | dipeand he aided rrowed a sum Bd to allowus | pppressed, and | 9 be a worthy | ‘determined to | did not actually dismiss Jaip in embarrassed circumsté -us inmany ways, _Previ of money of your father, From all qui in our difficulties Ferd © and faithful friend. Yo oppress us in every way le Cour ‘ston pretend- | ed to be very indignant, and eager to in our behalf. | So much I revealed to the Hindoo detective when he | questioned me. He warned me against my lover, and | his warnings put me on my guard; and, in a quiet way. I | have been watching Ferd Creston very closely, and his | suspicious actions have convinced Ime that he committed | the murder of which your father was the victim. I told | | Iny mother of these suspicions, and then she disclosed | | like to see a little fire leaping out now and then, not | Try a more dashing role.” I desire only to | this eternal milk of roses. |. ‘have no role, as your grace calls it. | be good,” said Lady Adelaide, tranquilly. | To be good?” Fancy! Goodness is pretty well out | of Style, almost as much so as ruffs and tarthingales.” The duchess went slowly away with the note hidden | in her soft, pretty, white hand. What did it say ? ‘For the last time I must see you and hear one help- ;ful word trom you alone. Iamso wretched. In the | Ladies’ Walk, at ten to-night, you will meet me, and we | will part forever.” All day lurked in Lord Carew’s heart an uneasiness | about the curious interview his wife had had in the garden the night before. He knew he was not sus- | picious of her; he was sure she was goodness itself. | Could he be jealous where he had no love? he asked, | then strangely enough came the question: Had he no | love for Adelaide? Had she not mysteriously grown | into his heart? Was he not better satistied to be near | ber than any other? Did she not seem arefuge and | comfort to him? Was not her voice sweet to his ears? | And could he now say, as he had said in early spring, | that the dark duchess was his ideal of beauty? Rather | was not this “lily maid of Astolet” as represented by | his wife his ideal? They were all on the terrace before dinner, and some- | how the conversation strayed upon truth and falsehood, and Beauty Randolph, in reply tosome remark on the untruthfulness of the present age, especially in social life, said, gayly : “I know I should be safe in wagering that Lady Adelaide never 1 oy or acted falsely in her life. Did you, Lady . Adelaide ?” “7 certainly. think I never spoke falsely knowing that it was false. We are all liable to misapprehensions.” ‘Nor acted falsely, either, ’ll be bound,” said Sir Guy. “There are so many shades of acting—can one always be quite sure ?” she replied, uneasily, a pink flush on her face. ‘Now there speaks a scrupulous, over-scrupulous con- science,” said Sir Guy, with a laugh. Some passing object drew the attention of the others. Lord Carew bent close to his wife. : “Adelaide,” he whispered. It was atone such as he . had never used before to her; it thrilled her with a sud- den hope. She looked up into his eyes. The pink flush had suddenly become scarlet. ‘Adelaide, l1know you never acted falsely ;” and his eyes held hers with an ardent glance. “J have allowed people to think of me what was not true. I have acted so | knew I must be misunderstood. Was that falsely ?” she said, with the innocent earnest- ness of a child seeking moral light. ‘I could not help it, Allan.” : “But when? How? In what way ?” ‘His words were low, but hurried, excited; entreaty, interest, command blended. t “TI did not intend to say this,” she replied, hesitant. “Thave been hurried into what I cannot explain. Do not press me aboutit, Allan. [cannot make you un- derstand, and yet I wish—you knew all my—feelings.” She dared not say heart. He wondered if this reticence concerned the affair of the marriage; but her fluttered, gentle manner touched him. Her lightest wish had unconsciously become dear to him. He would have dropped the inquiry, even if the duchess, tapping his arm with her perfumed fan, had not called his attention. Lady Adelaide drew along breath. Almost at safety, from this dark duchess, and the haunting dark woman! Only some fifteen hours more, and she might sit down with folded hands and deep-drawn breath, the great peril of her life gone by! And she had of late trodden these perilous ways so alone! She had succeeded in keeping Lady Carew calm and unsuspecting, bearing all her burdens by herself. Yet Lady Adelaide felt sure that just there on the ter- race the wily duchess gave that note to Allan Carew, The world seemed to sink into chaos about the poor wife. The only comfort she got was from her husband’s face; there she read only anxiety, vexation—a sense of con- fusion and dismay, The duchess was more fascinating than ever, a pathetic earnestness that was very taking lingering on her face. The duke was present at dinner, looking wretchedly, and soon withdrew to his room. Ten o’clock had almost come. There were a number of guests. The windows were open to the warm night; people wandered here and there in hall, drawing-room, terraces—if any one or two strayed farther away, who would notice? The duchess touched Allan Carew’'s shoulder. ‘Allan, you will not refuse that last request ?” He hesitated, looking down; he knew it was dan- erous. > «You owe me that much, Allan,” she said, quietly. ‘Nita, let us leave last words unsaid. They are only a pain, and saying them—think !