Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, February 12, 1898, Page 6

| ‘ KIKI IIHS HII SISSIES IIIS. CHAPTER X. Disappointment. until he was alone and to London that Frank s able to realize what had happened. He was truly innocent, so far as will and intention were con- cerned; but he remembered only too well how he had found himself that very night sitting on his bed outside | the counterpane, without recollec- tion of getting out of bed, and he had | no doubt that he had fallen upon } Joyce and killed him in his sleep. One thing that puzzled him some- times when it crossed his mind w How he found his way to Joyce’s bed- room? But this was only one unex- plained point, and it weighed little or nothing with what Frank considered It was on his w Lester the terrible certainties of the case. No {| one, he felt sure, would accept his word for the fact that he had done this thing in his sleep. Clovis w right there, as he had been all along. There w: nothing for it but to hide himself in some obscure corner, until < ave the country. bitter, unshed eyes when he | not possible prang to thought of her! that she should her father’s murderer. It would be better, be | thought, that they should not meet He remembered their last part- Was it really to ? Was he never to look into those dear eyes again—never hear the sound of that gentle voice? Oh, it was hard, bitterly, cruelly hard! But it was better not to try to see her. She certainly could not with to see him. But he would write one letter to her to explain t although it was his hand t struck the blow, he was parting be the ras much relieved to find, on his arrival in London, that he was able to take his money, and the securities in which the remnant of his father’s Property was invested, out of the bank. He had been haunted all the way up town with the fear that there might be officers of the police waiting at the bank to him as soon as he showed his f: fore nightfall he hac changed hi: i so that, for the time he ws to Tilbridge. His object was to break the news to Ursula and obtain from her. if possible, a general authority to | act for her in the meantime. Ursula w r the dreadful news; but even Clovis could see that her feeling was more that of consternation and horror than of grief. It was not wonderful that it should have been so, for Joyce had not shown any great tendern towards his daughter since his return; but Ur-| sula w: sorry and half-ashamed to think that she could not grieve for her father as she had done for her foster mother, Clovis told her nothing of the man- ner of her father’s death. He merely said that he had been found dead in his bed, and that there must be an in- quest. It would be better, he suggest- ed, that the funeral should take place at Moor Edge, and he offered to make | a he arrangements for her if she iked. EAT THE SIGN OF-<asse- § ==THE GOLDEN HORN. & | He had always hated to see a woman | left home, and he showed us quite a Ursula accepted this offer with grati- tude. She would have liked Frank to be with her; but she felt that, consid- ering the way in which her father had regarded him, it would not be seemly he should be near her for the present. Clovis attended the inquest, and ad- mitted that he had spent the fatal night at the Golden Horn. He did not | say now, as he had said to Frank, that he had come to the hotel in the morn- ing. But he explained that he had ar- rived very late, and had no idea that! ‘his friend, Mr. Joyce, in the | house. He admitted that he knew} Frank Lester, and had seen him at the Yon next morning. He had heard that Mr. Joyce had been killed in his bed, but he did not know anything to make him suppose that Lester had comm ted the crime. It v not his busine: to denounce his friend, even if he ‘believed him guilty. Asked as to whether he could suggest any other | person as the murderer, he said he -could not. All he had meant was that he could not possibly believe that his friend, Frank Lester could re done -such a thing. The crime w: to him a@ mystery. Asked whether he could give Frank’s address, he said he had forgotten it, ‘but that it was in his address book in London, and he could furnish it next day, if necessary. This was to give] time to Frank to cover up his traces. He had no wish to see Frank arrested for the murder. It would suit his pur- pose quite as well, or even better, if he s simply forced to efface himself, as doing now. is took care that it was from his own lips that Ursula first heard that it was Frank Lester who was be- lieved to have caused her father’s death. He