Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, February 5, 1898, Page 2

es ee. EAT THE SIG ‘ ==THE GOLDEN HORN. § SARI DHHS IS LISI SI SSSA AS AR CHAPTER VII—(Continued.) Joyce knew all this well enough, and he wus in a hurry to get off to Carlisle; so he « short the interview, scooped up the nes and poured them into i which he locked up in the which he had taken it. Ir. order to keep up the pretense that their visit had been a bona-fide one, their bag, Kisch pressed the owner of the dia- mon to give him the first offer of they were cut; but this then, aft Jo. refused to do, and the pair de- parted, apparently disappointed, but in reality overjoyed with the success of their visit. “It cannot be, my dear Mr. Clovis,” whispered the Jew, sidling up to his companio} urely, he cannot keep all those diamonds in a drawer with a common lock! Diamonds worth a for- tune! Yet he did not expect us in the Teast.” “Are the diamonds really valuable, asked Clovis, in even tones, though his heart v beating wildly. “AL, I cannot say what they are h until they are cut; you know I © But they must turn out very badly if they are not worth from sev- enty to a hundred thousand pounds.” “Add a hundred per cent for your t_" then?” hundred per cent, my dear Mr. y ten per cent, or five.” ‘re worth having a try for,” said Clovis, “and I mean to have a try this very night.” I arted with Kisch on the return journey to town, but he left the train en route, and, after dining comfortably at 1 unpretentious “commercial” house, he took the last train back to ‘Tilbridge—or, rather, to the last sta- tion the train stopped at before reach- ing the little town. A little after two o'clock in the morning he stole with noiseless steps across the strip of lawn that divided the Old Rectory from the deserted high road, and made straight for the windew of the library—the room in which Joyce had received him and his ion the day before. He had 1, while Joyce was locking and ng the drawer in which he kept the amonds, that the fastenings of the window were of the old-fashioned, accommodating sort, which any handy aman with a stout knife, could open in a few minutes. In spite cf the heavy ulster he wore, Clovis got inside with so little noise, that even if there had been a dog in the house, he would have been per- fecily safe. The noise of the storm effectually drowned the slight sounds he had made in opening and closing the window, and other sounds there were hone. Once inside, Clovis made his way in the Cark (not groping, but moving as if he were accustomed to do without the help of his eyes) to the writing ta- ble which contained the drawer with the diamonds. A moment later, select- ing the drawer by touch,» he had in- serted a pitch-lock in the key-hole and turned it. An oath sprang to his lips, f s nee. Tearing the drawer open, he passed in his hand and moved it about The drawer was empty! first thought was that the Jew had played him false—that he had re turned secretly an hour or two before him, and committed the robbery on his own account. But, on examining the window and window-sill carefully, by the light of the dark lantern, which he now lit for the first time, he found no marks that would justify him in sup- posing that anyone had come that way before him that night. His next idea was that he had mistaken the drawer, or that Joyce had put them somewhere else before he wert away. But a short search convinced him that this v not the case—at any rate, they ‘were not in the room. He was on the point of closing the lantern, when his eye fell upon an open letter which was lying on the writing table along with the envelope which had contained it. He picked it up and read: Dear Ursula—I forgot to tell you this morning that I am going off this after- noon to Carlisle, and then to Moor Edge for a day or twos fishing. I shall most likely be gone before you come back, and I want you to attend to this most particularly the moment you come in. “You will find the keys of the draw- ers of the writing table in the little drawer of my dressing table up stairs. Open the second drawer, counting from the bottom on the right-hand side of the table, and you will find in it a small black velvet bag. It con- tains some valuable specimens. Do not open the bag, but take great care of it. If you have time to go over to Market Mowborough before the bank closes, you had better take the bag to) the manager of the bank, Mr. Stewart, and ask him to keep it for me. And if you are too late to do that to-day, do it the first thing to-morrow morning. If Mr. Stewart won’’t take the bag, see that you keep it by you in the safest lace you can think of, and don’t give it up to anyone, no matter who, and mo matter what he may say. This is most important, so mind you follow these instructions exactly, or you may ‘ring me in for the loss of nearly all 1 have in the world. Take care of your- self until I come back, which I expect will be on Thursday or Friday. “Your affectionate father, “Richd. Joyce.” ‘The