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

HHH IKEA HEAR LEI SIEE ASI E IE LAIR ST THE SIGN OF-<esss- ==THE GOLDEN HORN. § KKH II LAII ASH ASSIA IS SIAS ASI AK. CHAPTER XXII—(Continued.) A quarter of an hour passed, and Ursula determined to put it to the test at once whether she was free or a prisoner. As soon as the woman sula crossed the room, say changed my mind. I s! the coffee, for I am not going to stay over the night She walked swiftly to the door, but, encumbered as the woman was with a small tray. her; she reached Ursula before she could cross the thréshold and pulled her back. Ursula screamed, and—Mr. Kisch en: tered the room! It was well that the poor girl was in some degree prepared for him; but, even as it was, she shrank back with the same loathing that she might have felt at sccing a scorpion or scme other venomous reptile. Mr. Kisch smiled gently and sat down. “You did not expect to see me again so soon?’ he said, with the air one might have in speaking to a fractious ebild. The very desperateness of her situa- tion gay a courage. She was no longer the timid, frightened creature she had been in the morning. She seeried to know, instinctively, that she was fighting for her life; and she fought with the courage of despair. “[ did not expect to see you,” she said, “and I wish to know by what right you come into my room.” “All the rooms in this house are mine,” he said, coolly. Do you mean that house?” He bowed with mock humility. “hen I have been grossliy deceived, and I wish to leave at once.” “That, I fear, is impossible. But you need be under no apprehension. 1 have no wish to exercise anything like “i permanent restraint over your move- ments. To-morrow we may be able to come to some arrangement. For to- night—”’ She interrupted him with a wave ot the hand. How dare you speak to me as if 1 were going to hold any intercourse with you? Who are you, that you should dare to restrain my movements for one moment? We are in a free country, and I warn you that when I quit this house—and you cannot keep me shut up here forev my first visit will be to the police s We shall see whether—” The Jew, in his turn, interrupted her; but it was by a laugh, a long, low laugh, of such malignant, cunning en- joyment that it made her tremble, and withered her speech as an iey wind passing over a garden withers the blos- soms ot spring. But she would not let her courage run down . “You seem to think it is an amusing © treat a poor, helpless girl in but Iam not without friends, and when you are before a police mag- istrate you will find it difficult, [ imag- ine, to explain your conduct to his satisfaction.” F: in the ning laugh. You make a great fuss about zoth- ing.” said the Jew. “It suits me that you should pass the night here, you shall do so. You may as well make up you mind to that.” “We are not in a lonely house in the suburbs,” she burst out, her cheeks hot with indignation. “If you dare to show me the slightest disrespect, I will scream and alarm the neighbors.” “L assure you,” said Kisch, “thav appeared Ur- this is your ation. me low, malignant, cun- there not the smallest danger of your being treated with disrespect. And, as for the neighbors—there are The houses on eitler side of us Your screams could rot reach the street, even you were to open the shutters—whi I hardly think you will be able to manage. If you will only compose yourself. “Go aw: Go away!” serear Ursula, almost beside herself with an- ger, and fear, and a sickening abhor- rence of the man she was speaking to. “LE cannot argue with you, and I know none? are empty etter than to try to soften your heart. | You must have your way. Only leave me alone, I beg you! And, as sure as a God in Heaven, you will be punished, here or hereafter!” he girl raised her hand to. Heaven, as if she were invoking the judgment of the Almighty, and, sinking back on the bed, covered her face with her hands. When she looked up she was alone. The coffee still stood where the woman had left it, and,the door was securely locked as before. Mr. Kisch lescending the stairs. a well satisfied look on his repulsive face. He put on his hat and went to a house in a neighboring street, which had a red lamp before the door. “Js Dr. Drummond at home?’ he asked, and was shown into a shabbily- furnished consulting room. He was not kept long waiting. A pale-faced, neryous-looking young man, not much over five-and-twenty, entered the room. “L wish you would be kind enough to step around and see my niece,” said Kisch. “It is only a few doors off. The poor girl is, we fear, insane.” “And you wish me to sign a certifi- ate? Did anyone recommend you to come to me?’ asked the doctor, in a eonsequential, high-pitched voice. “Oh, no, my dear sir. We brought her up to London, at considerable ex- pense, to take the opinion of Sir How- orth Dixon,” and he named some of the b known names in the profes- sion. ‘All I ask is that you should see her, and pr ribe, perhaps, some soothing