Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, January 29, 1898, Page 6

Ss EAT THE SIGN Of-=sese- ==THE GOLDEN HORN. & KKH MESS IIIS ISHII IAT ISAT TIN CHAPTER ‘11I—(Continucd.) “Pake my advice, old man, and try to put the whole subject out of your nyind till you get well,” said Clovis. “Easier said than done!” cried Les- ter. “But I wouldn’t give up thinking about Ursula eventif I could. She is in my thoughts day and night. Last night 1 dreamt that she was in my g room, and in danger of some and elf in my sitting p’clock in the morn- kind, I actually found m room about three ing, half-dressed.” “Do you mean that you put on some of your clothes and went down stairs to your sitting room in your sleey se “Yes, I did. The fact is, I had a trick of walking in my sleep when I was at school, but I got over it as 1 grew up. My anxiety about Ursula. s to have brought back the tend- anambulism.” ke care of you and make an effort to keey ing over this unfortunate love aff: or you will pay for it sooner or later, m: my words,” said Clovis, as he took his leave. But next day Frank decided that he was well enought to go to Tilbridge and see Ursula for himself. It was just after sunset when he ar- rived at the Old Rectory and knocked at the well-remembered door, thinking that, most likely, he would not be al- lowed to enter the house. The maid who opened the door been one of Miss Upton’s servants, and knew all abev* >‘m and Ursula. She greeted him grin of delight, and before he « y a word, bent te- wards him : aid, in a loud whis- per: “She's in the garden, sir. I saw her go out half an hour ago. And this is Club night, so master won’t be home from the club till after ten, at the ear- liest.” “Thank you, Martha!’ cried Frank. “I hope to dance at your wedding some day, and promise that if ever—” omething choked his next words. Tha appy day that had once seemed tively so near—would it ever j had ‘The girl understood, and her honest heart overflowed with sympathy for the young lovers who found the path of love so hard and thorny; but she could not encourage the squire’s son with a “Keep up your heart!” or a friendly slap on the shoulder, as if he bad been a young man in her own sta- tion in life; and she was fain instead to wipe her eyes with her apron as she went back to the kitchen. ‘ank stole softly up to his sweet- and took her unawares. With a he sprang to her feet, tossed her book aside, and threw her arms round her lover's neck. For a moment she was too happy to speak, too happy to ask questions. She had quite forgot- ten that the last time she had written ‘to this young man she had told him that he and she must henceforth be strangers. She had only the one thought in her head—“He is here! He is with me!” and she clung to him in an ecstacy of self-forgetting love. If ever Frank had doubted the strength and whole-heartedness of Ur- sula’s affection for him, that moment would have reassured him. He gath- ered her slender form to his breast tighter, as if he would never let her xo, while all the time he kissed, ten- derly and gently, her hair, and brow, and cheeks and lips. Ursula, for the space of a minute or two, absolutely forgot where she was. She almost fainted with joy, the swet surprise, | the happiness she had hardly hoped would ever be hers again. For the next two hours they were to- | gether, the faithful Martha keeping | watch, unknown to them, lest Mr. Joyce should return unexpectedly. When the depening shadows warned Frank that it was time to go, it seemed to him and Ursula that he had been there only a few minutes, and ‘that nothing of alb they had intended ‘to say to each other had been said. | But there was not much to say—only to tell one another that nothing should + part them, that no opposition on the rt of Ursula’s father should make em give up their intention of marry- , as soon as Frank could even as much as (added to the remnant of his father’s property) would enable them to live in tolerable decency as man and wife. And they managed to persuade ' themselves that before that time Mr. Joyce would get over his prejudice against Frank, and that all would be well with them. CHAPTER Iv. Rogues in Council. ‘On the very same evening that Les- ter spent with his sweetheart, Clovis paid a visit to a house at which he was well known. ‘It was a large house, standing in its own grounds in pne of the western suburbs of Lon- fon. Half a century ago it had been | built by an Indian nabob, when greer , fields stretched between its garden wall and the outside fringe of London, | Now the tide of buildings had flowed -ap to it, passed it, and spread far be- gond it. And yet the immediate seighborhood of Mysore Lodge—the tame by which the nabob had christ- | tned the house still clung to it—was! free from the intrusion of semi-de- tached villas, terraces and “gardens.” In spite of that, however, or per- haps in consequence of it, the environs of the mansion were dreary, desolate and squalid. There were fields, to be sure, but the chief