letter dropped from the hand of the would-be thief, and he stood for a few seconds motionless, thinking whether he must give up hope of ac- quiring the diamonds by the most simple and inexpensive of all methods. If Ursula had had time to take the di- amonds to the bank that afternoon, that was an end of the matter. They were beyond his reach. But she might have returned home too late to do that. ‘Her father seemed to have expected ‘that she would not be able to take the -diamonds to the bank that day. Then robably they would be in her room. should he—?” He rapidly weighed the chances, and @ecided that, although he might prob- he instrument had met with no re- { N OF § ably be able to lay his hands on the stones, he could hardly hope to do so without awaking Ursula. She knew him. She would be able to give his name and address to the police, and she would raise the alarm, of course, as soon as he had gone. His natural unwillingness to appear in his true colors. before Ursula counted. for something, though he would not have hesitated to forfeit her regard if the fortune could be gained in no other it was, he thought he saw his way to getting possession of the dia- monds very soon by a much easier | method-—without sacrificing his char- ; acter, and without running the risk of penal servitude. In thirty seconds he had made up his mind that no more was to be done that night, and in an instant his light had disappeared and he was making his way out of the window. The wind tore at him sav- agely, and the rain beat on his unpro- tected head the moment he had left the shelter of the house, but he cared nothing for the storm. He calmly turned and closed the window, wiping off, as well as he could, all trace of his presence, and then walked away into the night. CHAPTER VIII. In the Coffee-Room of the Golden Hi orn, The Golden Horn was an old-fash- ioned hostelry—large, solitary and | dreary. In its time it had been a place of note, for it stood on what had been one of the great coach routes; but, years ago, the route had been di- | verted, and now very little, even of the rural tratfic of the district, found its way past the doors of the inn, The greater part of the house was unoccu- pied; and the very sight of the de- serted court yard, and the rows of cur- | taniless windows staring down into | the road, some of the panes broken, and all of them dim with the dust of years, was enough to deter people | from staying there. The only guests j who slept in the worm-eaten wooden bedsteads were anglers, who found the inn convenient for a good trout stream which joined the Till a few miles farther down. Mrs. Gosling, the landlady, was a good woman and a great gossip, but a | poor housekeeper; visitors were never | plentiful; and as it was now the end | of the season, she was glad to find in the coffee-room, one gloomy autumn | day, a young man with fishing rod and | basket, who had_ evidently . walked , over from the station at Pelhurst Cross. She assured him that the sport in the Towett was first-rate, and that if it did rain that afternoon, the water was sure to be in grand condition next day. But the visitor, who was none other than Frank Lester, seemed to be tired with his journey and disinclined for conversation. He asked one or two questions about the number of visitors she had in the season, and particular- ly whether a gentleman of the name of Joyce was staying there. Mrs. Gosling asked him whether the gentleman was big and stout, with a scar on his cheek; and she remem- bered afterwards that the stranger flushed a little as he answered “Yes.” The weather was so bad that Frank felt sure that Joyce would stay at) home. He was, therefore, quite un- | prepared when, late in the afternoon, the door of the coffee-room in which | he was sitting was flung violently open, and an immense man, clad in a mackintosh, strode into the room. Pushing the chairs this way and that, the newcomer made his way to the fireplace, and rang the bell with a jerk. “A bad day for traveling,” remarked ; Lester, from his place by one of the windows. Joyce made no response, but pulled the bell again. Frank bit his lip and as silext. end the landlady here!” roared Joyce to the scared country girl who answered the bell. Mrs. Gosling came in. and, recognizing Joyce, made a stiff, old-fashioned reverence, half- bow, half-curtsey. “Why haven't you a fire on?” he de- manded, in the same overbearing tone he had used to the maid. “We don’t generally have fires so early in the season; but I can have oue lit at once if you wish it.” “I do wish it. And.if you knew your business better, you wouldn’t leave your customers to ask such a thing on a day hke this.” The landlady beat a retreat without replying to the impertinence. “Beastly weather, this,” Joyce mut- tered, half to himself and half to Les- ter, as he stalked over to one of the other windows, and, with his hands | deep in his trousers pockets, stared out at the rain. Frank did not feel inclined to dn- | swer, but remembering what