professed to look upon the rumor as a piece of ridiculous gossip. No one, he said, in a burst of generous | enthusiasm, who had ever known Frank, even if it were for ten minutes, could think him guilty of such a deed. He could see that this profession of faith raised him several degrees al- ‘ready in Ursula’s eyes; but she was sanxious and uneasy, eager to know the truth. The next time Clovis saw Ursula she was in a state of dejection so deep and hopeless that, heartless as he was, it , at him to look at her face. He ‘knew at once that she had heard from Frank, and that he had told her what the believed to be the facts of the case. | “Is this true?” she demanded of Clo- wis, the words choking in her throat. | “If you mean, is it true that Frank fis a somnambulist? I am afraid it is true. He told me of it himscif. But if you mean anything worse than that, I -@an say nothing. All I know is that Frank Lester is not a man to commit ‘@ cruel and cowardly murder, so long as he knew what he was doing.’” ad “Thank you for that, Mr. Clovis! Oh, thank you for saying that! In- deed, you do him no more than just- ice!’ ‘The tears sprang to her eyess| and rolled down her cheeks; her sobs burst forth. Clovis seized her hand in mute expression of sympathy, and she did not try to withdraw it. She had forgotten that Clovis had ever spoken a word of love to her. She only felt glad that this faithful friend—Frank’s ; friend, too!—should be with her, to help her to bear the burden that was / crushing her into the very dust. His ympathy, the sympathy of anyone, s little consolation, but it was bet- than blank loneliness. “There can never be anything more between Frank and me now,” said the girl, with a look of mournfulness that would have moved the pity of a Turk in her tear-laden eyes. “Even he sees that it is impossible. He acknowledg- es that it is better that we should not | meet again. He is quite right—he is right, of course, _but—but—” Her heart cried: “Oh! Frank, Frank! My dear heart, not one other look at you? Not one word to carry in my heart all these terrible, empty years that are to come?” For one moment Clovis was shaken. tel pected a few tears, but gained for a despair He had e had not ba like this. The thought that with a word he could turn her sorrow into joy, her misery into thanksgiving, was all but intolerable. But, he reflected, if he were to speak that word, he must not only lose wealth, greater, in all proba- bility, than he had ever before dreamed of possessing, but he must lose Ursula herself, who would surely tun to him when the stress and tu- | mult of the hour were past. Before he left the house, Clovis put! a question which he had longed to put | the day before. “Don’t you think,” he said, “it would be well, now that there is no man about the house, to send anything of ue to the bank for safe custody?” Phere is nothing of value in the id Ursula; “even the silver ery day is electro-plate.” Clovis looked at her admiringly. No! one, he thought, could have dreamt | that she was not speaking the literal | truth. “Pardon me,” he said,” with a re- spectful smile. “Il was here with a friend, on the day your poor father number of uncut diamonds. I see you know all about them. Your father showed them to you, I dare say?” “Yes, he did; and he told me they were of enormous value.” “I faney he was mistaken on that point, judging from what my friend said, for I know next to nothing of such matters myself. But he told us that he would have taken them to the bank for safe custody, if he had had time before catching his train, and that as he had not time, he would ask you to take them.” (He was able to tell this lie safely, seeing that there was no one to contradict him, and the fact he knew from the letter he had picked up in the library.) “Was it the diamonds papa meant me to take to the bank?” asked the girl, opening her eyes. Again Clovis did ~ot believe that she was speaking the truth. But he did not think any the less of her on that account. It was only natural, he thought, that she should try to mislead him in a matter of such moment. And—was it possible that she would want the diamonds for elf? ula saw the suspicion reflected in her companion’s face, and flushed with indignation. Clovis, not unnatu rally, thought. that the blush meant that she had intended to say nothing about the trust her father had confided to her. “You were out at the time, I remem- ber,” said Clovis, speaking with. the utmost gentleness, “but he said he would write to you. Indeed, he wrote the letter in our presence, telling you