The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, September 21, 1902, Page 4

K . THE SUNDAY CALL. flower face, her gold hair; yet it was not her beauty alone that made him love her. It was—a thovsand things, yet those thou- sand .ungs after all only made up her- eelf. which to Carrismoyle meant perfec- leal woman. She was so bright. so originai: her way of looking so individual, though she was not yet 18, and had only just been eman- cipate@ from governesses. The very scen- ery, beheld through her eves, became something new and twice as glorious as before Carrismoyle had heard her ideas cerning it and its effect upon the co He let his friend go sulkily on to the next climbing center they had selected end when he had known Cecily a week he proposed to her on a certain wonder- ful morning when they and others had walked up to the Gornergrat to see the sun rise. Of course, he told her that though his name really was Royal West, it hadn't been quite fair to call himself “Mr. West.” and he explained shame- facedly how it had seemed rather a lark to him and the Duke of Cionmore to drop their titles. And he explained all over to Bir Redways Grant, when he summoned courage to inform that somewhat formi- aable old Baronet that he had taken the liberty of falling in love with “his daughter. Carrismoyle had looked forward to this interview with perturbation, because he was a poor man, and he feared that Sir Redways was a very rich one. But he was far from being prepared for the storm of anger that broke upon him. He 3id not even understand it at firdt, for Sir Redways was too furious to be coherent, &nd it was some moments before he com- prehended that he owed the outburst not to the mere deception he had practiced in hiding his identity, but to the lamentable fact that he was Lord Carrismoyle. Sir Redways would not listen to further at- tempted explanations. He would not be- lieve that the deception had been planned &nd carried out for any other purpose seve to trick him into friendliness. He scorned Carrismoyle’s indignant protesta- tion that the dead Lord Carrismoyle, his father, had never mentioned the old feud, never even spoken the name of Sir Red- ways Grant, and that therefore his son could have had no such object as was sus- pected in concealing the name by which he was known to the world. Sir Redw s was a believer in circum- stantial evidence, and evidence pertainly was strong against the young man—for it scemed that the quarrel had been a scan- dal on the lips of every, one thirty years sgo, and to one whom it so intimately concerned, to whom, even in the present, it loomed mountain-large} it was difficult to credit utter ignorance in the son of the other chief actor in the drama. There had been “a scene” between the two men—the old man and the young man —and when Sir Redways ordered Lord Carrismoyle out of his prsence, the only dignified thing was to go. Carrismoyle did go, but with every in- tention of coming back again. Before he however, Sir Redways Grant disappeared with his daughter. Ci had not even been given time to a note; but she left a rose which gomehow found its way to Carrismoyle, and he dared to take it as a message. Even without that, he would have fol- Jowed her to the world’s end, but with it, he followed more hopefully. He thought that Sir Redways would 1ake his girl home, and he was right. The cay after they arrived at Stonecross Ab- bey, he put up at the inn in Waycross kept by Nella Kynaston's cousin. He would not go to the Lesters’ house then, though he had often been asked to visit them in Devonshire, in those dark days before he knew that Devonshire, favored above all other earthly countles, was adorned by a Cecily Grant. Carrismoyle did everything in a high- handed way, scorning diplomacy, and, be- cause of his pride and his belief that all must come well in the end, he did not at- tempt to gain a private interview with the girl he loved, but once more bom- barded the fortress by going straight to Stonecross Abbey and asking to see Sir Redways. He did see him for a few brief and lurid moments before he was bidden to leave the servants. And just as Carris- moyle was announcing that, though he out by could not stop in Sir Redway’s house against its master's will, he had no in- tentjon of giving up Sir Redway’s daugh- ter, the girl herself appeared. At first, she pleaded with her father for bare justice, mere common sense; and then, when she saw that in his present mood such an appeal was useless, she turned to Carrismoyle and cried that, whatever happened, while he loved her and wanted her, she would never give him up. “When I'm of age I will marry you, if you love me till then!” she said, with a look in her beautiful eyes that showed she was her father's daughter. “Till then” mean{ three and a half years, but though they would be long in passing, Carrismoyle knew that in look- ing back they would seem as nothing, for be would love Cecily Grant till death, and, if it pleased God, into eternity. Through Mary Lester he had heard that Cissy had been sent ignominiously to school, and that, if further signs of dis- obedience were shown she would— in some vague, unexplained way—be pun- ished for her rebellion with still greater severity. Then had come the war in Bouth Africa, and almost at the begin- ning Carrismoyle had volunteered for the front and had been accepted. He had seen some fighting and had done bravely, a= had thousands of dther young men around him. After four months’ hard work he had been wounded and invalided home; and by the time that he was well enough to go back again and do some more fighting, there was no longer any need for that. Men were coming home, instead of going out; so he stayed, and life had been bright and full of hope. Now it seemed that years must have passed since life was bright and full of hope, though only a few hours ago he bad come down to Devonshire tingling ‘with joy at the thought of seeing Clssy— even from far off. He felt aged by years instead of hours as he traveled back to London again; for, though he had spoken bravely to Robert and Mary Lester, his heart was sick within him. enever he shut his eyes, if only for an instant; he could see that great wooden box, as large as a coffin, as it had looked in the lamplight and firelight of Sir Red- ways Grant’s “study,” half-covered by the rough sacking with its stains of brownish red. No wonder that he tried to forget the hateful picture, by calling up others out of the past; yet by contrast they only made this the darker. Carrismoyle had rooms in a house in Bavile-row, and—as he had travelled by a siow train—he let himself -in with his latch-key between 4 and 5 