use of them seemed to be to provide toughs and loafers -with a place where they could play , -eards in peace on Sunday mornings. ¥Yhe hedgerows were tall, straggling and full of gaps, while they were adorned with old shoes, hats, meat tins, rags and the like—such are the | plossoms that replace roses and honey- | suckle in the hedges around London, There was not a clean or sweet-smell- j ing natural object within three miles ef Mysore Lodge. And yet the place was not without a certain grandeur of its own. Its size | prevented its being quite contemptible. ; And it let for next to nothing. That was why it was inhabited by Isaac Kisch, metallurgist and practical chemist. The place suited him to per- fection. A wall quite ten feet high, separated the garden from the lane which led to the house from the high | road; and a convenient door in this | wall gave access to a broken, disused t conservatory, and thence through a shrubbery to the house itself. Mr. Clovis approached it by the main entrance, where the rusty skele- ton of a great iron lamp hung suspend- ed between the two brick piers, once covered bravely with stucco, but now reverting to their primitive ugliness of rough brick-work. It was late, nearly nine o'clock, when Clovis paid his visit, but there was light enough for him to see the broad, grass-grown avenue, leading past a double row of gaunt trees, that even in summer Jooked melancholy, as if waiting for the day when it would be time for themeto shed their leaves and resume their winter ugliness. The ground in front of the house was chiefly lawn—that is to say, it had been. Now it had more the appear- ance of meadow land, in which smal} patches of bog—the flower beds of oth- er generations—appeared at intervals. In some places the drive was like the rubbish corner of a kitchen garden. ‘The scraper at the front door, and the handsome railings that flanked the steps were masses of rust; the paint on the door itself was blistered and dis- colored. Some straggling rose branch- es and creepers waving in the breeze the scraps of felt by which they had once been fastened to the wall, told of a brute-like indifference to disorder. Clovis looked with an accustomed eye at these squalid surroundings, and knocked at the door with the handle of his stick, as if he were a frequent visitor. After the knock had been twice re- peated, a slipshod footstep was heard in the passage; then bolts were with- drawn, and finally the door was opened to the extent of four or five inches. The chain, which had -not been taken down, prevented its being opened further. “Don’t you know my knock yet?’ said Clovis, impatiently. The old wo- man who had opened the door closed it again without a word, took down the chain and admitted him. ‘The old fox is in his dtn, eh?” asked the visitor, as he stepped into the wide and lofty hall. The woman, whose grey hairs escaped here and there from beneath her untidy cap, made no reply in words, but pointed with her skinny hand to one of the doors that opened out of the hall. “How's Blanche to-night?” ‘There was no answer, and the question was repeated. The old woman came near- er to him with her shuttling steps. “Blanche is gone!” she said, looking at him strangely. “Gone? Where?” “How can I tell? She has gone— gone on the stage, she says. But 1 know who has driven her away from her home!” “You know more than I do, then, old lady!” said Clovis, lightly, as he turned on his heel, and, without the ceremony of knocking, entered the door at which the woman had pointed. She stood looking at the closed door for some seconds; then, sighing deeply, turned away. The room which Clovis now entered was fitted up aS the workshop of a goldsmith, being furnished with a large crucible and a furnace, over which the figure of an old man was bending. He lifted himself up as the visitor ad- vanced into the room and came for- ward to greet him. A little, dry, withered old man, evi- dently a Jew, wearing a short, black working coat of some shiny black stuff, and a skull cap of black velvet, much the worse for wear. His hair was long, and white as snow, but it was difficult to know whether one should believe this evidence as to his age, or the testimony of his eyes. They were strong, clear and bright. Looking at them, one felt sure that Isaac Kisch could not be more than fifty. Looking at his hair and the lines on his parchment face, one thought he must be at least seventy. “Come away, my dear friend,” he said, holaing ouc 4 SoQ1y Dana. “Things have been dull without you. Where have you been this long time?” They seated themselves before the furnace, and applied themselves to 2 bottle of Hollands that stood on a ta- ble close by. Clovis lit a cigar, and said to his host, between the whiffs: “Do you know a good fence for dia- monds?” “Do I know a good fence for dia- monds? Why, nearly all of my busi- ness used to be in diamonds! Nobody could give better prices than me. What a good thing it is you spoke to me about it! It will have saved you hun- dreds