where you could find the diamonds, and begging you to take them to the bank that very day, if possible; or, if not then, as soon as you could. Sure- ly, you must remember?” “Yes, I remember,” said) Ursula, speaking in a voice strangely unlike her own. “I remember getting the note, and I looked in the drawer father told me of, but the diamonds were certainly not there. By the way, he did rot tell me it was the diamonds I was to take to the bank. I only guessed that.” “But, my dear Miss Joyce, think a moment. The diamonds must be in the house. Your father left with us to go to the railway station—you know he was going to catch a train for the north. Have you any idea what ean have become of them?’ He looked fixedly at the girl’s face as he asked the question, and she blushed again as she met his gaze. “No,” she said. “I have no idea where they are.” Clovis went on to speak of some- thing else, and shortly afterwards left the house. “That girl is far cleyerer than I thought,” he said to himself, as he walked away. “Hither she suspects that I mean to get hold of the stones. or she thinks that someone may come and claim them, and she does not in- tend to give them up without a strug- gle. 1 don’t believe she has taken them to the bank, but I will soon find out—— I wish I didn’t need to fight her; but there is no help for it if she continues obstinate. I must try to manage it so that I shall win, if possible, without her knowing that it is me she has been fighting all along. Sometimes I almost feel that a fortune without her would hardly be worth having. But I must get the diamonds all the same” And Ursula was saying to herself, as she gazed after his retreating figure: “He actually thinks I have stolen poor papa’s diamonds!, I could see it in his eyes. I am not surprised at his wondering what has become of them; | Joyee; wr but to suspect me! It is horribly mean and wicked of him. Frank would have taken my word against the whole world—against his very eyes and ears. But Frank is different from everybody else. Oh, Frank! Frank! my own heart’s love, am I never to see you again? I cannot, Frank, I cannot live without you!” CHAPTER XI. Ursula in London. The coroner's jury found a verdict of “Wilful Murder” against Frank Les. ter.l1t could hardly do otherwise, al- though several members of the jury would have been thankful for any ex- cuse which would have enabled them to bring in a verdict of suicide. The whole parish—to tell the plain truth— felt that the fact that the heir of one of the old country families should have been betrayed into committing so hor- rible a crime was a much greater ca- lamity than the death of a man like and they would have hushed the matter up if they could. But ap- pearances were too strong for them. There was the quarrel, witnessed by the landlady of the Golden Horn, and Frank’s wild words, uttered as he left the room in a state of uncontrollable agitation. But the thing that seemed to con- demn Frank and brand him as guilty, was that there was no one else who could be supposed to commit the crime. The only other guest staying in the house was Clovis, who had come, not in the morning, as he had stated to Frank, but very late at night. He had gone straight to bed when he came in, being very tired; and the landlady swore that she did not mention Mr. Joyce’s name to him, and he had abso- lutely no knowledge that there was such a person in the house. There was nobody else on the premises who could have dreamed of murdering Mr. Joyce, so it was not surprising that suspicion fastened with eager fang on the man who was known to have haf a quarrel with him. If anything had been wanting to make people certain that the verdict of guilty was the right verdict, it would have been supplied by the fact that Lester had fled. If he were innocent, people said, he would have come for- ward and faced the charge like a man, The inquiry had been adjourned for his attendance, but he had not been heard | of since that fatal night, and the police reported that he was not to be found. ‘rhere could be no longer a shadow of doubt about the matter. Yet there was one human being who did not think him guilty—the dead man's daughter. If there had been a blow, or even a stab, dealt in the heat of a quarrel, she might have believed that Frank had allowed his passion to master him, and that he was guilty. But nothing, she declared, would make her believe that Frank Lester would ; steal to another man’s bedroom in the middle of the night and stab him as he slept. . So she waited patiently, strong in faith, though