Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, February 26, 1898, Page 6

==THE 60 CHAPTER XV—(Continued.) | “I give you my word that at one time to-night I made sure I was being followed. You need not be alarmed. It came to nothing but I could swear that at one time a man ona safety bi- eycle was shadowing us. We shook him off though long before we got to the corner—Good Heavens! What was that A shriek had rung out in the stillness of the night—a woman's shriek. It came from a room on the *h they had just passed. r. Clovis! Mr. Clovis! For pity’s en to me! Speak to me! Don't me now, if you are a true man, you have a spark of pity or humanity in your hear Iam shut up here—oh, Heaven, he doesn’t answer me! He must have heard me. Mr. Clovis! Mr. Clovis! It is I, Ursula imprisoned here by a wretch, a ture to whom I have done no wrong. Don’t you hear me? For pity’s 8: , don’t desert me—don’t—don't, or T shall go mad—” They heard no more. The Jew had dragged his companion away. s: for CHAPTER XVI. A Change of Tactics. Clovis ground his teeth with vexa- tion when Ursula’s piteous cries re- sounded in his ears. For the moment he did not know what to do; and he allowed Kisch to drag him up to the floor above that he might have time to consider his position. The capture and imprisonment of Ursula had been his own idea, but he had never anticipated that her con- finement would last more than a few ys. By this time he bitterly regret- hat he and his confederate had had recourse to such violent measures, and if he had been left to himself he would have allowed the girl to go free long ago. More than that, he had now become convinced, that, incomprehens- ible as it seemed, Ursula did not in truth know what had become of the diamonds. There was, in his view, no object in keeping her prisoner any longer; the difficulty had been to per- suade;: Kisch that to confine her any longer was not only a crime, but a use- less crime and blunder. After considering the matter for a minute or two Clovis came to the con- clusfon that it was by no means a bad thing that Ursula had heard his voice on the stairs. He would now be able to force the obstinate old man to do as he wished. “We shall have to let her go, now,” he said to Kisch, with an affectation of discontent in his manner. “I don’t see that at all.” “She knows now that I am aware that she is shut up here, and it must be my part to release her—not a bad part to play, by any means,” he added to himself. “Aye, and who gave you the right to dispose of her in that way?” asked the Jew, with rising temper. “You know very well that, from the first, it was part of our agreement that she was to be kept in complete ignor- ance that I had anything to do with her being brought here.” “And whose fault is it that she did know?” “That is no matter. and that is enough.” “You are anxious to retain her good opinion, I suppose?” sneered Kisch. “Perhaps. It’s no business of yours.” “What do you mean to do?” “I mean to have her out of this.” “And throw away all we have done?’ “Man don’t you see that every day you keep her here you are running a great risk and all for nothing? She has no more idea than I have where the diamonds are.” “You did not talk like that when you od me to kidnap her.” o; because I then thought she had the stones. Now I am sure she knows nothing about them. But I have made up my mind. I must take her away at once.” “When?” “To-morrow morning.” “And how am I to not inferm the police?” “We will drive her off in the broug- ham with the blinds dowz.” “But she knows well enough that I brought her here confound you! What | if she does not know what house she has been confined in? The police will soon find that out.” “It will be your own fault if they find out anything at all. Leave it to me. I will manage it so that she will rever appeal to the police.” “And what if I say No?” “It Will make no d:fference.” “Won't it? I have the key of the room and—” “Don’t be a fool man!” cried Clovis, with a snarl that frightened Kisch into . submission. “I am so sick of this whole business that if you say another word l’ll go straight to*the nearest po- lice station, and you'll have the cou stables here in less than an hour.” “You will never do that! You will never play the traitor! By Jove, if I thought you were in earnest you would never leave this room alive!” Clovis laug' aloud, turned on his heel and went slowly down stairs. He stopped at the door of Ursula’s room and tapped softly on it. The gifl had by this time recovered from her faint. She heard the tap and flew to the doo . “Who is there?’ she cried, eagerly. “It is I—Eugene Clovis. Are you really there, Ursula? What are you doing here?” “They decoyed me here and shut me up, all alone, till I should tell them what had become of the diamonds, and I know nothing about them.” A sob shook the poor girl’s voice, but she had resolved that at this crisis she would be calm and brave, so she stifled it ard lstened with all her ears to what Clovis had to say. She does know, ' 1 AT THE SIGN OF-=ass- § LDEN HORM. § KKH IIIS HIRAI IAA AIS HR “IT can hardly believe that such an | j that she could comprehend what was outrage has been committed,” said the false scoundrel, in a voice just loud enough to reach her ears. “But, at any rate, you want to leave this house, do you not?” “Yes, oh, yes! You will help me, won't you? You will tell the police, or something? You won't leave me here, shut up like a wild animal within these four walls? “Leave you? Certainly not! How can you believe that I should do such a thing? I did not answer you when I first heard your cries, because I did not wish the people of the house to know that I had recognized your voice.” (This was the first excuse that had occurred to him, but seeing, in a moment, that it would not be a safe one, he went on quickly)—“But I soon saw that they knew I had heard you, and I have been trying to persuade the master of the house to set you free at once. He is not very willing. There may be some difficulties, and, perhaps, a little delay, but I will come to-mor- row and insist upon seeing you, and—” He was interrupted by a cry of dis- may. “Oh, [ thought you would surely take me cut to-night! Don’t leave me here another night, I entreat you. Perhaps, when you come to-morrow I shall not be here! I believe that dreadful old man is capable of anything, even of murdering me, if he could find no oth- er way of silencing me. If you only knew how I dread to be left alone here until to-morrow!” Her voice ended in a pitiful, wailing note that touched the heart of her false friend, hard as it was. “Wait a moment—let me think!” he said; and Ursula patiently waited. “Could yo" leave the house at once— to-night, and trust yourself with me?” he asked, presently. “Yes, oh, yes!” cried the girl, asking the former half of the question rather than the latter. Yet she knew no rea- son why she should not trust herself with Clovis, who had been her father’s friend as well as her own. The great thing, to her mind, was to get out of that house, away from the power of the man who had kept her a prisoner so long. She would have risked death a dozen timés, in order to escape. Have you any luggage—something light, in which you may carry what you want for the present?” “T have a little hand-bag and a dress- ing bag.” “These will do. We will try to get possession of your trunks later or. As you say, the great thing is to get away; and I am ready to risk anything to se- cure that.” “Oh, thank you, thank you! dred thousand times!” “Make haste, then, and get ready. I will go and force them to give me the key of your room.” Is it any wonder that the friendless girl looked upon this man as a hero— her savior, ber rock of defense? Had he not done all that man could do? Had he not taken great risks upon himself, and put himself to great trou- ble to rescue her when she was in des- pair, and had none to look to? Her heart was overflowing with gratitude A hun- ; to him as she thrust some linen and other things into her two little bags, and stood with them at the door of her room, ready for the signal of her re- lease. In spite of her efforts to keep ccol and have all her wits about her, she was trembling with excitement from head to foot. She could scarcely believe that it was not all a dream—it seemed impossible that this should be her lest hour in that hateful room. Meantime Clovis had gone back to Kisch, and said to him, in his ordinary tone, “I want the key to that room.” “You sha’nt have it.” “Very good. I shall find a way of forcing the door, I have no doubt.” “I will call Roberts.” “Do you imagine that Roberts would obey you, rather than me? Call him, if you like, and try. But we are wast- ign time. Will you give me that key or not? You foolish man,” he contin- ued, in a pleasanter tone, seeing that the Jew was hesitating, “don’t you see that our plan has failed? I was wrong. I admit it. Hither the girl really does not. know what has become of the dia- monds, or she is possessed by such an obstinate demon that she will not open her mouth, though you were to keep her there till she became an idiot. "The sooner we can get out of it the better, and you ought to be obliged to me for iiking all the trouble of getting her off your hands.” “And how am I to know that the moment she is at liberty she will not go straight to the police?’ “I say again, that it will be my busi- ness to see that she does not,” said Clovis, firmly. “You and I are in the same boat. Don’t you see that for m) own sake I must see that she tells no tales?” “That's true,” said the old man, with a grin, as he drew forth a door key and handed it to his accomplice. “And besides, if the worst comes to the worst, I can always charge hee vith stealing the diamonds. You will try to find out where they are, won't you, Mr. Clovis? Work on her grati- tude, and perhaps she will tell you.” The Jew came close up to him and laid his skinny paw on the sleeve of his coat. Clovis threw it off impa- tiently. “I tell you, she has no more idea than I have where they are!” he shout- ed: and the old man drew back, as if tisfied, But his suspicions now took a new turn. Why did Clovis now pro- fess to believe that the girl knew, noth- ing of the diamonds? Because he in- tended to marry her, and keep them for himself! He would now pose as her champion, her deliverer; and he, Isaac Kisch, had been the cat’s-paw for this wily Gentile! It was an evil look which the Jew threw after Clovis, as he strode away from him with the key in his hand. In ten seconds the door of the prison t | support to her companion’s arm, with- was open, and Ursula, with a cry, ran out, gazing strangely around her, and then sank fainting on the floor. For the second time a pang of self- repronch pricked the seared conscience of the man who was bending over her. It was a shame that this innocent and beautiful girl should have been so cru- elly used, and, for the moment, his an- ger was hot against Kisch. He was shocked to think that the Jew might retort, with truth, that they were equally guilty. Clovis shouted to Mrs. Kisch to bring a jug of water, and when he haa bathed the girl’s face and hands and fanned her vigorously, he had the sat- isfaction of seeing her open her eyes. “Do you think you could walk down stairs if you leant on my arm?’ he said to her, in a low tone, as soon as he saw said to her. i “Yes, oh, yes!” she cried, struggling to her feet. He half-led, half-carried her down stairs; and the next minute she was going down the avenue be- tween the gaunt old trees, clinging for out which she would have fallen where she stceod, half-laughing, half-sobbing, and sometimes, Clovis thought, only balf-comprehending what had _hap- pened to her. CHAPTER XVII. Out of the World. As Clovis and Ursula walked on to- gether towards London, he became more and more alarmed at her state. Her weakness increased, until she could hardly drag one foot after the other. When he spoke to her, trying to encourage her by saying that they had not much farther to go before they would be in the streets and be able to get a cab, she answered him only by 4 moan, or by some random words that showed that her mind was wandering. He now understood that she had suf- fered far more by her imprisonment than he had had any idea of, and that this was the reaction following upon the moments of terrible anxiety, when it seemed to her uncertain whether he would heJp her to escape from her en- emies. Soon she became quite unable to walk, and for the first time in his life Clovis was at his wits’ end to know what to do. To abandon the girl, if he had cared nothing for her, was impos- sible, and to seek for help from the police was frightfully dangerous. How was he to explain his connection with her? Even if he were to pretend that she was a stranger to him, he would have to give some account of his being in the streets at such an hour, and if | she were taken to an hospital and questioned, when she had somewhat | recovered, the whole truth would come out. What would he not have given for a cab at that moment? But at that hour, and in that quiet neighborhood, it was hopeless to expect to find one. At length he was compelled to place her on a doorstep, for she could not stand alone, and he coul@ not support her weight any longer. He was bend- ing over her, in terror lest a policeman should come upon them before he had settled upon any plan of action, when, the sound of wheels met his ear. It came from a distance to his right—in the next street. Only waiting long enovgh to lay the half-conscious girl's head upon one of the steps above that | upon which she was sitting, he darted off in the directiion of the vehicle he had heard. He might not be able to overtake it—or the pelice might arrive before he could veturn—i could not be helped. When he reached the next street he saw a light cart in the distance, being driven at a rattling pace down the si- lent roadway. He ran, and ran, shout- ing as he went, till at last the man heard him, and pulled up his horse. “What in the world’s up now?” roared the man in the cart. “It's a lady, suddenly taken ill,” gasped Clovis, barely able to speak. I left her sitting on a doorstep when I heard the sound of your wheels. All I want is for you to take her to the nearest hospital—” He stopped short, fairly astounded at the torrent of oaths and picturesque langtage that issued from the fellow’s mouth. * The carman had nothing to do with | ladies fainting on doorsteps. He had to get to Convent Garden by half-past; four, if half the ladies in the West End were wanting to be took to’a horspital. He had no bloomin’ keb—and so forth, Yet he made no sign of whipping up his horse, and his eloquence gave Clo- vis time to collect his wits a little. “ll give you five shillings to drive her to the nearest cab stand, or until we meet a cab that will take her,” he said. “And why the dickens couldn’t ye say that at fust? A-standin’ there a- jawin’!” roared the fellow, savagely turning his horse’s head round. “Come in here. Can’t you see that we've lost more’n enough time as it