|—it involves some un- to me the truth in regard to our relationship with your | father. This revelation confirmed my suspicions, for it | furnished the motive which the murderer must have | possessed. You see, if Mr. Gerber died without a will, I, | as weil as you, would be an heiress of his great wealth. | Creston in some manner had discovered our relation- ship, and resolved to win me for a wife. and then, by re- | moving my father, make of me a Wealthy woman. That | was his scheme, as I have thought it out. It is all as; clear to my mind as anything well could be, and I feel | that Ferd Creston is capable of committing any iniquity from a motive so strong as this.” Rose told her story rapidly, and at this point paused | to take breath. AS she ceased speaking, Chris, impressed by an unseen | presence, faced about. : | An ejaculation of astonishment broke from his lips as he did so. Foraman had stepped silently forth from | behind the window-draperies, and was regarding the | group with a smile of curious interest. ‘The Hindoo detective !” cried Chris, springing to his feet. In another moment the detective was greeting them | all in his quiet, dignified manner. ' “TI followed Miss Crawford hither,” he declared, in ex- | planation of his presence, ‘‘and I have overheard all that | she has been telling you. Although her surmises as far | as Ferd Creston’s intentions were concerned, are cor- | rect, she is mistaken as to the result of his attempt; for | he did not commit the crime, though at heart he is as guilty as the one who struck the fatal blow.” | “Then you have solved the mystery?” Chris eagerly | exclaimed. : “I have solved the mystery,” was the terse response. And before the youth could utter the query that would most naturally follow, the detective added: ‘‘Wait—the murderer is not yet secured. But, if my plans work as I have reason to expect, he will be in my power an hour hence. He is, 1 think, even now on his way to this hotel—to the scene of his crime.” The Hindoo, in response to the flood of questions with which he was besieged, rapidly continued: “Ferd Creston, aS a witness of the crime, and to clear himself in a measure from the charge of being a partner in the other’s guilt, has consented to aid me in an im- portant manner. He has communicated with the cul- rit, by my direction, informing him that, by coming here in diguise, and depositing the implement with which the fatal blow was struck, in the room occupied upon the morning of the murder by Robert Kingsley, the latter will be so strongly implicated that all sus- icions in other directions will be dispelled. Creston as been very carefully instructed, and as he is naturally a shrewd fellow, I have no doubt he will succeed in de- coying our man hither.” Hyjah glanced at his watch as he ceased speaking. It was half-past eight, and he hastily added : “Tt is nearly time to be on the lookout for our bird. Chris, I want your help.” “You can have it, sir,” was the eager response. Rose and Blanche drew closer to each other, their faces white with the intensity of their excitement. To think that the Grand Park Sensation should culminate at the very place where it began! And to think that it should lead to those revelations which gave to each a brave, warm-hearted sister, when both had supposed themselves to be almost alone and friendless in the worid. , Thus even clouds of sorrow and crime may send down showers of joy and blessing. Hyjah led the way from the room, paused, Chris Tobin at his side. The youth could scarce repress an exhibition of the intense excitement that he experienced. He wondered how the detective could remain so cool upon the eve of what promised to be a thrilling denouement. : “What shall I do for you, sir?” he asked, as the Hindoo glanced furtively up and down the corridor. “Station yourself near the entrance and report to me as soon as two men, one short and young, the other ap- parently old, and both wearing spectacies, arrive.” ‘Who are those persons ?” «Ferd Creston and the assassin. Creston is to direct their disguises, according to my directions.” «Where shall 1 find you ?” “Right