Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, February 19, 1898, Page 6

f EAT THE SIGN OF=ssss- & ==THE GOLDEN HORN. § SEKI LEIIEIILSIS IISA AE ASI CHAPTER XIE, Frank Takes the Alarm, All this time Frank Lester had been fiving quietly in a small house in one of the large, densely-populated Lon- fell upon one of the round lamps which mark out for Londoners the stations of the Metropolitan Railway. Should he go by the railway, or take a cab? The railway was cheaper, and nearly as safe. A trivial question, surely; and perhaps it was just as well that there was no one to whisper in Frank’s ear that the whole course of his future life don suburbs—one of those wildernesses j depended on his decision. ‘The railway where a man may live a lifetime in the next street to his oldest friend, and never find it out. He told his landlady that he was a liter: an excuse for sitting indoors most of the d: and going out for long walks in the veinings. He had taken the pre ition of changing his name, but it was not really nece: for him to make even this slight effort at self- effacement. No one in his neighborhood took the slighetest interest in the murder at the Golden Horn; and even if anyone had done so, he would never have suspect- ed that the quiet, studious gentleman who had Mrs. Collins’ dining room had anything to do with it. Frank had succeeded in “cutting his painter” very effectually; and, short of a chance encounter, of which there was very lit- tle probability so long as he lived as he was doing, he was as safe as if he were in the Australian bush. At first he s unable to think of anything but these two things—that he would never see U: la again, and that if the police once apprehended him, he would end his days on the s within a month or two. Then, by de- grees, the keen anguish of his loss gave way to a dull misery; and, grad- ly, his fear of being recognized and taken to a police station became less acute. Finally, this fear passed away, and his whole nature rebelled against the unnatural isolation in which he was spending his days. Robinson Crusoe could hardly have been more lonely than he v and the longing to see Ursula, even if it were at a distance, the thirst for news of her, became ab- solutely unerdurable. . He had asked Clovis, who knew his ; place of refuge, for news of Ursula, _ and Clovis had told him that she had come to London, professing to know nothing more than this. But Frank was not content. He would have her addre though he bad no intention then writing to her again, much less of trying to see her. He begged Clo- vis to obtain the address for him, and Clovis dared not refuse to give it to him. He knew well enough that if he declined, or pretended that he could mot find out what had become of Joyce's daughter, Frank would not only make inqu es that would lead to his arrest—which would not have suited Mr. Clovis at all—but it would very likely cause Frank to doubt his (Clo- y altogether, and lead to nving the address, Frank wrote to his lost loye, begging her to let. him have one line from her, even if it were ~only to tell him that she had received his letter, and believed that he had spoken the truth about the manner of her father’s death. He waited a day—two days—four da yet no answ At the end of aj; week be was ill with pure misery. He had ent ted Ursula, by the memory of their love that had been, to let him have a word in reply, even if it was only to that she was well. He could hardly believe that she had got his leiter. It was not like Ursula to refuse so harmless a request. At last | he determined to find out whether she was still at the addr that had been given him or not. Tre following morning he went to ‘London, and took a cab to the street dm which Ursula-had lived. His knock was answered by stout, pale-faced young woman, who seemed to resent being called on to listen to inquiries | about a former lodger, from whom she could not expect another farthing. As she was sending ank away with the curt information, ‘Don't live here now—don't know where she’s | gone,” a door opened in the passage, | and a voice, evidently the voice of the mistress, called out: that anyone inquiring for Miss t said Frank, eagerly. “I am me,” said the landlady, stepping out into the hall. “Miss Joyce is a young dady for whom I have the greatest re- spect. She left here it might be a month ago, and forgot to give any di- rections about her letters. I have tak- en them in, thinking that she would surely write for them, but she has not done so; and if she don’t write soon, 1 | shall have to give them back to the | postoflice people. I can’t keep them here forever.” ” “Of course not—but it’s very strange. | y I see the letters?” ' The landlady consented to show them to him, and he stepped into the passat The letters were dated back for a month at least Several of them bore the ‘lilbridge postmark, from which it was evident that Ursula’s friends in | ge. was very unpleasant—he would take a b. But it would not be safe to take a hansom, it must be a four-wheeler, ry man. This was} and four-wheelers