is?” Clovis obeyed in silence, and in a very short space of time they were at the spot where Ursula was lying. The two men jumped out and managed to lift her into the cart, and then proceed- ed towards London. The rough mo- tion seemed to rouse the girl, and she several times put her hand to her fore- head, saying, in a half-whisper: “My bead! My head!” It was not long before they met a cab, the driver of which consented to take the lady to the nearest hospital. At the hospital Clovis told a story | which he had concocted on the way. ' He said the lady was his sister—that they lived in the country, and were on a visit to London. They had been spending the day out of town, and missed the last train (which accounted for their being on the street at that un- usual hour) when the lady was sud- denly taken ill. He said that he was willing to pay all charges that might be incurred, and only begged the hospital authorities to receive her in the mean- | time, and as soon as she was fit to be removed he would take her away. He | gave the first name that occurred to him—Hargreaves. The story was plarsible enough, and it was accepted without suspicion, Clovis spent the day in providing a retreat for Ursula. After some delib- eration, he took a smali. furnished house in the midst of a wilderness of similar houses, and engaged a woman to act as nurse and housekeeper, with a girl to do the housework. It was a rather expensive plan, but the orly sate one. In a few days Ursula was able to be removed from the hospital, though she was still very weak. She scargely spoke at all, and was content to sit for hours with a newspaper or a novel in her hands, glancing at a few lines now and then, but unable to read more than: a dozen pages without fatigue. When Clovis called she was always glad to see him, and seemed quite con- scious that it was he who had deliv- ered her from the Jew. She seldom spoke of it—the effort was too much for her—but the one thought of her waking hours was the overmastering dread Jest Kisch should discover her hiding place, and in some way, by force or fraud, regain possession of her. Semetimes, with tears in her eyes, she would implore Clovis not to let the Jew know where she was, and his protestations and promises soothed her, but did not altogether re- move the shadow that hung over her mind. So much afraid was she of meeting the Jew by accident, face to face, that she could hardly be persuad- ed to stir out of doors, even to take ecessary exercise, Of course this state of things suited Clovis admirably. He had not yet giv- en up all hope of recovering the dia- monds, but it was pot that that was first in his mind. His passion for Ur- sula had revived with ten-fold force since he had taken her away from Mysore Lodge. He could scarcely re- frain from betraying the strength of his feelings, when she would smile in- nocently in his face and try to thank him for his goodness to her, or take his hand between her own delicate palms, as if it were something precious to her. And she was slowly recovering. As the weeks went by, and the long spring evenings became warm and golden, the color came back to her cheek and her mind began to recover its tone. She no longer dreaded the Jew with that over- pewering, nervous terror that she had felt for some time after leaving the hospital. And as Clovis watched her he told himself that his time was near at hand. Every sentiment of grati- tude would incline her to listen to him, There could not be a doubt that he would win her. CHAPTER XVIII. Captain Winter Receives a Blow. To his occult business of receiver of stolen gold and precious stones, Isaac Kisch added the hardly more reputa- ble profession of usurer. He had a multitude of little fishes in his net, and one big one. The big one was none other than Ursula’s old acquaintance, Captain Winter. The Captain was an honest, reckless, pleasure-loving fellow—just the kind of man whom Kisch loved to have for a debtor. Having quarrelled with his uncle, he had only the money-lenders to fail back upon. Mr. Kisch’s inten- tion was to take advantage of the heir’s necessities to lend him as much as possible, at the highest rate of in- | terest the young man would stand, on the security of his reversion, and then, as soon as he came into possession of his property, insist upon being paid in full, force a sale, and possibly obtain a fine estate at half its value. There had been negotiations for a further advance of £2,000; and one, morning, about two months after his premises had been searched by the po- | lice, Kisch was waiting for the Cap- tain at a small office he had in the city. ‘There was no clerk, only a boy_at five shillings a week, to show visitors in and out. He was pacing back and for- ward, with his peculiar, cat-like tread, biting his not over-clean finger-nails, frowning and showing other signs. of mental pertubation. It was not that he feared he would lose his money— the usual source of uneasiness of mon- ey-lenders. The fact was that he very much wished to advance this sum of £2,000, and thus consolidate his hold on the Winter estates—and he had not the money! He had relied so confi- dently on getting the money into his hands that he had lent out nearly all his capital. And now he had been dis- appointed about the diamonds, and for the first time in his life he had an ex- cellent opening for lending money and no money to lend! It was more than aggravating. It was intolerable! He was startled from his meditations by a clear, fresh young voice exclaim- ing at his elbow: “Tl trouble you for that £2,000, KXisch!” “Captain Winter,” said the Jew, sol- emnly, “I cannot lend you that large sum of money on your note of hand.” “Note of hand! What's the man talk- ing about?’ demanded the Captain. “It’s on the security of the family es- tates I wish to borrow. They are worth six times—aye, ten times—what you have advanced me,” “Very true, I have no doubt, my dear Captain; all I meant to say was that in a transaction of such magnitude, I would prefer to lend on the advice of my solicitor.” Captain Winter muttered something about the solicitor which the Jew was polite enough to take no notice of, and demanded why, if he could lend £15,000 without the advice of his solicitor, he need boggle for £2,000? But the Jew retorted that it was precisely because he had been going on in this fashion so long that he thought it was time to pull up. In reality, all the Jew want- ed was a little time, which he expected the law’s delays would allow him, to call in money enough to complete the loan. ‘The end of it was that Mr. Kisch, de- clining to take the best-known facts about the family for granted, agreed to send his lawyer down to confer with Mr. Lawson, Sir Julius Winter's solic- itor, and satisfy himself that the pro-; posed security was sound. This being settled, the Captain went down to Til- bridge to prepare Mr. Lawson for the coming interview. “Mr. Percy.’ said the lawyer, using the old familiar mode of address, “I don’t think it’s the least use of your bringing any solicitor down here. on such an errand.” “You don’t mean that you would re- | fuse all information?” cried the young man, with a touch of indignation in his voice. “Mind you, this is no ordinary ease of spendthrift heir. You know that my uncle and I have quarrelled— or, rather, he insisted on quarrelling with me, for the very good reason that I hope to reign at the castle after him. Now—” “Mr. Percy,” said the lawyer, im- | ‘yulsively, “I think you ought to know. I think you ought to have known all along. I regret having given my prom- ise to keep it from you for a single day.” “What on earth are you talking about?” cried the young man, who had grown very pale, though he would have sworn that his face remained of its usual hue. i “Cans you bear bad news, Percy? Very bad news?” “1 don’t know—I—” He rose and walked to the window, > and stood with his back to the lawyer, looking out on the empty street of the quiet town. ‘ “Go on—I think I can stand it, what- ever it is,” he said, after a second’s pause. Mr. Lawson was so much agi- tated himself that he did not notice the young officer’s manner. “The truth is, Percy, you'll need all your pride and all your fortitude to bear what I am about to tell you. To the best of my belief, you are not the heir-in-tail to the Winter estates.” ° This was just what the solicitor’s marner had led Winter to expect, and yet the blow was none the less severe when it fell. ; “Who am I, then?’ he asked, quict- ies ‘Oh, there’s nothing the matter with your parentage, my dear Captain Win- ter. The only thing is, I’m afraid there is a nearer heir than yourself.” aan than me? Who the deuce is “Won't you sit down? It’s rather a long story.” Percy Winter took the chair he had just left. Mr. Lawson was shockea when he saw the young man’s face. It seemed as if he had grown ten years older in those few seconds. “I will begin by saying that the facts I am about to tell you have been known to me only for a few months,” said the lawyer. “Miss Upton told them to me on her death-bed, and strictly charged me not to divulge them until the death of your uncle; but it seems to me that I am not justi- | fied in keeping the matter secret any | longer. It is unfair to you, and to all | persons who may advance money to you on the strength of your legitimate expectations. And I must tell you, further, to begin with, that I do not know, of my own knowledge, anything whatever as to the truth or falsehood of what Miss Upton told me. But, knowing her as I did, I have not the slightest doubt that she believed she | was telling me the truth. “You were only a boy when Sir Ju- lius married Miss Upton’s s‘:ter. The marriage was a mistake. Perhaps it would have been a mistake for any woman to have married your uncle. I believe that Lady Winter’s mother | was the person who was chiefly to blame for her daughter’s subsequent unhappiness. However that may be, the peor lady was badly treated, and was most unhappy. Miss Upton took , her sister’s part very warmly, and. no | ¥ onder, for