here.” “Allright, sir. An@cif there is a tussle what shall I do ?” “Keep out of it, unless you wish to get hurt. But do not delay. There isn’t a moment to lose.” Chris hastened down the stairs, his heart beating loudly with anticipation. He admired the Hindoo detective more than ever. «That man has nerves like steel,” the youth mentally exclaimed, as he paced to and fro like a sentinel near the principal hotel entrance. Half an hour passed. Several guests arrived; two or three departed. Among the arrivals was a very tall man, whom Chris treated with a second glance, In the corridor he Then two men entered together. One was short, the other rather tall, and both wore spectacles. “Now comes the tug of war,” thought Chris. as he Saw the new-comers register in the office, and then ascend the stairs under the guidance of a porter. Both were conducted to the same room, which was next to the one where the tragedy had been enacted. They entered the room, closed the door and locked it, as any guest would have done. Chris half suspected that he had made a blunder; but he went on to where he had left the Hindoo, to notify him of the arrival of the suspicious persons. But to his surprise Hyjah was not there. As Chris was looking about to see where the detective had con- cealed himself he heard the door which had just closed behind the new guests thrown open, and heard the rapid rush of fleeing footsteps. Turning quickly he saw the Hindoo detective leap from beyond an angle of the corridor and bound toward the door just opened. From the latter a tall figure appeared and sprang to- ward the stairs. But there, like magic, two stalwart policemen rose to view, disputing his flight. Instantly the fugitive whirled about, confronting the detective. At the same time he drew a revolver, hesi- tated for an instant, saw a fourth figure bounding to- ward him, and then hastily raised the weapon. Crack! rang the the pistol’s deafening report. Hyjah recoiled with an ejaculation of pain; at the same time the desperate fugitive sprang toward him, with his fin- ger pressing the trigger for a second shot. CHAPTER LI. CONCLUSION. Chris Tobin uttered a cry of dismay. That the Hin- doo detective, at the moment of expected triumph, was to be ruthlessly shot down seemed inevitable. The youth sprang forward half involuntartly to aid the brave detective. Evenas he did so, however, the tall figure which he had before noticed leaped toward the fugitive, and by a swift, powerful blow sent the weapon spinning through the air. The revolver was discharged at the moment that it left the hand of the ruffian; but the bullet sped wide of its mark. .At the same time Hyjah, recovering from the first shot, which had inflicted a wound in his shoulder, advanced to make sure of his prisoner. The latter realized that there was no escape. For a second he glared upon his foes with the desperate fury of a maddened beast; then his hand fiew to his breast; a knite gleamed for an instant in the gas-light; then there was a swift terrible blow that gave forth a sick- ening sound. Chris Tobin saw the desperate man sink upon the marble floor of the corridor, and then turned his face away to shut out the dreadful spectacle. * * ys her * * * The murderer of Gerber, the Jew, had taken earthly justice into his own hands. The great mystery was solved, and the culprit had expiated the crime before the sentence had been pronounced. ° Hyjah, the Hindoo, turned now to see who had struck the pistol from the ruffian’s hand. He found himself confronted by a man nearly as powerful as himself. “Grote, the giant !” he exclaimed, in astonishment. He grasped the other’s hand and pressed it warmly, adding : “You saved my life just now, and when last we met it wasina struggle that promised for a time to end both our careers.” Grote returned the hand pressure with an earnestness that showed how capable he was of appreciating and reciprocating an act of mercy. “You spared my lite when you had me in your power,” he said, in his deliberate way, ‘‘you would not fetter me when to do so would have assured my sinking to the bottom of the North River. You showed yourself a man on that day, and such an act is something that I, reck- less though Iam, cannot forget. We are friends, and shall remain so.” “So it pays to turn your enemies into friends when it is possible to do so,” said the Hindoo. There was no more time then for the exchange of friendly sentiments. The noise of the pistol-shots, the shouts, the sounds of the brief struggle, quickly brought a throng of people to the scene. Clerks, porters, and guests filled the corridor, and soon a liberal sprinkling ot Officials was added, and the necessary investigations followed. : Ferd Creston was put under arrest, of course. And the next morning an investigation was