sore perplexed by her lover’s silence. And at last it came, the letter she had been waiting for ever since that dreadful morning. It came; and when she read it, she felt as one already dead. Her grief, her despair, were too dreaful to be exposed to the gaze of the world. She shut her- self up alone with her sorrow. Of course, she knew she and Frank must not meet again. Innocent though he was, as far as his will was con- cerned, they must be strangers now. She could not wed the man whose hand was red with her father’s blood. Not for a moment did the possibility of such a thing oceur to her. It was a re- lief that Frank seemed to feel this as well as herself. There was no need for a the point. Sometimes the lankness of the desolation in her heart, lately so full of hope and happi- ness, made him wish that he had asked for a last sight of her. But she knew that it was better not. Time went on; the summer changed to autumn; and Ursula’s stricken heart could take no note of the change of season. But she could not remain for- ever shut away from the world. She had to come downstairs, and listen to her father’s lawyer, who came to tell her that he could find no traces of the wealth, of which he had boasted, and to let her know that she must face the world once more, and depend, for the i mcst part, on her own exertions. The | interest of the sum left her by Miss Upten was not enough to maintain her in idleness, even if she had desired to lead such a life. So Ursula sat down to consider what | she had better do. The place that had been hers at the school had been filled when she went to live with her father, and there was no teaching to be had in the neighborhood. Besides, nature told her that what she needed was change of scene. The familiar fields and houses, the very faces of her friends ard acquaintances, seemed to remind her of nothing but the awful desola- tion that had come upon her. She Jonged for another sky, fresh sur- roundings, new faces, that would not torment her with half-veiled, shallow sympathy. So she resolved to go to London and try and find a situation as governess, either in’ a school or in & private family. Among those who ealled to bid Ursu- la farewell was Captain Winter, a nephew of Sir Julius Winter. He was intimately acquainted with her, since he had constantly met hen at Miss | Upton’s, where he used to be a fre- quent visitor. He was a good-natured, foolish, extravagant fellow, too fond of pleasure, too fond of indulging him- self in whatever took his fancy for the time being. Everybody liked him, and nobody would have respected him but for the fact that he was Sir Julius’ heir-at-law, and—the estates were en- tailed. Ursula was pleased to see Captain Winter. She knew that his sympathy was genuine, if not very deep; and when he said that he meant to look her up in London as soon as she had fixed on a place of abode, she believed that he meant what he said, though she did. not believe that the memory of her would so much as cross his mind when he was in London. He spent nearly all his time there, as he and his uxcle weer not on good terms—but, then, Sir Julius was on good terms with no one who knew him well. It was a great change for Ursula to go to London. Much as she had read and heard of the great city, she had no conception of the utter loneliness of a solitary dweller there, until she learned it by experience. She knew that if she were to drop dgwn dead in the street, biert ae ; 1 ! ‘ Ri : , a Si yess, - , the incident would not excite more than a faint, passing sentiment of in- terest or pity in the breast of any hu- Sods being. She was no more 4 the | persons with whom she came into dai- ly contact than the postman or the | ‘|milkman. It seemed to her, shut out as she was from all family life, as if | there was no room in the breasts of those four millions for the commonest human affections. Of course she was mistaken; but from her point of view she could only see one spring of action at work in whatever direction she turned her vyes--the desire of getting money out of other people. She felt that she weuld he choked, morally speaking, if she lived much longer in that unhealthy | atmosphere; and she tried very hard to get a situation, but in vain. No- body wanted a girl who had only the ordinary accomplishments, who had been educated in a country school and who had no certificates. ‘The scholas- tic agencies on which she spent some of her little stock of money, turned out to be little better than established | swindles. It was well for her that she ‘had Miss Upton’s