the two sisters were deep- ly attached to each other. There was one child of this marriage—a girl. “Lady Winter died soon after the child’s birth, and it seems that Miss Upton promised her sister on her death bed, that she would, if possible, find some means of removing the new- ; born infant from the control and influ- ence of her father. I do not for a mo- ment defend Miss Upton’s conduct in the matter—no one can do that. But. perhaps, looking at the conduct of iyour uncle, and the feelings with which Lady Winter and her sister re- garded him, it was not very unnatural. “At any rate, she took very efficient measures to carry out her pledge to her dead sister. In a word she substi- tuted the infant for the infant daugh- ter of the wet nurse, who lost her baby through convulsions, and allowed the , baronet to believe that it was his own daughter who had died. Circum- stances favored the fraud. Sir Julius was from home at the tin.e—the nurse was absolutely devoted to her lady and Miss Upton, having been an old ser- vant in the family—the doctor was a young man, not very strong minded— and the mother of the dead child was well paid to keep the secret. She was the wife of a man who had just been obliged to fly the country—his name , was Joyce.” “What Do you tell me that Ursula ; Joyce is my uncle’s daughter?” The lawyer bowed. “That explains a good deal—Miss Upton’s constant care of her, and a fondness that she seemed at times anx ious to conceal. And does Miss Joyce know this?” “No; not from me; and I don’t think she has the least suspicion of the , truth.” | “Do you mean to tell her?” “I don’t intend to do so until the ex- | piration of the time fixed by Miss Up- ton—nearly three years hence—unless Sir Julius should die, of course.” “Where is she—Miss Joyce, I mean?” “1 believe she went to London some time ago. I don’t know her address, but I dare say it could be easily ascer- tained. You do not mean to say any- thing to her in the meantime?’ “No; as I suppose you told me in confidence. And yet I think it would be better that she should know what she has to expect. I suppose she must inherit the estates?” “She must if she is alive at her fa- ther’s death—unless he should marry again ard Pave a son, of which there is no probability.” “No, I fancy not,” said the young man, with a mirthless laugh. “But I think my uncle ought to be told. It seems rather rough on him—though he may have been a dad husband. Heay- en knows I have found him a bad un- cle.” “Yes, he ought to know,” said Mr. Lawson, with a look of anxiety in his face. “And yet—there is my promise to Miss Upton. I am sure, I wish she had chosen someone else for her con- fidant.” “f suppose the proof is all right?” ‘said Captain Winter, a flush rising to his pale face. “The documents are in a sealed packet, which I have not opened,” an- swered the lawyer; but I know what it contains. There is, first of all, a full confession under Miss Upton’s own ; hand, and one in the handwriting of Mrs. Joyce, who died while her hus- band was abroad. Then there is a statement by the doctor, who took no part in the fraud, but was aware of it. He speaks to certain birthmarks which Lady Winter's infant had. And there are letters from Mrs. Joyce, and inci- dental evidences of the strongest de- scriptioin to show that Mrs. Joyce’s , baby died two days before the sup- | posed death of Sir Julius’ daughter.” “If this is so, I had better throw up the sponge and go out to the country where all ne’er-do-wells go nowadays— the Cape.” \ Mr. Lawson sighed. He was not pre- | pared with any better advice. “And Mr. Kisch?’ he asked. He was well aware that this was not the first time | that Captain Winter had proposed to borrow money from the Jew. : | “It will be an unpleasant:surprise for our friend Kisch, certainly,” said the Captain, with a queer look, pulling at his mustache. “Yet, of course, I owe {kim the money I have had from him, | and it is not a pleasant thought that I shall probably never be able to repay him. I don’t mind if he loses the ex- orbitant interest he charged; but I con- fess I should like to repay him the principal.” “Well, I shouldn’t despair of that. You know Miss Joyce as well as L.do; and I think itis only right that she should make some compensation to you, who have been led to consider yourself the heir so long.” Captain Winter shrugged his shoul- ders and left the office. Next day he was in London, and, as luck would have it, he saw Kisch in the Strand. The Jew would have} avoided him, but Captain Winter, not without an effort, went after him, and touched him on the arm. “Come in here,” said: the Captain, quietly, pointing to the door of a res- taurant opposite to them. “I have something to say to you.” The Jew followed him in, nd they sat down at one of the little marble-topped tables, and called for something to drink. “The sooner it is over the better.” said Winter, aloud. Kisch looked at him with apprehensive eyes. “I shall not want that £2,000 I pro- posed borrowing from you,” he said, abruptly. “My ¢ ously, * is aid the Jew, obsequi- dy for you. I—I— thought it w all arranged, and the check is already made out. If you come to my office now I will give it to you.” The Captain looked at him steadily. He knew that the man was lying. “Tam afraid you have made a mis- take lending money to me,” he said. “What? What is tLat you say, Cap- tain? A mistake? I do not under- stand you.” “You supposed, I have no doubt, that I was the heir to the Winter estates. So did I. Well,, it seems pretty clear that there is a nearer heir than I—that, in fact, I am not the heir.” For some seconds the Jew was una- ble to speak. Winter was afraid that he was going to have a fit. “Not the heir he gasped out, at length. “You cannot mean that! Say you are only having a little joke at my expense. I will forgive you. It is only a joke, is it not?” a subject for joking.” rurimly. “It is bad news for me, as well as for you ,and much worse. You lose a large sum of mon- r ' ey, but I am absolutely ruined, if that is any consolation to you,” said the | Captain, tranquilly, I'fting the glass to his lips. “Then you are a confounded swind- ler, sir, and I shall inform the police! You will get twenty years’ penal servi You shall end your days in prison! Yon have swindled me out of twelvo— what am I saying?—out of twenty- three thousand seven hundred pounds- You will get twenty years’ penal servi- tude!” “Take care what you are saying, sir!” said the Captain, sternly, for he saw that some of the other customers of the place, attracted by the curious, high- pitched voice in which Kisch spoke, were looking around at them. “I can make allowances for your disappoint- ment but you took a risk, and made a thundering heavy charge in respect_of it. And if you say that I had the slightest idea when I borrowed that money from you that I was not my un- cle’s heir-at-law, you are lying, that’s all!” But the Jew'’s mood was already changed. He saw in a moment that blustering and charging his debtor with farud would avail him nothing. Al- ready he was busy thinking how he could save something out of the wreck. “But the money is owing to me, you cannot deny that, Captain. Do you not think that, for the honor of the family, the debt should be paid?" The Captain siniled grimly. “I don’t think my unc! is the man to pay my debts,” he answered. “But after his death—the next heir— surely, debts contracted by you, when it was supposed that you would suc- ceed to the estates, ought to be paid.” “I have thought of that, and, really, I don’t see that Miss Joyce has any- thing to do with my debts, or that she is in any way bound to pay them.” “Miss Joyce?” Captain Winter bit his lip. He had not intended to mention Ursula’s name. “Is Miss Joyce the heir t oyour un- cle’s estates?’ asked the Jew, his pierc- ing black eyes fixed like gimlets on his companion's face. “Well, I think you have a kind of right to know how it stands, and I sup- pose it will be all over the country soon now, so I may as well tell you. When I went te Mr. Lawson to tell him to meet your lawyer about that £,000 loan, you kuow, he said he could do nothing to ena»sie me to borrow money on my expectations ,for, in fact, tney were worth nothing. And then he went on to tell me that my uncle’s sis- ter-in-law, who is now dead, had de- ceived him into thinking that a daugh- ter of his, her niece, had died in infan- ey, that she was still living—this Miss Joyce—and that she was undoubtedly the heir-in-tail. Nothing, he assurea me, could defeat her claim, unless my uncle married 2nd had a son, which is out of the question now. He said the evidence had been carefully preserved, and, in fact, it is convincing—supposing it to be what Miss Upton told him it is. So we may as well throw up the sponge. I’m sorry for you, Kisch, ana, of course, if ever I have the money, I will repay you what I have had from you. Kut it dosn’t seem very likely at present, and what I say is, “Chrere’s no use crying over spilt milk.’ ” With that he got up and left the place. But the Jew sat still where he was. He had scarcely heard the Gap- tain’s last words. He sat there until a waiter came up and hinted that he had favored them with his presence long enough, upon which he ordered a bot- tle of brandy, and continued to sit in the same spot, heedless of ‘the crowds that came and went around him. So this wretched girl, who had al- ready been the means of his losing one fortune—so the Jew pvt it to himself— was goirg to be the means of his los- ing another! ‘This puling, irsignificant creature, whom ‘he had had in his pow- er for weeks and months, was going to step in and rob him of the estates that he already considered almost his own! How could he endure it? He could form no plan of action. The blow was | too recent. But one thought occurred . to him, again and again, as he sat there brocding over his misfortunes: “If I had known.this, she would never de have been allowed to leave my house a __ living woman, though I had to pay for”, her life with mine” _ * (To be Continued.) ©