held, which re- sulted in fastening the responsibility of the Grand Park tragedy upon Ike Bludsoe, the forger. As the latter had taken his own life when on the point of being arrested, it was unnecessary to proceed further with the’ investi- gation. * * * * * * * = Robert Kingsley and Blue Buckley, whom we left at the moment of their falling into the hands of Police de- tective Leck and his officers, were taken directly to New York, and in default of bail were placed in the Tombs to await trial. Leck was exultant. He felt certain that he had se- sured the murderer of Gerber, the Jew, and already in imagination he was fingering the handsome rewards which had been offered. Kingsley, as we shall continue to call the courageous young man, was only slightly wounded by the shot se had terminated his flight. But he was despon- ent. “Keep a stiff upper lip, youngster,” Buckley advised, when he had a momentary opportunity to speak to the young man. ‘We'll euchre the cops yet, if we don’t get discour- aged. I’ve been pulled in more’n a dozen times, and lve managed to pull myself out every time somehow. And we'll do it this time—see if we don’t. Don’t git down in the mouth. Play sick, or suthin’ of that sort, and watch yer chance.” Kingsley was cheered somewhat by the philosophic advice of his eccentric friend. They spent one night and two days in the Tombs. Upon the second evening there was a commotion about the premises. Guards ran to and fro, rapid inquiries were made, and offiers indulged in that from which the dignity of their position should have withheld them— hamely, profanity. Two of their prisoners had escaped ; and the names of the missing ones, as registered, were ‘‘Blue” Buckley and Robert Kingsley. : The escape had been ingeniously managed, and, of course, the more experienced Buckley was responsible for it. This startling event took place upon the same even- ing marked by the suicide of the real culprit at the hotel, as recorded at the beginning of this chapter. An hour or two after the investigation which took place the next day the Hindoo detective arrived at the Grand Park Hotel, accompanied by a tall, well-built young man, whose face was partially concealed by a slouch hat and muffler. Hyjah was a lion at the Grand Park since his skill had been so strongly demonstrated. The proprietors were as suave as even they could be upon occasion ; and even Dudley, the clerk, assumed an air of humility in the presence of the successful detec- tive which ought, at least, to have been very gratifying | to the latter. Consequently, when Hyjah went directly to Blanche Gerber’s private sitting-room, accompanied by the | muffled stranger, no one challenged them. They met Chris in the corridor, however, and Hyjah signaled for him to follow. ; The beautiful Jewess greeted the detective warmly, but drew back shyly when she noticed his companion. The latter stood irresolutely just inside the door. Chris stared at him; Blanche looked embarrassed; Hyjah folded his arms and smiled. Chris was first to break the silence. “Wouldn’t you just as lief tell us what sort of a trap you're getting ready tospring on us now?” he exclaimed, looking at the detective. In response the latter advanced afid deftly removed hat and muffler from the head of the stranger. “Robert Kingsley !” cried Blanche. She sprang toward him; he held.out his arms; but she suddenly drew back, her beautiful cheeks suffused with blushes. The young man seized her hand, however, and impul- sively raised it to his lips. “You know now that I am innocent!” he exclaimed, his voice trembling with emotion. “T was sure you were all the time,” she answered, a happy, triumphant light shining from her eyes. The story of the young man’s arrest and escape from the Tombs had, of course, come out in the papers, and no one had read of the affair with keener interest than Chris Tobin. Therefore, when the first greetings were over, he said : “1’d like to ask you one thing, sir. I don’t wonder that you tried to keep out of the way of the police, but I can’t see why you broke out of the Tombs last night ?” “JT did not then know that the real culprit had been found,” he replied. “And another thing, if you can, without damage to yourself, I'd like you to clear up the whole business, I hate mysteries. And you've been a conundrum from the first.” f “Well, what is it you wish to know ?” “Why were you in such a hurry to get away from here the morning of the crime ?” The young man looked at the Jewess, and there saw the youth’s inquiry reflected. Then he glanced at the Hindoo, who said : “You had better tell them your story. Barry Atkins is far away by this time, and the revelation can do him no harm. And as for Chris, we can trust him. Heis a true blue.” So Robert told his story, and that of his