legacy, small as it was; if she had not had it to fall back upon, she must have starved. The only “kenne4 face’ she saw | through those dreary weeks was one | she would rather not have seen at all— | | that of Mr. Eugene Clovis. He came | , to see her several times; and once or twice he brought his friend, Mr. | | Kisch, with him. They did not make | | any pretense about their object—they | | wanted to know what she had done | with the bag of diamonds her father | had intrusted to ber care. | Frequent and careful questioning had ‘convinced Clovis that his friend had not, committed a burglary on his own account; and, indeed, it was next to impossible that he should have done so, Hie was an old man, incapable of much ;exertion; and the job was one that none but a strong man could have un- dertaken on such a night. Ursula must | have the stones; and the two men _ agreed that she was hidirg them some- | where, knowing, perhaps, that they did not really belong to her father, and ‘preferring to let the memory of his tragic death be forgotten before she tried to turn them into money. | As for her protestations that ,she ‘knew nothing about the diamoids, Clovis and the Jew entirely disbe- jlieved her. They did not believe in the virtue of any man or woman, if tempt- ed by a hundred thousand pounds’ worth of untraceable diamonds. Clovis accounted for Kisch’s pres- ence on these occasions by saying that the diamond merchant had an interest in the jewels. Without saying any- thing definite, he gave her to under- stand that they had been purchased on a joint speculation of her father and | Kisch. The two men were so persist- ent that Ursula was forced to tell them | that they must leave her alone for the |future. They took the hint, and showed themselves no more in her lit- tle sitting room. It was about a fortnight after their last visit that Ursula noticed in the Morning Post an advertisement for a lady to fill the post of companion to an | elderly lady. She knew very well that jfor such a position there would be scores, perhaps hundreds of applicants; but she thought that, small as her ichance of being selected was, she , Would not miss it. | ne answered the advertisement, and Iv overjoyed when she got a favora- ble reply. ‘The advertiser was a Mr. Herbert. He gave an address in the | City; and he said that if Miss Joyce’s | references were satisfactory, he would send for her to see his wife. He would sendphis carriage, he said; and he ad- vised her to bring her trunks, so that might take up her residence at « in her new home, if Mrs. Herbert was satisfied with her. | On the day fixed Ursula was ready, | her bill paid, and her one modest trunk | packed, an hour before the time, 5 | o'clock, at which the carriage was to eall for her. It came at last, a dark- colored, single brougham, drawn by a | powerful bay horse; and as Ursula | descended the wax-cloth covered stairs jof the shabby lodging house, she | breathed a prayer that she might never | have to elimb those stairs again. Poor girl! Little did she dream that before three hours had gone by she would \look back with the wild longings of despair to that airless, dready room in which she had spent so many lonely | hours! CHAPTER XII. Trapped. It \as nearly dark when Ursula started, and it was quite dark before |she arrived at ber destination. The | drive was a long one, swiftly as the jhorse trotted. She had no idea what | part of London they had reached; she only saw that they must be in the sub- urhs, for there were leafless, forlorn hedgerows outside the earriage win- dows in place of houses. And she now remembered, fir the first time, that she did not know Mr. Herbert’s home ad- dress. He had always written from the City. At length the carriage turned into a wide gateway. They had evidently been expected, for the gate stood wide open. The brougham was approaching a very large house, that stood quite by itself among some tall, gaunt trees. It stopped, and Ursula got out. The door was opened without anyone ringing by an old woman, whom Ursula took for a ;charwoman. She muttered something about house-eleaning to account for the bare appearance of the hall, and led the way up to the second floor. The passages were dark, the only light | coming from the eandle which the wo- man carried in her hand; so Ursula noticed nothing beyond the fact that the stairease was wide, as befitted the. house of a wealthy London merchant, and that the carpets had been lifted. She was. shown into a good-sized’ room, brilliantly lit with gas; and here, for the first time, the girl