medicine for her. The jour- mey seems to have excited her. Her delusions are more pronounced than usual. She fancies that I am not her unele—and she is full of the idea that she is being imprisoned, which, in a gense, is true, you understand. Unless the verdict of the specialist is much more favorable than we have any rea- son to hope for, I fear the certificate aust be signed to-morrow.” “| quite understand,” said the doctor, she was too quick for! nodding. “And now I might as well see the patient.” The visit did not take long. Thor- oughly imbued with the idea that he was listening to a crazy girl, the doc- tor paid little attention to her com- plaints; and, seeing that she was un- deniably excited, he had no hesitation in writing out a prescription for a mild sleeping draught. “Excuse me, doctor,” said the Jew. looking at the prescription with a puz- zled air, “but in case we find it impos sible to make the poor girl swallow anything, as is sometimes the case, do you think the nurse might venture to give her the morphia by way of sub- cutaneous injection?” “So long as it can be done without violence. If violence has to be used, it will do her more harm than good,” said the medical man; and, after mak- ing an addition to his prescription, he left the house. Kisch went to a chemist snd had the prescription thade up. There were two bottles, one of them containing a sleeping draught, and the other the proper quantity of morphine for injec- When he returned to the house, the tall, severe-looking woman who acted as gaoler to Ursula, met him in the hall. “She has taken half the coffee, and has fallen asleep,” she said, in a half- -vhisper; “but I don’t think she’s very sound,” What need was there to whisper | when there was not a soul in the house but their two selves and the prisoner? “We had better see about it at once,” said the Jew, with his eyes on the noor. He turned from ner and went into a small room on the ground floor. He turned up the gas, and saw that the “ynind entirely covered the window. He then opened the coal scuttle, took out the cork of the phial containing the morphia for the injection, and poured away a teaspoonful of it. locked an old-fashioned desk which | stood on a side-table, and took from it a very tiny phial, from which he filled up the vacant space in the larger one. Finally, he poured away the few drops of liquid that remained in the little phial he had taken from the desk, opened the window, and, after listen- ing a moment, to make sure that no one was in the square, sent the phial Aying out, and he: it smash against the brick wall that supported the gar- den railings in the center of the square. What he had dropped into the phial | was a virulent blood poison. His ob- ject was that Ursula should die, to all appearance, in a perfectly natural manner, under the eyes of urimpeach- | able witnesses. What he intended to do was to administer the morphia in- jection, for which he had the doctor's nuthority, by force if necessary. With the morphia, a deadly poison would enter the s veins. As,soon as the disease became serious, he would have her removed to a public hospital. Whatever accusation she might bring against him would be considered to be caused by delirium. If not, he was ready for a visit from the police. They might suggest what they Jiked, but they could prove nothing. fle knew that, apart from his confederates, there was not a scrap of corroborative eviderce in existence. | Once in the hospital, Ursula would | be treated for blood-poisoning. She would die—die in torment, very likely; | he could not help that—and the estate | he coveted would one day be his own. At any rate, the twelve thousand | pounds would be recovered. And he should have outwitted Eugene Clovis, That sometimes appeared to him the most satisfactory part of the whole scheme. Having closed the window, Kisch turned down the gas and went out in- to the passage, holding the poisoned phial in his hand. The woman was waiting for him. She started up stairs and he followed her. At that moment a loud ring came to the door. They stopped and looked at each other. Another ring, followed by several violent blows with the knock- er. Then voices were heard demanding admittance. Neither Kisch nor the | woman moyed. ‘here was no light in the hall, and Kisch determined that he would not open the door. A whispet- ing was heard outside; and a minute later Kisch heard the sound of a win- dow being raised—the windew of the room he had just left, which he had neglected to fasten. Before Kisch had time to form any plan of action, a man burst out of the ryom, followed by another carrying a small bull’s-eye lantern. “That’s he! That’s Kisch!” shouted the second man, Hurrell; and the one who had first come in, Frank Lester, rushed up the steps and seized him by the throat. ‘The Jew fell, and as he fell the phial ! in his hand was dashed against one of | the steps of the stair and broken, The j woman had disappeared. Frank went down on top