were so abominably slow—he would the Under- ground. So he decided, and he had hardly taken his seat in the carriage, when Joe Turnbull, an old schoolfellow of his, came in and sat down opposite him Fortunately, no one else was in the ear se. The two men stared at gach other for perhaps half a minute without speaking Turnbull knew _ perfectly well who Frank was; and Frank saw by hi re that he knew all about the murder. Would he give him up? Tor the first time the folly of risking his life—and something more than the mere peril of death—on the chance of not meeting anyone who would recog- nize him, forced itself upon Frank's brain. He had been a fool, and he must now pay the penalty of his folly. He did not say a word. Not a mvs- cle of his face moved, as he looked his old friend steadily in the eye. The train began to move. Suddenly Turnbull, who had been sitting with folded arms, let them drop upon his knees, and bent forward. “I can’t do it, Lester!” he said, in an agitated whisper. “It’s no use. I can’t be the ene to give you up. You're safe enough,so far as I am concerned—but, oh! Frank, what made you do such a thing? You must have been mad!” “You are not quite right, Joe,” said Lester, coolly, “but not far out. IT was not mad, exactly. I was walking in my sleep” “You were what?” : “I was king in my sleep when I ed Richard Joyce. I have no re- imembrance of going near him, and it puzzles me even now how I got to his room. But no doubt I did get there’— ard he shuddered at the thought of what he must have done in that great, silent room. But Turnbull had not yet recovered ii se. “You were walking he repeated. Don’t you remember how I used to be given to it when I was at school? Don’t you remember Dr. Mor- ris catching me on the stairs late at night, and it was not until he was go- ing to lick me that he discovered that I was sound asleep?’ “Remember it? Of course I do! And I say, Frank, lots of the fellows must be able to swear that you were a regu- lui{ somnambulist in the old days. Wouldn't that be a great thing in your favor? Wouldn't it be the best way to give yourself up to the police, and tell them just what you have told me? Don’t suppose that I am pressing it upon you,” he added, seeing that Les- ter did net reply at once, “but I think it’s worth considering.” “If I had to do it over again,” said Frank, in a voice that shook a little, in spite of allt he could do, “realizing, as I do row, what it is to be an outlaw, and that the disgrace to- my father’s name is nearly as bad as it would have go by | been if——if—the worst had happened, 1 almost think that 1 would have given myself up. But the risk seemed too great, and [ took the advice of a friend j who said he thought I was certain to be convicted. Now I think it is too late. They could say it was an after- thought—to declare that I had done it in my sleep They would ask for some better proof than the evidence of my schoolfellows. Somnambulism is a thing one grows out of, and I did grow jout of it—but it kept on coming back to me when my trouble eame.” “Frank, you are not well—you are very far from well,” said Turnbull, as the train stopped at the Temple Sta- tion “You get out here, and come to wy consulting room. I have a small practice among men who live in the ‘Temple and men of business who have ofttices in the neighborhood. You didu’t know I was a doctor? Well, Iam; and I’m going to doctor you; so come along!” “It’s awfully good of you, Joe; and I shall be thankful to! come, for T | haven’t spoken to a soul since—since it happened. But it is my mind, not my body, that wants doctoring.” “You shall tell me all about it after lunch,” said Turnbull. The young surgeon listened in: si- lence, but with the keenest interest, while Frank told his friend the whole story of his engagement, the disap- proval of Joyce, Cloyis’ advice that he should meet Joyce without revealing his identity, the issue of the experi- ment, the quarrel, and what followed it—his return to London, and, finally, Ursula’s mysterious disappearance. With regard to the last point,” said Turnbull, when he had finished all he | “my advice would be that you consult a fellow I know called Hurrell. He was formerly one of the | the country did not not know any | detective staff at Scotland Yard, but more than he himself what had be- come of her. Among the other envel- copes was the one he had addressed to her a week before. ¥rank lett the house in a state of be- wilderment, tinged with vague alarm, Where could Ursula have gone, or! what could have happened to her, that , him. she had not written for her letters to he left them on account of something they wanted him to do that he didn’t approve of. He’s a wonderfully deter- mined fellow, though he is so quiet. He still lends a hand for the Scotland Yard folks occasionally—but I think you are perfectly safe in consulting Of course, you need rot tell him who you are unless you like; but if I be forwarded? The mere fact that she | were you I would do so, for not only is was not receiving hny would be enough | he a very honorable