he had) come there for, he forced himself to, male some kind of a reply. ! It is next to impossible for two men, be they never so little inclined for conversation, to sit together in the public room of an hotel through a long, wet evening without talk of some kind; and these two men wanted to know each other, yet each of them found a. diffieulty in beginning. } They did not dine together, though | Frank invited Joyce to join him, in the | hope that food and wine would soften hin. a little. He refused civilly, but in | a sulky tone, and, saying that he al- ways dined in the middle of the day, ordered supper for himself. Frank, totally unaware of the fact ' \that Joyce knew who he was, made | several efforts to open a conversation, | and Joyce watched these efforts grim- ly. enjoying the young man’s awk- pe: attempts to make himself agree- able. Ashe sat observing the son of his old enemy from under his heavy eye- brows, he told himself that even if he had not known who the young man was, he would. have hated him. The very things that would have preju- | diced most men in Frank’s favor—the air of refinement, of breeding; his ease of manner; the very cut of his clothes, telling of a good tailor and high prices; the unconscious disclos- ure of the fact that he expected other people to treat him as a gentleman— all these proofs of superiority were so many stinging wasps to Joyce's self- conceit. : Hé did not altogether refust to speak to his companion, but he be- haved in such a way that more than once Frank was on the point of giving up the battle and leaving the room in sheer disgust. It seemed sometimes as if. he took a- malicious pleasure in leading Frank on to talk, merely that he might have the pleasure of lying in wait for him and snubbing him. To Frank, accustomed to the conversa- tion of a gentleman, it was something new to be told, in so many words, that he did not know what he was talking about, and to be contradicted at every step of the conversation. But he put a strong restraint upon himself, and relapsed into silence. His plan for consulting Ursula’s father did not seem to promise much. He had finished his dinner and lit a ce: when Joyce’s harsh voice broke in “I object to your smoking: here, espe- cially as I mean to have supper in half an hour's time.” : This was said out of mere spiteful- ness, as Joyce would not have had his appetite disturbed if a whole roomful of medical students had been smoking during his meal, and Lester suspected that it was so. He immediately begged pardon, however, and threw his cigar into the fire. This action did not conciliate Joyce, who chose to feel offended by this dis- play of extravagance, as he consid- ered it. “You seem to have plenty of good cigars, to chuck them about like that!” he said, with a scowl. Lester opened his lips to make an angry reply, but closed them again without speaking. Joyce looked dis- appointed. Lester moved uneasily in his chair, then left it and went to the window, beating furiously, and looked out into the night. Then he returned to his seat, conscious that the unpleasant old man in the corner was watching him al the time. “Look here, suddenly— “Who told you my name was Joyce?” he interrupted. “The landlady. Mr. Joyce,’ he said, But there is no use going on like this. I had better make a clean breast of it. The fact is, Mr. Jcyce, I came down kere from London with no other object than that of meeting you.” Hes tr enea And pray, who may you “My name is Lester—Frank Lester. Your daughter— “Leave my daughter's name out of it, curse you!” cried Joyce, with sud- den fury. He had seen enough of the yovng man to be aware that it was no wonder that Ursula was ready to mar- ry him. And this made him all the angrier. “So you are young Lester?’ he said, slowly, as if the fact were quite new to him, steadily regarding the young man with his deep-set eyes. You are the old squire’s son?” “Yes; I am the squire’s son.” 4 “And what do you want to see me or?” “To tell the truth,” began Frank, in a burst of confidence, “I heard you were likely to be here for the fishing, and I thought that perhaps, if we met in this way, we might—we might get on better together than if we had been formally introduced.” “And why should I wish to be intro- duced to you? Will you tell me, Mr. Frauk Lester?” “A little while ago,” said Frank, flushing as he spoke, “you told me to keep your daughter’s name out of the conversation. Now I must speak of it, if I am to answer your question. I love your daughter, Mr. Joyce, and I wish to marry her.” “Ah, indeed! And no doubt you think you are doing her a mighty fa- vor thereby?” “Indeed, no, sir!” cried Frank, ea- gerl d this marriage, now when did you think of its coming off, if one might ask?” Frank flushed up, and stammered out something about the confusion in which the family property had been left at his father’s death. “In other words, you haven't a six- pevce to bless yourself with?’ broke in Joyce, rudely, “and you know it. You're a pretty foolish fellow