of pounds.” “Tush, man] I don’t mean the pro- ceeds of some twopenny-ha’penny rob- bery. I am speaking of stones worth, not thousands, but hundreds of thou- sands of pounds!” The Jew turned pale. joking,” said he. “fam not joking. I should hardly have believed in the thing myself; bui, Kisch, I have seen them!” “Are they in this country, my dear?” “Yes, they are in this country, and 1 know who has them ,though I don’t “You must be know where he got them. I expect he stole them from somebody. They are uncut.” “Uncut! Mishter Clovis—’ he sank his voice to a whisper, and laid his hand, lank and yellow and unclean as the foot of an abscene bird, on his companion’s arm. “Mishter Clovis, it is impossible to trace uncut dia- monds!” “Do you think I want you to tell me that?’ exclaimed the other, shaking off the Jew’s hand without ceremony, “The present owner asked me to put him in the way of disposing of them, and I said I would try—" “But you will try to get them for " yourself, Mishter Clovis, won't you? I know you will. And won't you let me go into it with you? You know I have a good head, and you know I am as secret as the grave. You will come to me to help you?” “J don’t think I shall want any help in the taking—the actual acquiring of the stones,” said Clovis, speaking slow- ly and thoughtfully; “but it is most likely that I shall want some help in the disposing of them. And in that work 1 may allow you to help me, Kisch. But if I find you giving me one penny piece less than the value of the diamonds—well, you and I are strangers for the future. You under- stand that, Kisch, my man?” CHAPTER V. “Do You Know a Man With a Sear on His Cheek?” It was a wet, dreary evening, a few days after Clovis’ visit to Mysore Lodge, when that gentleman put on an old tweed suit and a shabby overcoat and betook himself to a riverside tav- ern in the neighborhood of Limehouse. What his particular object was in go- ing there does not concern us. Mr. Clovis often found it necessary to visit queer places and queer people. But there was a man there that even- ing who attracted a little attention. He was tall and bony. His eyes had a fierce, hungry look in them. His hair was long and nearly quite white, but his complexion and movements were not those of an old man. It seemed as though his hair had been whitened art- ifically or blanched by some sudden terror. For the most part he sat silent in the corner of the bar; but men were looking at him and speaking of him under his nose, as if he had been stone deaf. “Who is that man? What is the matter with him?’ asked Clovis, of the landlord. “You'd better arsk him. I think he’s a lunatic. But the missus says he can speak as sober an’ sensible as a jedge when you keep off one subjeck.” “And what may that be?” “You'd better arsk him, He'll talk te anyone, an’, sooner or later, he’s sure to ars ’em one question. Seems as if ’e ’ad it on ‘is brain, pore chap, an’ ’ad to let it out to every man ’e meets.” ‘The landlord went off to attend to a customer, and Clovis crossed over to the corner where the stranger sat, ob- served of all and yet alone. Clovis got into conversation with him, and found him both civil and in- telligent, and, to all appearances, as sane as any man need be. He asked no extraordinary question, and Clovis was rising to go to the other end of the bar, when the stranger laid Nis hand on the other's arm, and said, in a low voice, hoarse with the excitement of feeling: “You are a gentleman that goes about a good deal, I have no doubt. You must come across a lot of people in the course of a year?” “I dare say I do,” said Clovis, smil- ing. “Can you tell me this: Do you know a man with a scar on his right cheek?” Involuntarily the smile died out of the Frenchman's face. “You know him! I see you do! | know you do! Don’t deny it, for I can swear you do! At least you do know a man with a scar on his right cheek. There may be two, but it isn’t likely. I’ve got him! He can’t escape me! O, Heaven, let me not go mad! I will not be foolish and excited; I will be per- fectly calm and sensible, and then I will learn all this gentleman has to tell me!” Talking in this way, half to Clovis and half to himself, he dragged Clovis out of the bar, and took him to a small, bare ‘parlor at the back of the house. Clovis submitted to be thrust into a chair, while the queer creature he had got hold of rang the bell and ordered hot gin and water. The stranger sat with his elbows on the table and his chin resting in the pals of his hands, gazing intently in the face of Clovis, who somehow felt uneasy under that burning stare. At length he spoke: “Was the man with the scar on his face about my own age, or a few years younger? Was his name | Richard Joyce?” Clovis gave a laugh. “I have never said I knew a man with a scar,” said he. “But you do. You can’t deny it. You can’t hide it from me.” “And if I do, what then? What do you want with him?” “I want to kill him!” This was said with a quiet, re- strained ferocity that made Clovis