of his pris- | ouer; but he had no sooner regained his feet than a woman’s screams reached his ears, It was Ursula! In a few moments he fcurd the door of her room; and by the time Hurrell and Royston had secured Kisch, she was sobbing in his arms. CHAPTER XXIV. Torn Asunder For a time—for some few minutes that neither will ever forget—the loy- ers knew nothing but that they were together. Memory was swallowed up in the ecstasy of the moment. Ursula forgot her terror, her peril, her deliv- erance. Frank forgot that a few yards away the officer of justice was waiting | to convey him to prison on a charge of | murder. They forgot, too, that they had been parted before by what seemed a necessity; they forgot that they had agreed that they must never see each other any more. How could Frank know or remember anything when the arms of his true love were yound him once more, when the voice He then un-| § he had so often dreamed. of hearing ‘was murmuring in his ear; when the eyes he had yearned for were search- ing his face, as if satisfying their own hunger? No words were spoken except an un- conscious whisper of some name of endearment. Nearly all the time they stood in silence. Frank heard a heavy step upon, the stairs, but he paid no attention. It was only when the door was pushed gently open, and a tall man in undress uniform entered the room, that he started away from his sweetheart and turned pale. “We shall just be in time, sir, to eatch the last train,” said Royston, with a movement of his hand towards his cap. “Frank, where are you going “Dearest, there is a man here—a good, kind fellow, named Hurrell—who oy is quite to be trusted, who will see you You have safe back to your lodgings. nothing more to fear from Kisch. I wish I could stay longer with you, but, indeed, it is impossible.” “But you haven't told me where you are going! Frank, that gentleman is a police ofticer, isn’t he? Why are you Then, suddenly, the going with him?’ truth burst on her Frank! It isn’t true! mind. ‘Frank, It can’t be true! | He is not going to take you—to pris- on?” Frank threw his arms around her. He could not speak. “No, no! They can’t really believe you did such a thing! You couldn’: have done it. it, even in your sleep! It is impossi- ble! Oh, stay with me, Frank, stay with me! Just when I have got you back—” “There, darling, don’t sob like that, or you will break my heart. I am nou without thope. Dearest, the parting may only be for a few weeks. We will try to believe that. God will not let an innocent man suffer.” He repented his words as soon as he had uttered them, for they brought the dreadful possibility that remained in the background more definitely be fore ber mind. ‘Try to be brave, dar- ling, for my sake,” he whispered; and she struggled hard to keep back her sobs. “Was it in trying to save me, Frank, that you ran into danger?’ she asked, fixing her despairing eyes on her loy- er’s face. “How is it that you have not been touched all this time, and to- night you are arrested? I have been the cause of this?” “No, no, darling! Indeed, you are quite mistaken. 1 was arrested before 1 got your letter telling me of your danger.” “Before you got my letter?” cried the irl, wondering. “Yes: and this kind, good-hearted fellow—an old playmate of mine, Ursu. la, to whom I can never be grateful enough—came with me to look for you. But for his goodness I could not have come. So, you see, you had nothing to do with my arrest. Just one moment, Royston. I will be with you in an in- stant. Send for a hansom, and I will be ready by the time it is at the door.” “But you sent me a telegram telling me to come here,” said Ursula. “Nay, dearest, I sent you no tele- gram. It was a forgery.” “I might have known it, if I had had time to think—but it has all been like a bad dream to me. But if you did not send it who did?” “I can’t imagine.” “Seems to me that it would mest like- ly be the same man as sent us one to tell us where you was stopping, and that, if we liked, we could put our hands on you to-night,’ said the in spector, bluntly. “But, really, sir, I can wait no longer. It is doing the young lady no good, and if we miss the Lets it will get me into serious trou- e.”? “You are right, Royston. I wil come now. My own dear one—!” “Fran she cried, “you will not leave me. I shall go with you. must go to prison I shall go, too.” “It cannot be, my darling.” Nature was too strong for the poor girl, Her thin arms were wound around her lover, as though they had strength to defend him against the strong arm of the law. She would not let him go. But he whispered some- thing in her ear: “It makes it so much harder for me, dear.” And in a mo- ment her arms fell down by her sides. One mere sad kiss was given and tak- ; en; and the prisoner followed the in- spector out of the room. When Hurrell came in, a few mo- ments later, Ursula was sitting on the side of the bed, her hands in her lan, looking straight before her, but seeing nothing, and her face