to come courting my girl, I must say!” he yelled out, his color and his temper rising with the sound of his voice. “You're a son-in-law as any man might be proud of, ain’t you?” “It's no disgrace to be poor,” said Lester, hotly, feeling that Ursula’s father was absolutely intolerable. “Poor! That’s nothing. I’ve more mopey myself than all the Lesters that ever were whelped. But I’m glad you”re poor. I hope you'll be poorer yet. And I’m glad to come home here and learn that your father died poor, and lonely and deserted by his friends. Do you know why?” “I don’t—and I don’t want to know. A little while ago you told me not to mention Miss Joyce’s name; and in my turn I beg you not to mention my father’s.” The interruption only had the effect of rousing the old man’s ire to a high- er pitch. “Not mention-yhim! And why should not I mention the name of the man who drove me out, a poor, friendless man, into the wide world, to starve? Why shouldn’t I mention the name of ‘he man [ would have killed with pleasere if it hadn’t been that he was too much of a coward to give me the chance?” " “Stop, sir!” exclaimed Frank, spring- ing to his feet. “What my father may have done or left undone I know, not. I am not responsible for either. But he was my father, and that is enough for me. I will not sit by and hear his memory defamed!” “You may stay or not, as you have a mind,” roared Joyce, “but I shall say | what I please. Your father was a black-hearted scoundrel, that should have gone out of this world by the gallows, as many a better man than he has done. A cheat, too, a bank- rupt thief, they tell me—” “Stop, sir—you had better stop!” said Frank, coming nearer to the in- fatuated man, his hands clenched at his sides. Joyce, mad with the memory of his wrongs,*lifted his enormous fist, and struck the son the blow he had hoped he would one day strike the father. upon which the rain was | landlady came into the room to lay Joyce’s supper, and shrieked aloud. Frenk was on his feet again in a mo- ment, though he felt half-stunned; and before he had time to think, let out from the shoulder at his adversary. Joyce, with more agility than might have been expected from a man of his years, avoided the blow; and this gave the young man time to remember. Whatever the provocation, he could not strike Ursula’s father! His hands dropped by his sides. He walked close up to Joyce, and, with pale face and set lips, he said: “You will repent this outrage!” Then, not trusting himself to say another word, or to stay a moment longer in the room, he rushed past Mrs. Gosling, the blood streaming from his lip, which had struck against to his own room, Flinging the door to behind him, he threw himself upon his bed and gave himself up to the bit- terness of his thoughts. He had been grossly insulted, and he had no power to avenge the insult, What could heal the breach that had just been made?’ And if it was never healed, what was to become of his en- gagement with Ursula? How could he expect her to keep her promise to a her father? The storm howled and shrieked around the chimneys of the old hous, and the windows rattled as if with a discharge of artillery. The rain came in volleys against the panes, so as to subdue and drown all other noises. ‘There were no sounds in the house that night but those of the tempest. Frank lay listening, till, by degrees he grew calmer. His anger at the brutal insults which Joyce had heaped upon his dead father and himself was as strong as ever, but he recognied that he could do nothing in the way of retaliation. He could only leave the house; and he resolved to quit the Golden Horn next day and return to Lendon. Having made up kis minu on this peint, Frank threw off his clothes and got into bed. To his surprise, for he was very tired and weaker than he had supposed when he left London, he could not sleep. The excitement through which he had passed kept him awake. When at length he did fall asleep he was haunted by vivid, un- pleasant dreams, in which he and Joyce met and fought savagely with each other, then were separated in some mysterious manner, and met again, thirsting for et ch other’s blood. The moaning and screaming of the storm mingled with his dream, and seemed to form a part of it. With a sudden start he awoke, and found himself sitting on the edge of the bed, outside the counterpane. odd thing was that he did not remem- till he had returned to the warmth of the blankets that the thought passed through his mind that he must have risen in his sleep. It was not surpris- ing that the excitement of the quarrel with Joyce should have brought back the old disorder, but it was very an- neying. For some time Frank lay awake, getting more drowsy every minute, and ha was on the point of falling. asleep when he was roused by the | sound of someone moving in the room overhead. Then, remembering that his bedroom had ne ceiling, but an course make everything done in the room above audible below, Frank re- assured himself, and presently fell asleep. He had the feeling that he had not been asleep many minutes, when he was aroused by a drop falling on his face. Before he could change his po- sition, another one fell in exactly the same spot. He moved to one side, and drew the blankets more snugly around his shoulders. Another fell immediately, with a hollow sound on the pillow close by his head. Then another and another. It annoyed him, it prevented him from sleeping. What could it be?