shudder. “] will tell you why,” went on the stranger. “But first—where is Richard Joyce to be found?” “I know a man of that name, and I know where he lives,” said Clovis, speaking slowly and thoughtfully. “But I am not going to put you in the way of taking his life. Why should er “Why should you? Why should you rid the world of a wolf or a scorpion? Listen to me. For many years, I may say all my life, I have been a lonely, unfortunate men. I’ve wandered all over the world, o-ten half starving. At last I found a chance of making mon- ey enough to enable me to end my days in peace. After running terrible risks, I got possession of a large num- ber of uncut diamonds fresh from the mine.” “Do you mean that you were in Af- rica? Did you discover a mine?” asked .Clovis, eagerly. “Never mind whether I discovered a mine or not. I got the diamonds, and it nearly cost me my life to get them. I could not dispose of them with safe- ty in Africa, so I made my way to the coast, and there I purchased a sloop in ballast. I could not get a crew, and it would not have been safe for me to try to leave the country openly. But I fell in with a man who volunteered to help me. He, too, wanted to leave Af- rica and return to England. He was in rags, starving and hunted by the police. I took this man, fed and clothed him, and took him with me in the sloop, promising him a further re- ward on our reaching England. Our plan was to make a few hundred miles’ sail to the westward, till we should be in the track of vessels pass- ing from the Cape to England, and get one of them to take us on board. But we could not fall in with a ship. Our provisions and water began to run short, and I took fever “I believe that, in my, delirium, I must have let fall hints as to the trea- sure I kept hidden under my pillow. I must have done so. At ali events, I woke one morning to find myself alone. Think of it—think of it, man! Alone in a leaky craft on the Atlantic, weak with fever, with very little food and water, and the diamonds I had risked my life for—the diamonds I had depended on to save me from ending my days in the workhouse—stolen from me! I was left to almost certain death; and this by the man I had be- friended and helped to escape. And now, can you wonder that I want to kill him? If you were in my place, would you not feel the same? Where is he? Where can I find him? All that I ask is that you should bring me and Richard Joyce face to face!” Clovis meditated for a few moments. He wanted these diamonds for him- self, and he was determined to have them if possible; and it’ seemed to him that it would be a much easier thing to take them from a poor crea- ture like this stranger, half-crazed, as he appeared to be, by his wrongs and his sufferings, after he had recovered them from his enemy, than it would be to take them from a strong, self- possessed man like Joyce. But the matter required some consideration. “How did you manage to get back to England?’ he asked, suddenly. “Didn't I tell you?” said the strang- er, passing his hand wearily across his brow. “I came to myself one day in the cabin of a small trading brig. They had picked me up when I lay uncon- scious on the floor in the cabin of the sloop. So they told me. I don’t re- member anything between the time 1 found that the diamonds were gone and the time I opened my eyes in the prig’s cabin. But that has nothing to do with it. Will you tell me where the man is to be found?” “That needs to be considered,” said Clovis, coolly. “I’m not going to make myself an accessory in a murder to please you, if you mean that. But it he has got the diamonds still, and if you let me share them with you, in the event of your recovering them, busi- ness might be done. Mind!’—as the other was on the point of interrupting him—“Ming, I promise nothing. It is possible that I might bring you and this man Joyce face to face. That goes without saying. But I must be well paid for my services. That goes without saying. Now ,tell me where I can find you, after I ascertain where Joyce actually is at this moment. You are staying here, are you? No? Then, give me your name and address.” He wrote it down; and he noted with satisfaction that Clarkson—for he gave his real name to Clovis, though Clovis did not believe it—was much more subdued in manner than he had been at the beginning of the interview. ‘The truth was that his emotion had in part worn itself out; but the principal reason of the change was that the calmness and decision of the French- man had impressed and dominated the fiercer but less-sustained passion of the older man. This was exactly the effect that Clovis had intended to pro- duce; and, very well content with himself and his night's work, Clovis left the tavern and went home. CHAPTER VI. With Double Tongue. Eugene Clovis did not go to rest that night. He sat at the open window of his sitting room—for the weather was warm in spite of the rain—and smoked cigarettes till long after the morning sun had dried up the mists of the ‘Yhames