man. but he is ab- to remind her that she had left no in- | surdly grateful to me for some little structions about them. She must be ill, and it was intolerable that she thing I did for him once when he was ill, and he wouldn’t injure a friend of should be ill, and that he should have | mine for the world.” no idea whether she was recoyering or not. As he walked slowly away from the ‘house, he resolved to go to Clovis and | then,” said Turnbull. see if he could tell him anything. He @ookeé around for a cab, and his ere | Frank thanked his host warmly, and promised to take his advice. “We had better look him up now, “We can’t go to see him at night, for he plays the ’cello in the orchestra at one of the theaters And you would never guess what he ! does that for!” : ‘“o conceal his true occupation from the world?” ce “Partly, I daresay; but chiefly be- cause he is in love with one of the girls in the chorus of the comic opera they are playing. And she won't look at him, because—well, because, for one thing, he is a hunchback. And he is sacrificing his whole future—for he can’t take up serious cases while his. nights are engaged—for the sake of looking at the hard-hearted fair one every night! Such is life!” CHAPTER XIv. The Hunchback. The two friends found Hurrell at home—he lived in chambers in one of the small streets that ran down toward the river, on the south side of the Strand. Frank had expected to see a dwarf, from Turnbull's description of bim. But Hurrell was not that. He was something under the average height, with a very keen, pale, smooth-shaven face, steady eyes and particularly qui- et manner, One of his shoulders was, undeniably, higher than the other. “Don’t you find it lonely, sitting up here all by yourself?’ asked Turnbull, as he glanced down at the street—one of those silent thoroughfares in which a passenger cab creates quite a sensa- tion. “Yes, it is quiet, certainly; but 1 rather like it on that account. I should not like to live in the whirl of London, but here I am close to it, and yet out of it Often not a foot climbs my stairway from Monday to Saturday; and the silence is delightful, after the streets. But, can I be of any use to you? You know, Mr. Turnbull, I should only be too glad and thankful to have an opportunity of serving you.” “Not at present, Hurrell; though I can assure you that, if ever the ocea- sion should arise, I will make a bee- Yine for your diggings. It is my friend here who wishes to corsult you pro- fessionally.” ‘Turnbull laid a stress on the last word, to indicate what he was about to say was in confidence. He then went on to tell Hurrell, in Frank’s presence, the whole story of Frank’s betrothai, and his meeting with Joyce, of whose death Hurrell had seen a re- port. He then went on to say that the death of Joyce had done what his life could not have effected—it had caused the separation of the lovers, and that it was not until lately that Frank had made any attempt to see Ursula. He then spoke of her disappearance, and of Frank’s anxiety to know what had become of her. While Turnbull had been speaking, Hurrell bad not uttered a single word, only making a note from time to time in a small note book, holding up his pencil as a sign to Turnbull to give him time to write a few words. When all had been told him, he sat for a minute or two in silent thought. “Itather a_ difficult case, isn’t it?’ said Turnbull—“‘not much to make a start from, is there?” “Hardly anything—hardly anything at all,” said Hurrell, softly, if speaking to himself. Then, in a Ioud- er tone, he added: “I am surprised and interested by what you tell me, though; for, as it happens, I am en- gaged at this moment in tracing the movements of another young lady, whom I think I shall find to-morrow; and from the inquiries I made in her case I am positively certain that none of the police or hospital authorities have had notice of any accident, or, in short, any event which could throw light upon the mystery of Miss Joyce’ disappearance. A good deal of work will thus be saved; but, in the mean- time, it makes it the more strange that no one should know what has become of her.” “Of course, it is more than possible, it is likely, that the apparent mystery is no mystery at all. The young lady may simply have left town in a hurry, and may have forgotten to send for her letters. We will hope that it is so; and, indeed, there is no evidence wha ever that this is not the true expla tion. But if Miss Joyce has not sim- ply changed her lodgings, or left Lon- don of her own accord; if anything hke foul play or undue influence has been at work—and I repeat that there is really no reason why we should sup- pose that there is—it looks as if some bold and determined hand had been at work. Let me ask you a few ques- tions,” he said, turning to Lester. “Certainly,” said Frank; “ask me anything you choose.” “Can you give me the names of any of Miss Joyce’s friends who live in or near London?” “She has none, so far as I know.” “Not one?” “No. She led a perfectly retired life in asmall country town. She had