was of such a death-like hue that it frightened him. He saw at once that if she was to es- cape a serious illness she must have sleep, so he decided to take the poor girl to an hotel in which he was known and send for a doctor, leaving it to the next day to go to Highgate and ai- range for her returning to the rooms she had left that night. He did this at once, and in all probability his promptness saved the girl’s life. Even as it was, it was some days before the doctor considered her out of danger. * * * * * * WKisch and his accomplice spent the night at the nearest police station. When Kisch was locked up, the ser- geant in charge noticed that his hand had been badly cut by the broken phi- nl, but it seemed to need no treatment beyond binding it up with the prison- er’s handkerchief. Next day he was charged with ab- duction at the police court, but he was never brought to trial. Long before the next sittings of the Central Crim- inal Court, he had died of blood-pois- oning. The liquid in the phial had poi- soned the wound made by the broken glass. Into the pit which he had digged for Ursula had he himself fall- en. ed life he told the whole truth to the prison doctor; but it was then too late. Not even his widow was sorry when he ceased to breathe. CHAPTER XXV. Light in Darkness. It was pay Saturday at the Olympic Theater, and Blanche Annesley was nearing the portico, walking slowly. while a girl-friend hung chatting to her arm. As they reached the door of the theater a little urchin sprang up from somewhere and held up a very dirty envelope before her friend’s eyes. “It's only a begging letter,” word in it.” But Lily Vavasour—such was Polly Anderson’s business appellation--was She took the envelope out of the childs a kind-hearted young woman. hand, and read the address aloud: I don’t believe you did If you | In the hope of saving his wreteh- said Blanche, “and most likely there isn’t a “For the young lady who lately gave a shilling to a poor man in the street, near the Olympic Theater.” “Not for me, my boy. Shillings are not so plentiful with me as all that— was it you, do you say, Blanche? Well I wonder what he can wart with you? Perhaps he’s dying, and wants to leave you a fortune, I should go and see | aim, if I were you.” Meanwhile, Blanche had opened the dirty envelope, and with a very grave face was reading the pencilled note it contained. When she had finished it, she stood, undecided, for a minute or two, and then said, suddenly, “I will go!” The boy scuttled on before them like a puppy dog, and led her into one of the numerous slums of Soho. They ascended a staircase ina house of un- describable filthiness, and reached a door in the attics. The boy pointed to it and said, “In there,” and vanished. Blanche knocked at the door. A hoarse voice called out in answer, and she went in. The man she had come to see was lying on a wretched bed, in a poverty- stricken, half-dark room, filled with a sickening, fetid odor. The man was gaunt with sickness, if not with famine. His hair and beard were long and matted; a wild light shone in his eyes. When he rec- ognized the visitor a look of satisfac- tion came into his face. “I thought you would come—God bless you!” and he sank back again on his filthy pillow. “I’m afraid you are very ill. Hadn't you better go to the hospital?” said Blanche, gently. “Never mind that now. It’s not about that I wanted to see you.” Blanche stared. The man’s words, his tone, his manner, seemed so en- tirely out of keeping with his sur- roundings. “You must have a_ nurse,” said Blanche, firmly. ‘Don’t trouble your- self about it. I will arrange it all.” He seized one of her hands as it hung within his reach and carried it to his lips. She did not draw it away, as it was her first impulse to do, but when he let ‘it go she took off her glove, and laid her cool palm upon his burning head. For a minute or two he lay still, and Blanche withdrew her hand. Scarcely had she done so, than the sick man started up into a sitting pos- ture, threw out his right hand ard pointed a skeleton forefinger at some- thing invisible. ‘ “See! See!” he cried, in a trembling whisper. “See the smoke! A steamer —he has gone in her, gone with all L had, and left me to perish! There is hardly any water, and next to no food. What is to become of me! What a death to die! Can there be justice on earth that such men are allowed to | live? See! See! It is going out of sight! When it is gone I shall be | alone—alone!” The terrified girl at his side had shrunk back against the door, longing to fly, but fascinated and unable to move. The man’s voice, which had risen almost to a scream, had died uway until the last words were barely audible. He sank back on his pillow, exhausted, and Blanche, released from the spell that bound her, turned to leave the room. , “Don’t go!” panted the man in the bed. “I haven't yet said what I wished to say. I want to see a law- yer. I mean to make my will.” Blanche could scarcely restrain a smile. “I ought to be at rehearsal,” she said; “but it’s not often that I’m ab- sent, so, perhaps they'll cverlook it.’ “You will stop a bit, then?’ asked the man, anxiously; and when the girl answered “yes,” a look of relief came into his face, and he closed his eyes. “I think I could sleep,” he said, speaking with his eyes shut; “put I have such dreadful dreams, that I am afraid to close my eyes. Would you mind, just for once, sitting by me while I sleep, and waking me if I be- gin to dream and talk out loud?” “Well, ll stay,” said Blanche, after a momert’s hesitation. “And what you get into trouble at the theater?” “DN chance it.” She drew an old, cane-bottomed chair to the side of the bed and sat down. One of the invalid’s hands, lean, and brown and dirty, lay outside the coverlet. Blanche thought of tak- ing it in hers, but it seemed too di and she refrained. Presently, howe er, the lean, dirty hand moved hither and thither, as if seeking something. Blanche could not resist the mute ap- peal. She put her hand in the band of the sick man, and he became quiet. Almost immediately sleep overpower- ed him; but it was plain, from the workings of his face, the spasmodic movements of his hand, and the unit telligible mutterings that came now and then from his lips, that his brain was not in repose. By-and-by the words became intelligible—they forcea themselves on the ear of the girl at his bedside. “He knows him! Go! Of course I will go! What does he suppose I care to live for? But he shan’t have the G@iamonds! No, no! That would be too much!” He was not screaming, as he had done before. His words came in an even, level tone, some of them scarce- ly articulate, from. tke way he kept his teeth fixed together. But very soon he began to labor under some strong ex- citement. He moved uneasily from side to side; his face twitched; his hands clutched Blanche’s with so firm a grip that when she tried to with- draw it she found she could xot. Again he spoke, and now his tones were more piercing, his voice shriller. “Forget the nanie? Not likely! The sign of the Golden Horn. But I will wake him first. I will give him a chance for his life, and he shall know that I have come back again to re- yenge myself, and—and—” His voice died away. Then suddenly, there was a wild scream. “He is there! Yes, it is he! Who else should it be? ‘There! And there! Oh, my Gcd! My God!” ‘The poor wretch awoke, his face ecvered with sweat, trembling all over. Blanche was shaken, so that it was all she could do to wipe the brow ef the sufferer, and give him a mouthful of water. Then, disregarding his en- treaties that she should not go, she told him that she would be back very soon, and slipped out of the room. Her first thought was to go to a nursing institution and ergage a nurse for the sick man, at the same time providing her with a little money for his wants, and then she went to Hur- rell. There was no one else who could help her, no one else who would know exactly what cught to be done, / and who would see that it was done at once. The detective was sitting alone, when an uncertain tap came door. “Come in!” he shouted; but the only reply was another tap at the door. He rose, with an exclamation of annoyance. “Well, what do you want? Good heavens! Miss Annesley! What has happened?” “May I come in, Mr. Hurrell? I didi.'t like to come into your rooms till I knew whether you were alone.” “Lam quite alone. Do cone in.” “Oh, Mr. Hurrell, such a strange thing has Lappened! 1 do believe I have found the man that did the mur- der poor Mr. Lester is in prison for. At least, he spoke of something drea: ful he had done, and mentioned the inn—the sign of the Golden Horn. He was asleep wien he spoke. I think he is very ill, and I came to you, because I didn’t know anyone else to come to. You will help me, won't you?’ “You may be quite sure that I will do my best, Miss Annesley. Who is the man, and where does he live?” “If you come now, I will take you to him,” said she. So they went out to- gether. Hurrell was left alone with the sick man for some time. He told him plainly that he knew he had commit- ted the murder at the Golden Horn; but the invalid stoutly denied it. It was not until Hurrell told him that there was an innocent man in prison charged wit’: the murder, that he gave way. His face changed, and he fturned his back. Without turning around again, he said: “You are right. I feel I am dying: and I won’t go with a fresh murder on my soul. Send for a magistrate, and I will tell all there is to tell.” A magistrate and a constable were procured, and the old man’s statement was taken down in writing. 1t ran as follows: “My name is James Clarkson. I came to England last year for the pur- pose of finding a man called Richard Joyce, and of killing him when found. He had left me to perish in a small lugger off the coast of Africa, after robbing me of all I possessed. 