- Pooh! it was a very wet night, he told himself, and the old inn was in a very ruinous con- cition, There was a hole in the roof just overhead, and the water coming in had formed a pool on the floor, which was leaking through the boards upon his head. That was it, of course. Or, perhaps the roof was sound, but the room was occupied, and the man had upset the water-ewer. That would account for the drip. But it was very annoying. Another drop, coming through another crack, fell on Lester’s cheek. The pillow was quite wet. He sprang out of bed and lit his candle, intending to haul the bed- stead out of the way of the drip. With the candle in his hand he moved near- er to the wet splash on the pillow. He peered closer, then sprang back, and the candle dropped from his hand, as a cry of dismay rang through the room. He had seen the last drop as it fell. It was not rainwater—it was blood! CHAPTER IX. A Terrible Suxpicion, Frank's first care was to find the candle and light it. He then threw on some of his clothes, and, half-dressed, went out into the corridor. At the far- ther end he could see a staircase lead- ing to the upper floor. A few seconds, and he was passing along a corridor, similar to that from which he had come, out of which several doors open- ed. Judging, as well as he could which of them was over his own bed room, he tapped sharply at it and paused to listen, There was no an- swer, and Frank knocked again, and gently opened the door. He was list- ening for the heavy breathing of a sleeper, by which he would know that he had come to the wrong room. But the room was dark and silent as a grave. Stay; there was something— klop—klop—at regular intervals, like the ticking of a clock—klop—klop— klop. Frank shuddered. Holding the candle high above his head, he went forward into the room. The next instant his ery had rung through the inn from cellar to attic— a ery of horror which he could not re- strain, He had guessed what he was about to see, yet the sight was none the less horrible when it met his eyes. On the great four-post’ bed lay Joyce‘ on his back—dead! His face was nearly as | white as the sheet on which it lay, and | 1t bore a look of such terror as Lester had never thought to see on the face of mortal man. He was lying in a peol of blood. So much Frank saw. He could stop no longer, and without the table as he fell, and ran up stairs | man who was at deadly enmity with | The’ ber getting out of bed; and it was not ' open-ramtered roof, which would, of | see that the blood on the floor did not “That is impossible, Frank. Yow touch. his naked feet, he went back-| changed it for your shirt before you wards to the door. - : By the time he had reached it there went up.” “I know I did nothing of the kind,” were answering voices from other | said Frank, stoutly. ‘doors in the corridor. The landlady know what was wrong. The maids were already beginning to scream; and the ostler or boots—some male person, at any rate—was bellowing from his chamber door. In another minute there was a crowd of curious, frightened creatures round the door of the room where the dead man lay, and five miutes later Frank was fiying in one direction for a doc- tor, while the ostler was saddling a horse to go for the police. |doctor was no more than a form, yet he ran through the storm as though a human life depended on his efforts. It was easier to forget that sickening sight when he was laboring for breath in the teeth of the gale. It was not until he had done all that he could be called upon to perform, and was back in his own room, that the thought occurred to him, “What made Joyce kill himself?’ He could find no answer to that question; and | then it suddenly occurred to him: that here was a solution for all his difficul- ties. The one man who had stood in the way of his union with Ursula would never trouble them more. lL was impossible not to feel a sense of relief as that fact stood out more elearly in his mind. Then Frank blamed himself for the scant pity he was feeling for the poor creature who had gone, and remembered that he should be thankful that he should be thankful that he had restrained his passion the night before. And then he fell alseep. * * * * * * It was late next morning when Les- ter awoke. The morning sun, shining brightly after the storm, was high in the heavens. He wondered why they ey not called him, and sprang out of d. Ry While he was dressing, a knock could cal out “Come in,” the door opened, and Clovis came into the room, quickly closing the door behind him. “Clovis, by all that’s