valley, and the grey dawn had broken over the giant city. He rose at last, closed the window and threw himself on a couch, but even then it was not to sleep. He had set his heart upon making the diamonds his own; and the question was, how was he to accomplish this end with least risk to himself. But there was another question that he was trying to solve at the same time. Now that Ursula’s father had interfered in the engagement between her and Frank Lester, would it not be possible to separate’ the lovers perma- nently, and eventually secure her for himself? How could he so guide and use the various passions and preju- dices of the players in this drama so as to bring about this desirable result’? Was the problem solvable? And if so, what was the solution? What should be his first steps? Joyce’s unscrupu- lousness, his past offenses and his so- cial ambitions—Lester’s simplicity and his narrow means—the Jew’s know- ledge of precious stones and of illicit ways of disposing of them—Clarkson’s fierce longing for revenge—how were they all to be utilized, so as to give him, Eugene Clovis, the wealth he coveted, and also make it possible for him to oust Frank from his position as Ursula’s accepted lover? It was a difficult problem, even for a man of Clovis’ intelligence; and he pondered over it for hours without coming to a definite conclusion. In the evening he went to see Lester, and found him in a state of great de- spondency. Joyce had, in some way, got to hear of Frank’s visit, and asked his daughter whether she and “the old Squire’s son” were in correspondence. On hearing that letters had passed be- tween them, Joyce went into a furious passion, and solemnly swore that if she did not break with her lover he would never rest until he had found him and taken his life. The threat. silly as it might have seemed to most people, wore a very different aspect to Ursula, She had heard that her father had taken a similar vow with respect to a gamekeeper, when she was a child; and this man was one of those attacked by the poachers and nearly killed. She wrote a farewell letter to Frank, entreating him, as he valued her peace of mind, not to write to her. or attempt to see her, so long as her father hated him as he did then. All this Frank told Clovis, as a mat- ter of course, and Clovis was ready with his sympathy, a sympathy appar- ently so warm and whole-hearted, that Frank never for a moment suspected that it was unreal. For a minute or two the men smoked in silence, or, rather, Clovis took long, slow pulls at his cigarette. while Frank lit his pipe, and_ then. brooding on the dark future before him, forgot it and allowed it to go out. “J wouldn’t give up hope, if I were you,” said Clovis, gently. “TI have not given up hope, and | don’t mean to, as long as I live,” re- turned Frank. “But the question is. what can I do? I must see Ursula, or write to her sometimes, or the engage- ment will die a natural death: and, in that case I might just as well give up. hoping at once.” “Don’t you think it might be a good plan, began Clovis, speaking slowly, and fixing his eyes on the smoke rings from his cigarette—“don't you think it might be a good thing for you to make the acquaintance of that dreadful person?” E “I thought that was just what you feared might make things even worse than they are—that I should try to see him and talk him over,” interrupted Frank. “Hear me out, my dear fellow. I didn’t mean that you should force yourself upon him and try to argue the matter with him. He must be a thor- | oughly unreasonable ,wrong-headed beggar; and I certainly think that would do more harm than good. But, at the same time, barring his stupid prejudice against you as your father’s | son, he may be, and probably is, a de- cent sort of chap in the main—opin- ionated, no doubt; but as ready to take a sudden liking to’ anyone as a sudden | and unreasonable disliking. You fol- | low me?” Frank nodded. “Now, if I were in your place, | should make it my aim to meet Jo; without letting him suspect who I w You would be sure to make a good im- pression on him. He would see for himself that you are a thoroughly good-hearted, unaffected fellow; and it is quite on the cards that he would take a very strong liking for you. Then it might come out, as if by acci- dent, that your name is Lester; and you would, of course, be equally sur- prised to be told that your new friend is Ursula Joyce’s father.” : ! “[ like your idea immensely, Clovis | —and I don't like it at all. I should be very glad to meet Mr. Joyce without his knowing who I if it were real- ly an accident. I might be able to lessen his prejudice against me. But laying a trap for him seems rather a mean thing to do. He would be sure to suspect that I knew who he all along, and if he charged me with it, 1 shouldn’t be able to deny it. That wouldn't be very nice.” “Well, my dear fellow, it’s the only thing that occurs to me. I have no doubt you are right in thinking that if | all intercourse between you and Miss | Joyce is stopped for an indefinite time, the result will be as you fear. It can- not be otherwise.” Fra id nothing, but continued to tly out of the window, still ng his unlighted pipe in hi: hand, “And in defense of my own scheme, I must say this, that it is quite possi- ble that Joyce may never suspect that this meeting was other than accident- al, and if he does, it is quite possible that he may look upon it as a good joke.” “Perhaps you are right, Clovis. 