1 found him by the help of a man whose name I do not know. He was a very gen- tlemanly man, and looked like a for- eigner. He took me up to a country inn that had the sign of the Golden Horn. . Joyce did not come therd while I was staying there. ‘Then this man, Who would not tell me his name, said I might go, but he only took me to a village a short way off, and the very next night he took me back to the Golden Horn. It was a stormy night. We went in at a window at the back, and waited until long after ev- eryone had gone to bed. Then he took me up stairs to a large bedroom. The man I wanted was asleep in a bed. I put my hand on his throat, and he awoke and knew me. Yes! he knew me, and knew that I had come back, as it might be, from the depths of the sea, to do justice on him. IL killed him with a knife my friend gave me. When he was dead, I took back what belonged to me, and came away. My friend—but he was no friend of mine—the man I had hired to deliver Joyce into my hand:—he helped me to get back to the cottage where I had taken lodgings, and he stayed there till the morning. “Then I came up to London, and I have lived here ever sirce. It was not till yesterday that I knew that another iwwan had been charged with what [ did. He had nothing to do with it. I ad it myself, unaided, for the reason I have said, with no other help than 1 have mentioned. “—James Clarkson.” Later in the day the dying man ex- ecuted a will in favor of Blanche— “the only human being who has ever shown me kindness without hope or expectation of any return.” He left all he possessed to her, and, at the same time, he put into her hands a canvas belt, in which were the dia- monds Joyce had stolen from him. It was. evident t Joyce, fearing that the diamonds might not be safe in the house, had returned to the old Rectory after reaching the railway station on the day he left home, and had taken away the diamonds, afterwa: going on to Carlisle by a later train. This was known from the fact that Clark- son took the belt with the precious stones from Joyce’s dead body. Clarkson had not dared to offer any of the stones for sale in London, for he was under the impression that the po- lice were in search of him, that the loss of the diamonds must be kzown, and that if he were caught trying to dispose of them he would be accused of causing the death of Joyce. Thus it was that, while possessed of enor- mous wealth, he lived the life of 2a cutcast. As the doctor was sble to certify that Cla‘kson was too ill to be moved, a constable was stationed in an adjoin- ing room, so that he might be technic ally under arrest; but he never knew it. Being a Roman Catholic, a priest was sent for, who heard his last con- fession; and about a week afterwards he breathed his last. CHAPTER XXVI." Under the Greenwood Tree. As soon as Clarkson’s confession was signed and witnessed, Hurrell applied for and obtained a copy of it, and gave the copy to Blanche. “Now, Mr. Hurrell,” said she, “there is one more thing I would like you to do for me, though it is a shame to take up so much of your time.” Hurrell answered only by a look, which must have been an expressive one, for Miss Blanche blushed—a thing she was not much addicted to— and loked down a moment before go- ing on. “I want you to take me to Miss Joyee’s, straight away. She has sut- fered so much through—through my stepfather, that I am anxious to be the first to tell her the good news. She will be Gelirious with joy, won’t she?” “Oh, my poor, dear girl, I have such | good news for you!” she burst out. “Make it as short as you can, Miss | Blanche,” whispered Hurrell. “You know you said you could never believe he had killed your father, even - in a fit of somnambulism. And now it is proved that he did not—Help me! Help me, Mr. Hurrell—she has faint- eat" But Ursula did not faint. She gave one cry of joy, and then, hiding her face in the sofa cushion‘, she poured ort her full heart in silent prayer. 2 * * * * As it happened, the Old Rectory had been taken by a lady who let very | some 0! sula was thus able to carry out & plan on which she had set her heart. to his |She wanted to meet her lover for the | first time after his release from prison under the very tree in the garden svhich bad witnessed that well-remem- bered mecting on a summer night, iwhile poor Joyce was still alive. It was an apple tree, which appeared to have strayed somewhere from the neighboring orcbare inte tLe garden. It was there that Frank found her. There that he clasped her to his breast in a transport of satisfied long- ing. For a long time they were silent with excess of happiness; and when they did speak to each other they saia hings that cannot be “served up cold to the publie eye.” “However, a fragment of their con- yersation that took place an hour lat- :er may be reported. “Yes, Mr. Lawson was more than l kind,” ‘said Ursula. “And he says Sir | Julius has behaved better than ‘he could have expected. At first, of ‘course, he was furiously angry with | Miss Upton, and he has not asked me ‘to go and see him yet. But