wonderful!” ;eried Frank, holding out his hand “what made you turn up here to-day?” “Well, it was a desire to see whether the experience you were trying at my suggestion had turned out well or ill. But I never thought this would be the end of it.” “The end of it? What do you mean?” “I mean—have you not heard?” “You mean about Joyce’s death? Yes, ! it is, indeed, dreadful! I was the first to find the body, you know.” Clovis started, rather obviously, but , remained silent. “I can’t imagine what can have made him do it,” said Frank, after a pause. “Made who do what?” “What made Joyce take his life “I can't understand you, Frank, Du you mean to say that you are under | the impression that Joyce committed , suicide?” % | “Certainly. Who was there to kill him?” Frank thought that his friend looked at him rather strangely as he an swered: | “It is impossible that the case can haye been one of suicide.” “Why?” “Because there was no weapon with which the deed could have been done found near the body. And besides, what man that ever lived, wishing to make way with himself, stabbed him- self in three or four places?” “In three or four places? Good Heavens! I believe that I was. the first to see the body, but I did not go near epough to see that. But, Clovis, if it was not a case of suicide,, who can have done it?” “Don”t ask me! think.” Frank sat down stared at his friend, and then went oft into a shout of mirthless laughter. “You don’t mean to tell me, Clovis, that you think I’m a murderer?” he asked, at length. “No, Frank, not knowingly and wil- fully. I think, if you were greatly pro- yoked, as it seems this man provoked you last night—” 2 “Who told you that?’ interrupted Frank. “The landlady,” said Clovis, with a look of surprise on his face. “She says she was in the room when Joyce struck you, and that you rushed out of the room vowing vengeance, or some- thing of that kind. She has told half- a dcezen people the same story already this morning.” “I was not vowing vengeance, but it is quite true that we quarreled. He knocked me down, and if it had been any man on earth but Ursula’s father, I would have knocked him down. Se you really think that, after refraining from striking him at the time, I went to his bed room in the dead of night—” “No, Frank,” said Clovis, firmly. “You shall not put words into my | mouth in that way. I said I didn’t | I don’t want to know what to think, and I saw so still. If you can tell me what you | think, I shall be very much obliged to you.” Frank was silent, dumbfounded. Who could have killed Richard Joyce? Was it not natural that he should be suspected, after the quarrel of the night before?” “Someone must have done it to rob him,” he said, with his eyes on the floor. Clovis shook his head. “The man’s gold watch and his purse, with ten sovereigns in it, were found under his pillow.” “Then, who can it have been? No one here but myself and you, I sup- pose, so much as knew the poor man, to speak to.” “And I only arrived this morning,” said Clovis, hastily, as if the thing were hardly worth mentioning. “To be sure—I forgot. My memory seems to be leaving me.” Suddenly Clovis pointed to a shirt, the one Frank had worn the day be- fore, which was hanging over a chair. Frank turned white as he bent over to examine the shirt. There was, indeed, a great deep bloodstain on the right cuff, besides splashes on the breast, and smears all up the arms. “You ran forward to lift the head of | the murdered man. and that was how the stains came there?” said Clovis; but there was no conviction in his tone, “No,” said Frank, stoutly. though he continued staring at the silent witness before him as if he knew it must bring him to the seaffold. “No. I went up stairs in my nightshirt. Iam struck by a club, At that moment the| going near the bed, only looking to sure of that.” Fert mn Cn mm Frank knew well that ealling in a} ‘ eame to his door, and almost before he ' on his bed and j “My dear fellow,” said Clovis, his: and her husband were calling out to! yojce temulous with earnestness, “as ‘ou value your life say that to no ots sa living resents! I will forget that you have said it to me!” |" vhere was no mistaking his mean- ing; but Frank went on, doggedly: “There are stains on the coat, foo, + see. And ever if it avere possible that I were mistaken about the shirt, 1 can- not possibly haye been , wearing my coat when I went into t™.t room.” “Frank, say that you did not mean to kill him, and I will believe you, ite spite of all the evidence in the world!” | It was a clever speech, but Frank scarcely heard him. He had mechan- ically put his hand under his pillow for his watch, and he had taken fron: under it an open knife, stained to the hilt, black and rusted, with blood that Lad barely driel. “What is this? he said, in a terror- | struck whisper, as if speaking to him- ; Self. It was what is often called a | sportsman’s knife, large and strong, | and having one long blade that, once | opened, could not be closed except by |touching the spring, thus converting t knife into a formidable dagge:- \‘T remember seeing this knife upol the mantle-piece before I went to bed. | I could swear it. How does it come to be under my pillow—in this awful state?’ He shuddered, and dropped | the knife upon the bed. “Frank, you are innocent! suddenly ‘ eried Clovis, jumping up in a transport of delight. “I always knew that you could not have done such a thing iv | your sound senses!” “What can you mean “Dont you see? It is perfectly plain. You are innocent in intention, though guilty in deed. You went up to this | man’s room and killed him in your | sleep! “Good heavens! you are right!” “There can be no doubt about it. Yon went to bed with your mind full of the quarrel you and Joyce had haa; jand in your sleep you rose, artly | dressed yourself, tock the knife you ‘had noticed on the martle-piece be- fore going to bed, and—did what I am sure you would rather have died than do, if you had known what you were | about.” | Frank had sat down and taken his i head between his hands. He was trembling from head to foot. What he | was thinking was, that all must be lover between him and Ursula now. ' She never could become the wife of the man who had shed, even in inno- ‘cence, her father’s blood. His com- | panion’s voice recalled him from the | future to the present. | “Lester, you must let me speak to | you. Pull yourself together and tell me | this: Do you think it is likely or even possible, that the police and the out- side publie will accept the explanation of your having done this thing in you. sleep?” “What on earth do you mean, Clo- vis?” “Mean? I mean just what 1 said. Don’t you see that you are in the most i frightful peril? Good heavens! Sup- pose the police were to enter the room at this moment, and find these blood- stained clothes — that knife! Who would believe that you had been un- conscious when the crime was commit- \tee? I, who know you, believe it with all my heart. But how can you ex- pect that a stranger should believe it? ‘And even if the police did believe it, they would have to act as if they did not. hey would be compelled to ar- rest you and ask that you should be committed for trial. What magistrate would refuse to commit you? Frank, if you want to save your life, you must act at once. Unless you can prove that you were walking in your sleep last night, you will never leave prison alive, if once you fell into the hands of the police. You must go, and at once!” “Clovis, you have saved my life—if it is to be saved; and, indeed, at this moment it seems hardly worth saving. You have thought for me at a time when I can’t think for myself.” “Oh, thank me when the danger is cver. Finish dressing, and I will take these stained clothes and the knife and carry them away in my own bag. While you are dressing, I will run downstairs to see if breakfast is ready, | and see that there are no police about the place. Go to the station as soon as you have swallowed a cup of cof- fee. I should change at the junction, and go across country to Rickhamp- ton and get to London by that route. The moment you arrive go to the Bank and draw out your money—you have enough?” Frank nodded. “Because I should be most happy to lend you whatever you require. Mind that! Write to me at any time. And, of course, you must change your Todg- ings this very night. Change cabs once or twice on the way, to make sure that you are not followed. I be- lieve that’s all. I shall not Ieave the house with you, for there is no use im telling everybody that we are friends; but I will see you at the station.” “How can I thank you, Clovis?” “Just carry out what I have said, my dear fellow, and you will be alt right. Remember that for the sake or your father’s and your mother’s mem- ory, you must not be put in the dock on a charge of murder. Knowirg your- self to be innocent. you must not al- low yourself to suffer as if you were guilty.” Before noon both Frank and his false friend were far away from the neighborhood of the Golden Horn. (To Be Continued.) “ { I believe Clovis, i Whe Origin of ‘As eaint a mixture of words and | {nteriectional cries as T have met with | which gives a minute @escription of the ‘hunter's craft and prescribes exactly what is to be cried to the hounds under all possible contingencies of the chase. If the creatures understood grammar and syntax the language could not be more accurately arranged for their | ears. Sometimes we have whet seem pure interjectional eries. Thus, to en~ courage the hounds to work, the hunts- man is to call to them “Ha halle, halle, halle” while to bring them up before they are uncounted it is preseribed that. | he shall call “Hau hau!” or “Han. ta- | haut!” and when they are uncoupled he | is to change his cry to “Hal to v ta lay la tayou!” a call which suggests the Norman original of the English tally- ho.—Primitive Culture. An Opinion, Edith—Jack says his father threatens j to disinherit him. Marie—That is a mere bluff to make you think his father has money.—~Puck, ».