1 may be too scrupulous. But how can I possibly meet him in such a way that he may be under the impression that our meeting was accidental?” “It must be at a public place,” said Clovis, very slowly, and affecting to be thinking out the matter in his head all the time he was speaking. “An inn would be best. Strangers often strike up friendships by meeting at a country inn. I have it!’ he exclaimed, sudden ly, as if the idea had struck him for the first time. “You are fond of fish- ing, I know. What more netural than ycu should run down to your own par- ish, and take a cast in one of the streams, as a cheap and pleasant wa) of spending a holiday? I know that Joyce is a great angler, and often goes to stay for a few days at the Golden Horn, at Moor Edge, for the sake ot the fishing. Suppose you were there when he comes. I will describe the man to you—but you can’t fail to re cognize him by the scar on his cheek. Well, you are staying there when he comes. You take your meals in the same room. What more natural thas that you should begin to talk about the fishing in the neighborhood, and in time strike up a friendship? Then. when it comes out that you are Frank Lester, you may confess that you thought, or suspected, that he was Richard Joyce. He needn’t know that you had any purpose of meeting him when you first went to the inn. } think Miss Joyce would quite approve the idea if she knew of it. But, of course, my dear fellow, I have no in- terest in the thing, one way or the oth- er. If you don’t like the plan, it is nothing to me.” “As if I didn’t know that!” ex- claimed Frank, impatiently. “As if I didn’t know that you are the kindest best-hearted fellow in the world, to spend so much thought over my con- cerns! And I believe your plan is a thoroughly-good one. I would have cudgelled my brains for a very long time before I had thought of one half so good. After all, I see no great harm in it. I think most likely, as you say. Ursula would approve of it. At any rate, as the old man seems to hate mc as much as he possibly can already, I don’t see that it can do much harm to | Mr. Kisch?” try it.” “There | agree with you.” “J wonder when he is likely to be at “Well?” s Joyce, roughly. He yery | was sharp enough, and saw that the Frenchman—it is really the most con- venient way of designating him, and quite sufficiently néar the mark—had* something to say, whether he ehose to say it or not. “Well?” Clovis echoed, smiling ence more. K “What's the young cub saying to it? Does he mean to give up dangling af- ter my girl? He'd better, if he wants to keep a whole bone in his body! Does he mean to give her up, eh?” “I believe not,” said Clovis, studying the burning end of his cigarette. He was seldom without one, in progps* either of making or of smoking. “You believe not! So much worse for hint!” “On the contrary. I have an idea— but that’s telling tales,” he added, with a half-laugh. “Pooh! nonsense, friends, you know. you said?” “Of getting to know you in a round- about way, without your knowing who he is nd so coming round you. A brilliant plan, isn’t it? LI shouldn't wonder ify the next time you go to stay at the Golden Horn, at Moor Edge, you find the young gentleman e, Waiting to make himself agree- to you. Ha! ha! ha!” rd Joye face turned white ion, and then red. He burst the man! Between He has an idea, ened as he was, was slightly shocked. “The impudence of the fellow!’ roared the ex-blaecksmith, throwing one brawny out, if he v felling an enemy to earth. “That's how I would treat him if he were here. He'd try and suck up to me on the sly, without my knowing him; and then, I’ve no doubt, getting me to pled my word to him about the little , before I knew he was the son of t confound- ed tyrant, Godfrey Lester? A nice so: of a plot to make up against a man! But V’ll be even with him. He shall see me. He shall have a little more of me than he wants to, or I am much mistake: “Now, Joyce, there must be no violen nember that. If I had sup at there was the least probaLility ‘of your using violence— though I admit the plan is a mean, sneaking sort of plot—I would never have told you anything about the young man’s intentions.” “Oh, no fear! I'll do nothing to bring me into trouble—I've had enough of that,” he added, under his breath. “And, mind, you mustn’t give me away, Mr. Joyee. You must appear to find cut quite natarally who the young gentleman is who is so polite to you.” “Trust me for that. He won't know through me that you have tipped me the wink. And I won't do anything to make it worth