nev- er, to my knowledge, been in London before; and I never heard her speak of having friends or relations in Lon- don.” “None of the Tilbridge folks ever went to settle in London?” “No. I don’t believe that when she arrived here a few months ago, she knew a soul in the metropolis to speak to except myself and Mr. Clovis.” “He lives in London, then?” “Yes. Perhaps I ought to tell you that Clovis was at one time a suitor of Miss Joyce’s, but when he found that her affections were as good as en- gaged he gave way at once, like the good fellow he is, and ‘ever after dia lis best to help us.” “Indeed,” said Hurrell, sympathetic- “In any particular way?’ by trying to reconcile Mr. yee to the idea of having me for a son-in-law, and by his sympathy and advice. It was he who put it into my head to try to meet Joyce as if we were strangers, and try to strike up a friendship with him before his preju- | dices had time to work, as it were.” “Indeed! Thay was bis idea, was it? ‘Then I understand Mr. Clovis is in your confidence? He knows where you are living at present?” “Certainly. I should not dream of holding anything back from him. And let me tell you, that if you are run- ning away with the idea that Clo- vis—” 5 “Is responsible for Miss Joyce's dis- appearance, you would say? I assure you, Mr. Lester, we are a very long way from accusing him, or anybody else, of such a thing, at present. ‘That would be cutting before the point with a vengeance. But Miss Joyce knew | him, I thimk you said, rather intimate- ly. He might possibly be able to give us some information; and, in that case, I would rather put a question or two to him myself, if you don’t mind. I should prefer, therefore, that if you meet him, you should not say a word ee Miss Joyce’s disappearance to m.' “If you wish it—very good.” “What is Mr. Clovis—I mean, has he any profession?” “No. I think I have heard him speak of having shares in companies, ‘ond making money by buying and sell- ing them. But that was some time ago. I believe he has means of his own. He always has plenty of mon- cy, though he is not a spendthrift.” “And in appearance?’ “He is tall and dark, well dressed, and with the manners of a gentleman. I can’t help: repeating, Mr. Hurrell, that if you begin to think of him asa suspected person, you will only be wasting your time.” “I quite understand that, Mr. Les- ter,” said Hurrell, respectfully, but with perfect coolness; and, having jotted down Clovis’ address in his note book, he said: “If I were you, Mr. Lester, I would go home, and force myself to think that Miss Joyce has merely changed her rooms, or that she has gone on a visit to some friends, or that, in any | ease, he address will scon be discoy- ered. You cannot possibly undertake to make any investigations. Even if here were no danger to yourself—and there would be very great danger—you could not, for want of experience in such cases, make any progress. And, besides, you might spoil my own hum- ble efforts. Will you promise me that you will leaye the matter entirely in my hands?” Aftr some further pressing, Frank very unwillingly gave the required promise, and he and Turnbull went away. As they passed down stairs they heard a heavy step on the stairs be- low them; and presently the burly form of an inspector of police made its appearance. The two young men stood aside in the corner of the stairs to let the big man pass by; and Turnbull, ‘thinking it might be a trial to his friend’s nerves to stand the scrutiny of a man who was under orders to ap- prehend him, touched Frank’s hand to assure him of his sympathy. It was cool and steady as Turnbull's own. The inspector gave a sharp look at the two friends, but he went on without suspecting that a man against whom a warrant for murder was out was within a few inches of him. He went on to the top of the house-and knocked at Hurrell’s door. Hurrell opened the door himself. “Oh, it’s you, is it? Come in and have a cup of coffee and a pipe. Has something been bothering you? Those cheeky burglars, eh?” “Cheeky ain’t the word for it,” said Mr. Thompson, sitting down and pant- ing a little, for three pairs of stairs count for something to a man of the inspector's build. “Confounded impu- | dience, 1 call it, and nothing else. You saw this morning’s paper?’ Huyrell nodded. “There’s ben another one since. In Grosvenor Mansions. Early this morn- ing. It will be in the evening papers, I daresay, though we've done our best to keep it out. Lady Cunningham's dimonds gone; and all her other trink- ets—bracelets, brooches, stars and all the rest. A clean sweep. Safe in her ladyship’s bedchamber forced—only night her ladyship had not slept at home for a twelye-month.” “That could hardly be a coinci- dence,” said Hurrell, thoughtfully. No one but a fool could think it was a coincidence,” said the inspector, snappishly, “but some fools are such asses as you never saw. I say it’s all one gang— one gang that’s been at work in the very best districts of London for two months and more, And we can’t find the least clue to ’em, much less catch ‘em. Oh, it’s enough to make one cut one’s throat!’ “Cheer up, man. You'll be one too many for ’em yet.” “I wish I could think so. But we haven't the least morsel of clue to go upon. Stay, one curious thing hap- pened in the last case that came out in the papers—Sir Evan Mangold s. About 4 in the morning, just about the time the rascals must have been get- ting off with their booty,one of our men, in an excess of zeal as I call it, stopped a doctor’s carriage, and want- ed to know where he was going. It seems that the doctor told him to mind his own business, with a deal o’ what the gents call unparliamentary lan- guage. But No. F, 452 stuck to his guns, and took the doctor’s name and address.” “Which turned out to be false? asked Hurrell, as the other paused for breath, for he was now thoroughly in- terested, and he could not see how the incident could be of ay moment, if it was really a doctor’scarriage that had been stopped. “No, not false. That was the cun- ning they showed. The name and ad- dress were right encugh, but the man they belonged to was fast asleep in his own bed at the time.” “So your man actually stopped the purglar’s carriage?’ “Looks like it, don’t it? They must have a lot of money behind them to have a horse and brougham at their service. And we thought—that is, IL thought—that for the sake of old times, you might give us a hint or two, perhaps.” “George, I know nothing that would be of the slightest use to you,’ said Hurrell; and, as the other rose with a disappointed air, he said: “On Wednesday night, and for several nights after that, I shall be my own master after half-past eleven. You see that instructions are given that the moment that brougham or any suspi- cious-looking trap is seen again, the constable who sees it bolts straight oft to the nearest station, and that news of it, and the direction it was seen go- ing in, are telephoned at once to Darn- ley street. I shall be there shortly af- ter midnight; and perhaps we will be able to put a pinch of salt on the night-bird’s tail.” CHAPTER XV. A Gleam of Hope. On the Wednesday evening after his conversation with the inspector of po- lice, Hurrell stopped at a florist’s on ‘his way to the theater, and bought a | small but lovely bouquet. When he | reached the theater he went to the | door of the green-room, asked a ques- ' tion or two, and then went up a nar- row staircase and along a still nar- ee rower corridor. Halting at a door that bore the number 17 upon it in white paint, he tapped gently; and a rich | contralto voice called out, ‘Come in!” “Gracious!” she exclaimed, hurried- ly, snatching up the skirt of a dress and throwing it around her shoulders. “How dare you come here!” and she | turned on her visitor with an angry look. “lm sure I beg your pardon, Miss Annesley,” said Hurrell, composed, as usual, though his pale cheeks were a little fiushed. “It is not against the rules to knock at the door of a lady’s dressing-room.” “Oh, I know,” said the girl, impa- tiently. “It was my fault, I suppose, But you have no business to be in this part of the house at all. What on rth do you want?’ “I came up to congratulate you on having a part assigned to you. I had no opportunity yesterday. And I ven- wured to bring you a flower,” he said, holding out the bouquet timidly. “No, thank you, Mr. Hurrell—well, ! there, I will take them. It was very kind of you to get them for me, and they are just love! But you should not bring me flowers, you knew. And perhaps 1 shouldn't take ’em. I don’t want to—” “To be thought to encourage me. I know that perfectly well, Miss Annes- Tey.” long as that’s understood, L all right,” said the young proceeding to put the suppose lady. coolly, blossoms into a cracked tumbler on her dressing table. “Have you been at Mysore Lodge since I left?’ she said, bending dowu oyer her flowers. “Only once.” “Was a Mr. Clovis there, do you know?” “Clovis? No. There was there but myself.” Somethng in the tone of his voice startled Blanch Annesley. “Do you know Mr. Clovi she asked, quickly. “T never saw him, to my knowledge,” was the answer. / Again the girl bent down over her flowers. Hurrell moved slowly to- ward the door. “If you could bring me some news of my mother now and then, I would be obliged to you,” she said at last. “I expect she'll have to leave that man before long,” she went on, with- out waiting for a reply. “If she took my advice, she would leave him now. I was there on Sunday, and I thought she had something on her mind. I know you are not on the police force now, but if you wish to act a friend's part by me, try to get my mother out of the way before—before anything happens to her husband.” “Yeu may depend on it that if I have a chance I will try to get her out of the way. She ought never to have married that man.” “Youre right there! She was a fool —but then, we were half-starving. He is a bad man, and he has mastered her, body and soul. She has no will of her own now, whatever. But you must be off now, or I shall be late— and what would happen if I wasn’t ready to go on when my turn comes? I