convict brother, to these eager, sympathetic listeners. When he had finished he said : ‘Does this lessen your respect or regard for me, Miss Gerber ?” ‘My respect for you is deepened by this evidence of your courage and fidelity,” she softly replied. “And I say you are a genuine brick!” was the char- acteristic rejoinder of Chris. An hour was spent in explanations to attentive listen- ers, and the young man told the thrilling story of his flight and its accompanying adventures. Then Hyjah and Robert went to the police headquar- ters, in Mulberry street, where the young man was granted an immediate hearing, and permitted to go away upon the Hindoo’s recognizance as bondsman. All that remains to be told can be briefly narrated. Robert Kingsley—which name the young man hence- forth adopted—was, of course, found guilty of light mis- demeanors in his resistance of official authority. But under the circumstances, which were of an extenuating character, only a nominal fine was imposed, which was cheerfully paid. Of his acquaintance with the beautiful Jewess there could be but one result. Both were brave, honest, and true-hearted. Each had trusted the other, and there is not a happier young married couple in the city where they reside than Robert and Blanche Kingsley. _ Rose Crawford is no longer obliged to toil for her liy- ing; and yet she does toil, not for herself, for as one of the heirs of Gerber, the Jew, she is not obliged to do so, but for others. She is not yet a wife, and if she hasa lover, his name is Chris Tobin. But that seems absurd, for she is several years his senior. Still, stranger matches than that sometimes occur. The message, written on cloth, which was the means of decoying Hyjah to Simpson’s upon that night of ad- venture, and which Trip Martin said was written by Rose Crawford, was in truth sent by Fred Creston, and was intended for Grote, the giant. But, as in everything else, Trip stated a falsehood. Trip is still a street boy, and as incorrigible as ever. He seldom tells the truth when a lie will answer his pur- pose. He frequently indulges in petty theft. What he will come to it is hard to predict—and yet he has hosts of friends, and none who will defend him more warmly than police. Fr ton, after making a clean confession of his medita rime, was permitted to gotree. He is still dissipated and unscrupulous, and doubtless will deserve and Wear a striped suit before he dies. Grote went to another city, and was put upon the police force, and as he is inclined to live honorably he will make a good and efficient officer. Leck has been discharged from his position for exceed- ing his authority, and he will doubtless “spread him- selt” in some other direction. Blue Buckley, the eccentric, brave, warm-hearted city outlaw, isa vagabond still. Yet he has not committed an offense for a long time. He works a little now and then. But he keeps ‘shy of the cops.” Sometimes he visits Kingsley in the latter’s pleasant home, and they talk over together the thrilling experiences of their flight. But he is soon off again, and will not Settle down to a respectable manner of living. Barry Atkins is—but we shall not betray the poor fel- low. There are lawyers working in his behalf, in the employ of the Hindoo detective, who hope some time to restore the convict to the society from which he has so long been an outcast. Ot Hyjah, would you ask ? Well, there is not a braver nor more alert detective living than the wonderful Hindoo, and such a life as his cannot be contained in one or three stories. So we will only say of him—we shall meet again. [THE END.] > e<+___ Pouring Oil on the Troubled Waters. The reports of several captains, who have tested the effect of oilin calming the waves of the sea, have been published by the Hydrographic office. These reports, from which a few selections are here appended, are so convincing that no vessel ought to begin a voyage with- out having first provided such simple and inexpensive means as a precaution against the most likely perils of the deep.” On her way northward from Baltimore the steamship Thomas Melville was repeatedly boarded by heavy seas. Two canvas bags filled with oil, and punctured in many places with a sail-needle, were hung over the bows and allowed to drag in the water. The seas no longer came on board. One gallon of oil lasted for several hours. During a voyage from Portland, Oregon, to Queens- town, the ship Myrtle Holme encountered seas so heavy that it was necessary to lash the man at the helm to his place to keep him trom being washed away. The cap- tain suspended from each mainyard arma perforated canvas bag, containing about halfa gallon of lamp oil. Two minutes later there was no more broken water, and the ship went along as dry as possible, although a short distance