was genuine- ly surprised. The apartment was fur- nished partly as a bedroom and partly as asittingroom; and the materials for a meat tea stood on a side table, She had hardly had time to look around when a knock was heard at the door, snd a man entered, carrying her trunk. As he came in the eld woman disappeared. Ursula supposed that the ways of the household were rather ec- centric, for, as the tea things were there, and a kettle was singing on the fire, she presumed that she was to make tea for herself. She had just finished the meal, and was in the act of ringing the bell, when } ment, Mr, Kisch walked into the room and locked the door behind him, put- ting the key in his pocket, He grinned at her look of Ae, and coolly seated himself, Ursula took a step forward and rang the bell a second time. “May [ ask what you are doug | Lere?” she sald to him, “L ran up to have a little chat with you,” he answered, coolly, "I hope you found the tea good, and every thing to you liking?” ‘““Who are you? What is it to you | how I am treated?” | “I shouldn't like you to be uncow | fortable while you stay here-that's | all,” said the Jew, stealthily rubbing his bands one over the other, | “But I don’t understand. What bave you to do with it?” “Tam M-. Herbert.” | “You?” “I took the name of Herbert #0 a8 to make sure of getting you to come bi | where we can talk quietly without any | interruption.” *Paut this is an outrage! I will not submit to it!” And again Ursula pulled the bell violently. “You 1eedn’t trouble to ring. The bell will only be answered when IL please, and I don’t please now.” “What do you mean? Tell me at once what is the meaning of this con- | duct?” “I want to tell you but you won't : give me a chance of speaking a word. Yes, sit down; that’s better. Now we can talk at our ease. You see, the way of it is this: 1 gave your father a great deal of money, as much as £3,000 in all, for him to buy diamonds. with in the rough, and we were to share the profits when they were cut and sold. You see? Well, he did buy | them, and bought them cheap, too, L | don’t deny it. hen he brought them | home, and I went down to his place in | the country, two days before his death, | to have a look at’em. He wanted to | keep them all together, and, though 1 | wished to divide them as they were,. I gave in to him. But I objected to his: | keeping them in a drawer in his writ- ing table. Surely, that was reason- able. “Well, he said he would send them to the bank for safety, seeing that he was going to leaye home for a time. Now he is dead, and I want my s of the diamonds. 1 know you hav them, or can tell me where they are to be feund. And, Miss Joyce, I will deal fairly by you. If you will give me the | stones, I will sell them to the best ad- e, and you shall have your fath- er’s share, which was to be one-third. | I can’t say fairer than that, cqgn L? It was to you he intrusted them when he left home, and there is no use of your 1ying you don’t know where the diz monds are, for nobody will belie you. I can sue you at law, but it would only be throwing gcod money after bad. And what was I to do? Was I to sit down and do nothing? | Not likely! What I’ve decided is this— that you will stop here, if it were twenty years, until you hand over the | diamonds—or, what is the same thing?! give me a letter to whoever you have given them, ordering him to give them up to nie. Now, what do you say?” In his excitement, the Jew had wrig- gled forward in his chair till it seemed as if he must slip down to the ground. | His face worked strangely; he almost came to believe im the truth of the monstrous Les he had been telling Ur-- sula. She, too, was terribly excited, but she tried to keep as cool as possi- ble. When Kisch stopped speaking, she only took a long breath and tried to speak calmly. “Whether ail this story you have been telling me is true or not, I don’t | know. It doesn’t sound very likely—” Here the Jew interrupted her with a norrible impreeation, but she took nou notice, and he did not speak again till she had finished. “But whether it is true or not does not make the least difference. I tell | you, once for all,. I know nothing about the diamonds. I never got them. Someone must have stolen them out of the drawer before I came home that afternoon, As soon as I came in I} found my father’s mote, and went and got the keys immediately. The dia- mounds were not there” “What time was that?” “A little after four.” Kisch heaved a sigh of relief. He had had from the first a haunting fear | that Clovis had stolen the diamonds