his while to set the po- lice on me. All the same, I mean to round on him in such a way that he'll wish he’d cut his threat before ever he came to the Golden Horn with the idea of soft-soaping me!” CHAPTER VIL. An Unsaceessful Raid. 2 Before leaving his dear friend, Rich- ard Joyce, Clovis had taken care to ascertain the day of his arrival at the Golden Horn. It seemed that Joyce had business in Carlisle on the follow- ing Tuesday morning, and he told Clo- vis that his intention to leave Til- bridge on Monday 2fternoon, arriving at Carlisle the same evening. Next ‘ter transacting his business, he would come back, going Moor Edge without brancl Tilbridge. In this way he would be ab- sent from home Monday afternoon till the Thursday or Friday following. On the Monday of that same week, about an hour after mid-day, Clovis reappeared at the Old Rectory, and with him was Mr. ac Kisch. The Jew was washed, to a certain extent, rendered semi-respectable by means of a large overcoat, which cov- ered him from top to toe. This gar- ment was warranted by the state of the weather, which was cold and wet. Mr. Joyce received his visitors with a frown; and it did not improve mat- ters when Clovis said he had brought one of the finest diamond merchants in London to see the precious stones of which he was so proud. “I didn’t give you permission to mention my private affairs to all the world!” growled Joyce. “I hope you don’t call my friend, Mr. Kisch, the great diamond mer- chant, all the world?’ said Clovis, se- renely. “After all, you know, Joyce, you can’t hope to sell your diamonds without showing them, so you may as well let Mr. Kisch have a sight of them, since he has come all the way from town to see the beauties. But, if you'd rather not, we can go back. ‘There’s no harm done. Isn’t it so, ‘ “Certainly,” said the Jew, with apparent alacrity. “Sit down, man—sit down!” rising, said the Golden Horn. Are you going back | Joyce, impatiently. ‘The end of it was » to Tilbridge soon, by any chance?” “Next week, most likely.” “Then would you mind— “Not at all. I will make a point of seeing Joyce, and ask him, casually whether he means to do any more fishing this season. If I find that he is going to stay at the Golden Horn, } will be sure to let you know. And J think, perhaps, if you can manage it it would be better, and look more nat- ural, for him to find you there, rather than for you to go there on the chance of finding him. It would keep him from suspecting any previous design of meeting him on your part.” As Clovis said this he rose to go. “Certainly I will do as you advise me,” cried Frank, rising and grasping his friend’s oustretched hand. ‘What a fellow you are to think of things! 1 am the luckiest beggar in the world, Clovis, to have you for a friend!” “Wax isn’t in it with that young man,” said Clovis,. grimly, to him- self, as he descended the steps into the street. ‘“* Pulpy and ductile,’ as some- body put it. So far the game has been easy enough; whether the other half of the business will go as smoothly.” By the end of the week Clovis was once more at Tilbridge. He had a good excuse for going to see Joyce about some repairs which had to be done to the house; and it was easy for him to lead the conversation round to| of them, but he it remains to be seen | discourse, that he took out his keys and opened a drawer—the second from the bottom on the right-hand side—in his writing table. From the drawer he took a small bag of black velvet and emptied out on the table a large number of tiny stones that looked like blue peb- bles. Mr. Kisch ostentatiously turned up his cuffs and sat at such a distance from the table that he had to bend forward at a ridiculous angle im order to see the diamonds at all. He did not touch them as they lay, put waited till the owner of the stores put cne in his hand, when he examined it, laid it down, and held out his paw—whieh even pow did not seem really clean— fer another. “Well, what do you think of them?” asked Joyce. “They seem to me to be true dia- monds,” said the Jew. “Diamonds! I shculé think they aret I didn’t need you to iell me that. The question is, What are the, worth? What will you give me for t Ls Mr. Kisch then entered tong the effect of which cA to show that buying uncut diamonds was 2 most uncertain speculation. A stone might be large, Dut there was no say- ing whether it had neta hidden flaw that would make it nearly valucless. Or it might turn out to be “off color.” He was willing to speculate in a few could only offer ay the subject of Ursula’s unfortunate | Small sum. And as he_ understood engagement. “Have you seen the fellow of late?” asked Joyce, sourly. “Oh, yes. 1 knocked up against him not long ago;” and*as Clovis said’ this he «miled meaningly, and cast down his eyes. that his goed friend, Mr. Clovis, waza friend of Mr. Joyce, he would advise him, speaking as a friend, to go to the expense of haying them cut by the best diamond-eutters fn .\msterdatih and then sell. (Yo be Continueds i 4) ~