his law- ‘vers have written to say that he can- not dispute the evidence Miss Upton | has collected, aad he is going to make me an allowance of £300 a year. The jentailed estate must come to me; but | everything else is going to Captain | Winter.” | “'That is capital! -Ard now, dearest, when are we to be married?” “Oh, Frank! Not for months and | months!” “Very good, darling. Shall we say three weeks or a@ month ‘After a time they begar to speak of | the dangers they had escaped, and of | the share Clovis had taken im the con- i spiracy. It was some time before Frank |could be brought to realize that his | friend had played the part of a traitor throughout. But, on thinking the mat- \ter over, in the light of Clarkson's ‘confession, he saw that it must have \been Clovis who placed the blood- ‘stained clothes in his room, and the fatal knife under his pillow, during | his own absence up stairs. Nay, he ; must have provided two knives on | purpose, of a similar pattern, one of ij which he had placed in a conspicuous ! position in Frank’s room, afterwards removing it, so that Frank was al- most forced to believe he had eommit~ ted the crime with the knife he had seen in the room wher he weut to bed and which (as he supposed) he found clotted with blood under his pillow. The police entertained a shrewd sus- | picion as to the identity of the name- H man mentioned in Clarkson's con- | fession, and they made some efforts to ‘tind Eugene Clovis: but they were quite unsuccessful. He vanished com- pletely from the world of Lendon, and was never again seen in England. * * * * * * One day, about a month after Les- ter’s release from prison, Hurrell was sitting at a little marble-topped table in a restaurant in the Strand, when he gave a sudden start. Blanche Annes- | ley had come in. Glancing around, j her eyes fell upon Hurrell. She | bowed, smiling pleasantly, and seated herself at the first vacant table. Hur- rell bowed in response, but did sot move. Miss Annesley looked dis- pleased. Then, looking straight over Hurrell’s head, at the wall opposite, she went up to his table, at which there was room for another chair, and sat down. “As you won't come to me, I have to | aome to you,” she said, coolly. “L |sent you a note with my address, and you have never come to call. Are you not coming to see us?’ “Well, Miss Annesley, I think I had better pot. It would only cause pain. You know what I mean, You are a very wealthy woman now.” “I am,” she id; calmly. “The stones have sold very well, and not a quarter of them have been disposed of yet—Ox-tail soup, please” she added, to the waiter. “1 am glad to hear it,” said Hurrell, in his usual quiet tones. “I think, Mr. Hurrell, married one of these days,” she said, after a pause. “A woman reeds a man to take care of her, especially if she has money.” “I think you are quite right, and L hope you will make a good choice.” “IT mean to. But | have made up my yaind that I will not marry any of my new acquaintances. Only one who knew me, and—vwell, and loved me—im my days of poverty and obscurity, will do for me.” “That is a very wise resolution, an@ ; Lam. glad to hear you “Now, 1 wonder who it will be. There are not many men with all the requirements I seek in a husband. L wonder if you can recommend one of iny old friends.” ‘This time there was no answering murmur. Hurreli sat crumbling up his bread, and said nothing. “I want, when I do marry, to marry 2 man—one on whom I could depend in time of difficulty or danger, and, above all, one who, well—one who is fend of me, and will take me, with all my little faults. Do you know any- one who will answer that descrip- tion?” Hurrell, always so cool and self- possessed, was resting his wrist on the edge of the table to keep his hand still. There was silence for balf a minute. “I think—I think I have said all I ean. James,” she whispered. She had taken off her glove, and her shapely, | white hand was lying om the table. Hurrell lifted his eyes and looked in her face. He lifted his hand, too, and placed it om Blanehe’s, pressing it I must get warmly. His eyes were shining with unshed tears. “James,” she said, “you are a goose!” * * * * = * = Before the apples were ripe that year Frank and Ursula were married. His small income, joined to Ursula's allowance, just enabled them to live, very quietly, but in great content- ; ment, in Frank’s old home. But Mr. and Mrs. Hurrell have no intention of ‘leaving town. The most delightful i residence, if in a rural neighborhood, would be to them a dreary prison; | for, like many of us, they both feel in | their hearts that there is nothing on earth to be compared to the great cen- ‘ter and apex of civilization, the place of quick thought and rapi@ movement, of great interests, and passions, and hopes and fears—the abiding place of four million men and women, strug- gling, succeeding, failing, hating, lov- ne living, dying, which we call Lon- jon, The Enh “% a . w 4 _— \ « ant ar ‘et © art | i _ | \ | ' a