away the sea was the same as beiore. Oil was used twice by the same vessels in the latter part of the voyage, with excellent results. During a heavy westerly gale, on a voyage from Balti- more to Liverpool, similar oil bags were used to protect the English steamer Mentmore. The ship had been roll- ing heavily and taking large quantities of water on deck, but in a few minutes after placing the bags she rode quite easily and shipped no more water. After the main-wheel gear of the steamship North Anglica had been carried away in a hurricance, in Octo- ber, 1884, and several men had been washed away, oil was tried, and there was no more trouble. The experience of the steamship Napier, from Balti- more to Cork, in January, 1885, furnishes ample proof of the excellent service rendered by oil. She encountered ahurricane. After tremendous seas had pooped the ship and flooded the deck fore and aft, Capt. Henderson filed two canvas bags with lamp oil, two gallons in each, and hung them over theside. The sea at once became smooth. Astern he saw great seas approach | the vessel to within sixty or seventy feet, when, meeting the oil, they would subside, and only a heavy swell would be felt by the ship. Heran this way for three days and three nights, and not a drop of water came on board. Two gallons lasted for two and one-half hours. The chief officer of the steamer Durham City saved his vessel by using a paint can full of neatsfoot oil suspend- ed from the stern. A hole was punched in the bottom of the can, and another in the top for a vent. Ina terrible gale on a voyage from St. John’s to Liv- erpool the chief officer of the bark Algeria protected his vessel by towing to windward a stocking filled with oil and attached to a few fathoms of line. : Oil is used by life-saving crews, and the results of an exhaustive investigation of the subject were published two or three years ago by our life-saving service. Mineral oils are not so effective as vegetable or an- imal oils. Capt. Smith, of the bark Emma, used refined petroleum in a gale, emptying barrels of it to windward and towing several. bags alongside. It had substan- tially no effect. But crude petroleum may be of ser- vice. Capt. Thompson, of the bark Maud Scammell, used it with excellent results during a gale in Novem- ber, 1881, while on his way from New York to Santan- ; der. Linseed oil, lard oil, fish oil, and seal oil are to be pre- ferred. Heavy and greasy oil is better than that which is light and thin. As we have shown. if oil of the right kind be selected a very small quantity will have the desired effect. One barrel is enough for two or three ales. ' A complete outfit, consisting of specially prepared bags, oil, &c., will cost only a few dollars, and no vessel should leave port without one. > @~<-— HOW HE PACKED THE TRUNK. Mr. Bowerman and his wife were about to start for the country. She had not completed her packing when, on the evening before her departure, the husband en- | tered her room, and found her before an open trunk, with tears in her eyes. «You see how it is,” she explained, as he looked down upon her in awful contempt. ‘I’ve got only part of my dresses in here, to say nothing of a thousand other things, and even now the lid won’t shut down. Ive got such a headache. I must lie down for a few minutes.” She went away to rest for a short time, and Mr. Bow- erman sat down and mused: : “Space is space. The use of space is knowing how to utilize it.” : Removing everything, he began repacking. He found that a-silk dress could be rolled to the size of a quart jug. A treshly starched lawn was made to take the place of a pair of slippers. Her brown bunting fitted into the niche she had reserved for three handkerchiefs, and her best bonnet was turned bottom up in its compartment and packed full of underclothing. He sat there viewing suf- ficient empty space to pack a whole bed when she re- turned, and said he was the only real good husband in this world, and she kissed him on the nose as he turned the key. ‘It is simply the difference between the sexes,” was his patronizing reply, as he went down stairs to turn on the burglar alarm. When that wife opened that trunk last night, —— ——! But screams and shrieks could avai] nothing. She was the angriest woman this side of the equator. Pita ——-— > e~« SOAP ON THE FACE. A new theory has been started with regard to the use of soap on the face. Women who for years have been careful of their complexions, would never, under any circumstances, wash the face in soap, as it was said to roughen the skin. Now this idea is exploded, and a well-known physician recommends his women patients to use it freely every day, lathering the skin well. Of course, a fine oily and pure soap is most desirous. He slds that the pores of the