should be ruined for life. Good-bye, and thank you for the flowers.” Hurrell went down to his place in the orchestra, not altogether satisfied with the result of his visit up-stairs, At a quarter past twelve Hurrell was sitting in the Darnley Street po lice station, a newspaper in his hand, and a light bicyele leaning against the wall behind him. Nothing happened, however, that night, and on the fol- lowing night Hurrell was there again. About four in the morning he was sound asleep before the fire, when the ting-ting of the warning bell was heard; and in an instant Hurrell was on his feet, as wide awake as he had ever been in his life. “Dark brougham with fast bay horse seen two minutes ago passing south side of Devonshire Square, going west,” came the m nd almost before the last word was uttered Hur- rell was out of the room, and was pi- loting his machine through the pass- age. A few seconds later he was fly- ing westward like the wind. It was at the best rather a forlorn hope that he would be able to over- take the brougham; but there were two or three main thoroughfares lead- ing westward, and if by chance he should take the one which the brou- gham had taken befére him, it was quite possible, he thought, that he might be able to run it down. The detective went on at racing speed until, he had reached one of these thoroughfares—a wide road stretching away in the distance, at that hour quite deserted. As soon as he met a policeman, he rode up to him, ard asked whether a brougham, driven very fast, had gone by within the last half-hour. The man said “No,” but Hurrell was not satistied, from his manner of answering, that no one he had actually been in the street at that time. He rode slowly on. In three minutes he met another police- man, and receiving the same report, that no brougham had been seen—he turned down a side street, to make his way to the second of the main routes he had in his mind’s eye. He soon reached it, and the same process of questioning was gone through, with the same result. A good deal of time had now been Jost, and Hurrell was beginning to think that he might as well give it up, for that night, at all events, when his sharp ear caught the beat of a horse's hoofs on the road behind him. There was uo sound of wheels, but Hurrell was prepared for that. It was most likely that the brougham would have rubber tires. He darted into a side street, and waited, with his “b‘ke” hidden in the approach to one of the houses. He had not long to wait. With a speed like that of a railway train the brougham darted across the end of the street; and before it had reached the next turn Hurrell was after it. His task was an easy one now. There was no difficulty in keeping up with the horse; the chief thing to mind was that he did not get too rear, so as to attract the attention of the driver. For nearly an hour the bicycle fol- lowed the carriage. The streets had now been left behind. Tall, straggling hedges of thorn lined the roadsides, and Hurrell was forced to ride his hardest in order to keep up with the brougham on the soft grourd. He had allowed it -to get a little way in ad- vance, and was pushing on to overtake it, when the sound of the horse's hoofs, which for some time had been very indistinct, died away. With a smothered imprecation on his i { ; to houses, own carelessness, Hurrell spurted on. The brougham was nowhere to be seen. It must have left the road, bo where? There was no avenue leading no cross-roads. Hurrell thought he remembered passing a lane; but it had seemed so mean and insignificant that he had not given it a second thought. He stopped and looked back, listening intently. Not a light to be seen anywuere—not a sound to be heard. Another furious spurt; and just when the rider was telling himself that if the dark brougham’ was 82=y- Where within a six-mile radiys, he’ would find it—Sh—ss—sss—Mymp, bump! The tire of the front wheel was punctured! Hurrell dropped off in despair. Of course, he could find and repair the puncture, and if the accident had hap- pened when the brougham was in sight, he would not have despaired of being able to overtake it; but, as things were, th¢ nail, or bit of bottle- glass, had made him more helpless than any pedestrian. There was no time to repair the dag, and he was encumbered with an awkward ma- chine, too valuable to abandon, and incapable of being taken along at a pace. It was all up, he consid- ered, for the time being, and he was in the act of wheeling the useless bi- eycle to the side of the road, that he might search for the hole in the tire, s 2aneadow, on his h of light. It was only visible for a moment; but that was enough for Hurrell. He resolved to know what had caused it; and in a few seconds he had deposited his machine at the hedge, and had started off, full speed, back to the nar- row lane, which he judged must bena around in the direction in| which he warted to go. It occurred to him as he ran that if the brougham had been suddenly turned into the lane, and the pace of the horses checked to a walk, it would be impossible for