himself, and! thet his accusation of Ur- | sula was a pure pretense in order to hide his own guilt. But he saw row that it was impossible that he should haye the stones, for Clovis had never once been out of his sight from the time when they left the Old Rectory in company with Mr. Joyce himself | vntil nearly 5. o’eloelk. To be sure, somebody els¢ might: have heard of the diamonds, and made his way into the house in broad day- light,. and gone by aecident to the right drawer. Pooh! It was ridiculous to think that that could happened. Even if Joyee had Deer fel enough to speak of the stones, he would not tell any- one where he kept the key, and the: drawer had not been forced. No. Ur- sula must have hidden the diamonds: away somewhere; there could be 20» dovbt about it; amé@ now it must be w trial of strength between her obstinacy: and his. “i have thought it all out carefully;?” he said, speaking with his wicked eyes: | fixed on hers, “and I find it is certain: that you have the diamonds. So it’s. of no. use to deny it. And all I’ve got to, say is, here you stop until you:sigm an erder for them to be given up, or tell us. where they are, and we get them into owe hands. Then we will let you go, and gladly, but not till then, if it should be ten years, or twenty years. You may as well understaad that from the first.” “By what right do you. dare to keep: me @ prisoner in a free country?” cried’ Ursula, vising, and walking upto the eld man with flashing eyes. “By no rigirt at all, except the right of every man to get back what has been stolen from him the best way he ean, and that’s good enoug® right for me. If you have as much sense as a fly, you'll give up talking sbout rights and try te make up your mind te give in, After all, yow'll have a thint share, and that’s quite as much as you | would be entitled to in any case.” “J tetl you, for the last time that, if you were to keep me here the whole of my life, I could not tell you where the diamonds are, for I @e not know.” “You do not know where they are, and you do not knew who has them?” “No, I do not, as God is my Judge!” “Your memory will improve, I have no doubt, with a little time for rest | nnd reflection,” said the Jew, with an the door opened, and, to her amaze- ugly stile, “Meanwhile, while we are | direction of the door; forced, in a way, to entertain you, we shail make you as comfortable as we vain, 1 ou poor way, There are some hooks heve, you see, and & piano—im old one, to be sure, but better than nothing, here is a bathroom on the left there, with het and cold water lnid ob -everything as confortable as civolinetiives will permit of, you see. The ouly thing we are forced to refuse you is exercise; but that, you will ad- nit, is leapossitile, at present, Howev- ev, the prison door is Jocked om the in- side—Hin, ha! Whe said that? An ex- collent plivase! Yes: Jocked om the in- side, nid Whenever you choose i shall be thrown wie open. 1 bid you g@d evening,” He had vise as speech, and taken a lie finished this step or two im the while Ursula was still too indignant at this astonnd- ‘ing lnipertinence to answer, the old man bad Wilocked the door, passed through it and shot a bolt on the out- side, ‘There was no thie then to trans- fer the key from one side of the door to the other; and the old Jew was ‘ trembiinglest Ursua, a healthy, stvong ke a dash for But he need young woman, shoulda freedom then and the: not have been alarmed. it never oc- cu to the girl to oppose her strength to that of the servants and other people whom she supposed to be | in the house, As soon as she had overcome the first feclings of bitter disappointment, and her indignation at the outrage of which she v the victim, she begam to take heart, and tell herself that her plight was not so very desperate. Someone must come to th were only to bring her food;, an er or later she would find a y communicating with the outside worki. Then it would be the turn of her capt- ors to be terrified. The worst.ot it was: that she had no one, no true, staunch friend, to whom she could appeal, with a certainty that her appeal! would be listened to, and all that could be done fer her liberation would certainly be done. If Frank were— But it was better not to think of him. There was another hoye for her. Iv was hardly possible that she should pot be able, sooner or later, to con- vince her jailers that she did not im thuth know anything about the dia- monds; and, a mn their delusion was. shaken, they would be sorry that they had proceeded to such extremities, and. she would be able to