face become as much clogged by grease and dirt as the hands or any other portion of the body. And if soap is considered a necessary purifier in the bath, its needs must be felt equally on the face. By an abundant and regular lathering the facial pores are kept open, clean, free from the clogging matter that produces unsightly blackheads, pimples, and a pure, healthy, fresh, and brighter complexion is the result. The trouble with most women who have sallow, pasty skins is that from year’s end to year’s end they never have a really clean face. ——_____>@+—_____ TWO CONNECTICUT FIBBERS., “Speaking of heavy rains,” remarked one farmer to another, in New London, ‘reminds me of one we had last spring. I put a barrel out in the yard, bung up, and it was filled with rain water through the bung in just ten minutes by the watch !” «“That’s nothing,” said Farmer No. 2. ‘I put a barrel in my yard, with both heads out. It rained so hard, and the water went through the bung-hole so fast that it could not run out, and consequently overfiowed at the bung.” The farmers saluted each other, and drove on. % aoe em THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3— VOL. 41—No. 38, = BUTTERCUP FARM. BY EDWARD OXENFORD. A little maid wanders alone in the orchard, And pensively looks at the heavens above ; ’Tis plain that her heart with some trouble is tortured, ’Tis plain she is deeply, yes, deeply in love! «I wonder,” she sighs, ‘‘what dear Robin is keeping ? I fear he has come to some terrible harm ! The stars in the sky one by one are out-peeping, And still he is absent from Buttercup Farm! «He said he would come, thro’ the lane to the meadows, Ere seven had struck, and it’s close upon nine ; I scarcely can see thro’ the lengthening shadows ; What keeps him so long, oh! I cannot divine! We went to the fair, but ’tis hours since ’twas over, Perhaps some one else there possesses a charm !” And, weeping, she doubted the truant, her lover, While waiting all lonely at Buttercup Farm. Ah! little she thought, did that sad little maiden, Her murmured suspicions were all overheard, For Robin was hiding, with dainty gifts laden, And smiled as he listened to every word. ‘ Oh, sweetheart!” he cried, ‘all your waitin ded! I lingered to try you!” and, taking her ar . He whispered the same sweet old tale as they wended To te the ‘old people” at Buttercup Farm. THE WIGWAG PAPERS.--No. 8. BY CLARA AUGUSTA. THE MAJOR GENERAL. / | Peleg sed he dreaded Popem’s dinner. He sed he luld have to eat some of everything that was fetched snd he liked it, or else Cummings, which position side, and run a newspaper, would say that the reason the member from Muddy Flat didn’t eat maccyrony and patty grass pie was because he had never seen any till he came to Washington. He sed he must eat what cum, if it busted up his dis- gustive apparatus, and blowed his liver up with boil. He sed he was bound not to bring disgrace on the party that elected him if he perished in the attempt! There is a good deal of hero in Peleg’s get up. If his early ad- vantages had been different, I have no doubt but what he’d been one of the biggest and most extinguished men in the country, and if he had died before I did, his friends would have raised seven hundred thousand dol- jars for his suffering widder, and there would have been a bill into Congress to give me half a million a year as jong as I lived, because I was into such straitened cir- cumstances. Fitz Doodle cum over, and give us a few directions. It’s real kind of Fitz to take so much interest in us, and i-don't mind Peleg’s lending him money. It’s a good in- vestment, for he agrees to pay eight percent. It’s bet- ‘ter than banks, with their cashiers in Canady, what of ’em ain’t in their graves with their throats cut, or strick- nine in their inards. “Now,” says Fitz to me, ‘‘try and have dignity, Mrs. Wigwag. Hold your head well up when youre intro- duced to Popem. Popem is a self-made man, and so is his wife. He made his money in wool and mutton. So don’t say anything about them two things. He’s sensi- tive on the subject: Be careful and not be polite to the waiters. You want to treat them just as you would ee Colored waiters are out of style, so -you will have to be careful. You can no longer tell a man by his color. Try and getin a little French now and then. It will show that you are educated.” «Goodness gracious !” says I, ‘all the French I know is E pluribuster union, and non compos mentis.” «Such expressions as au fait, and Je vous remerci, and votre pardon, and entree are in common use——” «But when shall I say ’em ?” says 1. “Oh, you will fiad opportunities if you watch for them. Je vous remerci means thank you, and votre pardon means that you ask one’s pardon, and entree means having the right to enter. “Yes,” says I, “