any one in the high road to hear the horses in the muddy lane, any more than to hear the india-rubber tires themselves. In a sur ng short space of time he was sprinting down the lane; and he found, as he had expected,, that it took a sudden turr in the direction of the meadow. As soon as he turned the corner, he ceased running, partly be- cause he thought it possible that he might want his breath for other pur- poses, partly because he did not wish to announce his own appreach, as if it were by sound of trumpet. In a short time Hurrell found that the lane was bounded on the left by a brick wall quite ten feet high. There was no sign of a house behind it; but there might very well have been one hidden by the wall. Suddenly a sound of mumed tramping fell on the ears of the Cetective. In an instant he stood stock-still. Yes, there could be no doubt about it. There was a horse walking about 2 paved yard on the other side of the wall—a yard covered with straw to deaden the sound of the hoofs. A few yords beyond he came to a wide door flush with the wall. There was no need to go farther, for Hurrell was as firmly convinced that the brougham had passed through the door in the wall as if he had seen it go through with his own eyes. It must have been drawn through, he thought, after the horse had been tak- en out of it—the lane was too narrow to turn in as long as there was an an- imal between the shafts. Having sat- istied himself on this point, he went on, stillkeeping the wall on his left hand till he got half round the house. It was not until he had reached the front of the house, and had passed be- tween the mouldering posts of brick and stucco, that the house itself came into view; and when: he did see it he gave a sudden start, staring with all his eyes, thinking that the uncertain starlight had perhaps deceived him. For, in the large, neglected mansion that stood before him he had recog- nized the familiar features of Mysore Lodge. * MER Ea a At that moment two men were pass- ing up the stairs to the second fleor; and the younger of them was saying to his companion: (To be Continued.) Wine for the Stomach’s Sake. Cornhill: I had occasion to call on a lady whose temperance viagys were as strong as was her dislike of the church. At once she asked if I was a teetotaler, and my confession that I belonged to the much-abused class of moderate drinkers brought down a storm upon my de- voted head. In the course of my defense I quoted St. Paul's advice to Timothy: ‘Take a little wine for thy stomach’s sake.” Now, every one knows the joke about the revly—a story as old as the hills; but my teetotal friend made the famous answer in perfect good faith and in anything but a spirit of joking. “I am surprised that you, a clergyman, don't know that Paul was speaking of wine for outward application only."’ And not only this, but the good lady proceeded to defend her peculiar in- terpretation. There was an old woman I knew who used to say that nothing did her so much good as Queen Anne (quinine), especially when she had the headache or the ‘toothache. Food From the Water. Philadelphia Inquirer: It has been d@emon- strated that an acre of water may be made to yield more food, with less labor, than an acre of ground. To clothe an old proverb with a new dress, it may be said that there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it, and with a proper organization of the ap- paratus of fish hatching the world would become acquainted with a greater variety of food fish than it knows of now, ana even peo- ple who live far frem the water would have a delightful variety added to their bills of fare. In Maryland muck anxiety is being felt as to the probable extinction of the terrapin. The latter has its uses, but only a comparatively few would regret its loss, while in tens of thousands of homes of toilers a plentiful fish supply would be a benefit. It is to be hoped that the fisheries congress at Tampa will do something to educate people as to the impor. tance of our fisheries. Hard to Satisty. Household Words: A father in Scotland wishes to present his infant for beptiony i expected to pass a slight examination in the shorter catechism. One day a collier went to is minister to bespeak him for of his child. ae “How many commandments * asker the minister. ee 4 “Twenty,” rejoined the collier, who was forthwith sent back to pursue his studies in elementary theology. On his. way he met brother miner, who was going to the minis on a similar errand. “How many commandment: aa asked the first. eo “Ten.” “Oh, you needn't trouble him wi’ ten. I offered him twenty the whil offered hi le, but he was na Philosophical View. eM pyr Topics: Aunt Sally—What’s the mat- Uncle Josh—They say the cars is ced an’ orl bing oaea for ten minutes. ‘aire <a unt Sally—Well, thank goodness, " run over anybody for a whiie anyhow? one pivtonceiaiies 2 Cures Rattlesvake Bites, ‘The latest cure for a rattlesnake is oil. When bitten upon the hand, place it in a vessel filled with oil and the poison will come out and rise to the surface of the liquid.