make her ewn. terms with them. This thought supported her for the rest. of the evening; and Ursula was glad to find that she did not lose her courage or give way to a fit of despair, as at one time she had very nearly done. But when imprisonment had lasted a day or when she had had time to see the significance of the alter- ations that had been made for keeping her more securely; the opening in the panel ef the door through which her meals. were thrust three times a day; the double windoy to keep in the sound of her screams, the outer one provided with outer shutters, whicli could be closed from an adjacent win- dow,. shutting in her voice and shut- ting out every ray of light—when she though how much re and time had been spent in getting the prison ready for her, it seemed madness to dream that she: would be allowed to escape from. it.. She might have to svend years,. perhaps half a life-time, in that hateful. room! And then she would break down in a fit of wild sobbing and tears. calling on Frank and her. father, and her old friend, Miss Upton, to. come and deliver her. When she v exhausted by her grief;. when her mind and her courage were weakened by the rigor of her im- prisonment, the wily old man would pay her a visit, and speak soothingly to her; tryimg to get her to divulge the: secret he helieved her to possess. Of cours, these efforts were vain, for Uu- sula did not in truth know what had become of the stones which had been, the cause of so much misery to her. But the Jew was obstinate, and would not be- convinced, and so the weeks dragged their slow length along, till. the poor: girl had lost all count of.the time: She: couil@ not find it in her heartito. touch the old tinkling piano now. No book had any power to make her for- get her: wretchedness. She would sit fo. hours wrapped in a blanket to keep, her-warm,. staring at the blank boughs of the trees that grew opposite her window,.sometimes trying to think that all. was- nwt lost, that the day of her- deliverance would surely come, but more oftea sunk in a melanchely se. profound that she neither hoped nor- feared. Her mind was benumbed; she was onilyy eonscious of a dull, endless. sufftering:. @o be Continued.) her His Misfortune. Pick-Mb-Up: He was a successful young. author. of psychological novels.and char- acter studies, and he was trying to. ens courage the elder men with a..few hints. of. the mammer of his genius. “L amsingularly talented that way,” he told; them: “I have a vast penetration. I; can tell! at a glance, for instance, what people are thinking of me.” “Veny clever, no doubt,”” commented one: of the veterans; “but—you must pass a, very: miserable existence.” And? tte young man went and leaned) his head against the coch marble mantel-. piece to help him to thiak it out. Her Full itame. New: Orieans Times-Democrat: That negro. imiks: have a florid tastes in: nomenclature is. well, known, The finer the name, the more certain. the dusky mothemis of bestowing it;on, her. offspring. Nancy an@ Betsy lsaye had thei day, and in their stead appear Lillen. Gisaee’ Stella, and Mabel. Hewever, it spmetimes hap. hens that the owner o{ian uncommon name is. not 2 to be thts. singles: out from the. vulgex herd of Johns and Janes. An up-town. housekeeper has a wasberwomam with the queer- Christian name of "damsel, and it once oc- curred to her to ask this Madonna. of the tubs, for whom, or what.. she haw been called: In vepiy to the quesidon the washlady. sajd:. “"Pwas a frien’ of meh maw gimme that en- tats; an’ a mighty, ugly ong it-is, L mus! say. But Y've got wolme names than that," she. , sloomily; ‘meh: fulg name’s Queen, Vie~ teria Damse Jones.’* sec au igen a A te Fresh-Por® Cluhs, To be in the swim in certain parts of Maine, it is necessary; to be ar nember of what are ealled “‘fresh-york cluds.’” These clubs, ie ap- pears, are ccroperatine, organizations for ikijil~ ing hogs ard keepiag the members supplied with fresh yerk for the seasam. The social and sanitary advantages of membership. in a fresh- pork club are mauy. As js well knowa to al Americans who have lived im the country, the pig-killing time begins ta September and coa- tinues at intervals uptil the holidays, By join. ng a ckab a faraily can prolong the fresh pork season for months, as the pork ef each slaugh- ter is divided among the members. But this ia not tke only advantage of membership. A Jocal paper says that fresh-pcrk clubs have become So important in many communities that wed and sociai entertainments are ai a oat “they may come off in pig-Klll e val a \