in the morning. He did not wake his man, who was com- fortably snoring in some vague region at the back of the house, but lighted the fire, which was already laid, and half-mechan- dcally drew up a big chair in front of the blaze. He had not taken his valet to Devon- shire, as the Lesters’ was a comparatively small bouse, and he had feared to incom- mode them. Now he was thankful that he had gone, and been able to return, mione. His visit in the country was to have extended over some days, therefore it was a great surprise to Taunton to be awakened by his master's bell, at an ab- surdly early hour of the following morn- ing. But Taunton was far too well-bred to show such an unvaletlike emotion as sur- prise. His lordship had changed his mind &nd come back, that was sufficient—at least, so it might have been judged from his manner. But it was not sufficient to subdue his well-concealed curiosity as to why Lord Carrismoyle should have sat up =il night in preference to going to bed: why, though his lordship confessed to not having dined last night, he should refuse y breakfast save a hastily drunk cup of tea and a piece of toast; and why he who msually had pieasantly lazy habits in the . morning, should go out in a cab at 8 o'clock. There was nothing to do in Lon- don at 8 o'clock, Taunton reflected; vet if there was anything to be learnt from tne expression of a man's tace, Lord Carris- moyle was of a different opinion. Taun- ton would have sacrificed something to hear the direction given to the cabman. CHAPTER IV. THE CORNER HOUSE. Carrismoyle had asked Lester to wire him the moment that there was any fur- ther news; but as he had not left Way- cross till nearly midnight a telegram was unlikely to arrive until noon, at all events, therefore he might remain away from Savile-row for some hours if necessary without the fear of missing a message, perhaps of supreme importance. The directions to the cabman which Taunton would have liked to much to hear were to drive straight to Ashburton House in Harley street. Carrismoyle had never been inside the hpuse before, but often since his return from South Africa he had walked past it, looking wistfully up at the windows, wondering which was Cissy’s and hoping that he might have a glimpse of her. He asked boldly for “Mrs. d’Esterre,” which he knew was the name of the principal, though he %as far from certain that the lady might not long ago have been warned by Sir Redways Grant against the intrusion of & young man bearing his name. “Mrs, D'Esterre has gone away for the holidays,” said the servant who answered his ring, “but Miss Morley is in charge and at home, sir.” “Miss Morley, then, if you please,” an- swered Carrismoyle in his kindly way, which always won for him the hearts of serwants if already—when feminine—they had not fallen victims to his black-lashed blue eyes. He was shown into an eminently re- spectable and depressing drawing-room, and waited with growing impatience for a long five minutes. Then came the quick rustle of a woman's dress, and to his dis- may he beheld the thin, narrow-shoul- dered, pink-nosed lady who had been the girl’s chaperon in Bond street only the Saturday before. He had hardly been conscious of noticing her that day, yeg he recognized her instantly, and saw in her somewhat forbidding gray eyes that she recognized him also. 3 “Is it possible, Lord Carrismoyle,” she began, severely, “that you have come to bring news of Miss Cecily Grant—or per- haps I ’'should now say Lady Carris- moyle?” The young man flushed deeply, and the look on his handsome face must have been discouraging; for as the spinster gazed at him in expectancy the hard lines about her mouth and between her brows slightly softened. “I have come to ask news of Miss Grant,” he sald. “I have been to Stone- cross Abbey—I only came back to town carly this morning—and—and 1 have Sir Redways Grant’s permission to try all I can to find her. Not"—hastily—“that I shouldn’t do just the same in any case; but I thought perhaps you might—"" “I've really nothing to tell you,” Miss Morley interrupted him. “It was only a little more than an hour ago that we knew there was anything wrong. It was a terrible shock to Mrs. D'Esterre, for nothing of the sort has ever happened in this house or to any member of the household before. I was awakened at an early hour this morning by the news that a person from Scotland Yard wished to see me in Mrs. D'Esterre’s absence. From him I learned that Miss Grant had not arrived at home on Saturday night as she ex—as she sald that she expected to do.” As Miss Morley spoke these last words she looked sharply at Lord Carris- moyle. “It'is only fair to tell you, per- haps,” she went on after a very slight pause, “that I mentioned to the Scotland Yard man the incident in the tea-room. I remembered your name, and I felt it my duty to state for the assistance of the police that I had distinctly seen you give a note to Miss Grant, and that I thought she had also slipped one into your hand at the same moment. I added that I had resson to suppose you had come to the place at that time by appointment, and that Miss Grant had been exceedingly, indged, most peculiarly agitated just be- fore you entered. Naturally the mystery of her disappearance seemed easier of ex- planation by the new theory which open- ed out, and I quite thought, Lord Carris- moyle, when your name was sent up to me, that you would be entirely able to explain it away. Since you tell me this I can only say in return that I have real- 1y nothing to relate which can help you.” “May I judge of that when I have asked a few questions which I have in my mind?” Carrismoyle inquired, with an en- gaging humility. After all, thought Miss Morley, who had missed all the best things in life, it was hardly to be wondered at if Cissy Grant had loved this goodly young man. She .could scarcely belleve yet that the girl bad not run away with him to be mar- ried instead of going home. “Do you assure me upon your honor that Miss Grant did not meet you that evening after she left, or—next day?” Miss Morley could not help persisting. “T swear it upon my honor—and by my love for her, Miss Morley; for you will understand that I love her. I hoped to see her in Devonshire, but there's no use going into that, though, for you will have heard details enough. Will you tell me bow she went away from this house? Was it In a cab?” “Yes. But I have just gone over all that with the man from Scotland Yard.” “Perhaps there may have been some- thing he left unasked.” “I should not think so. He made me quite stupid with his questions. She went in a four-wheeled cab, after recelving a telegram which purported to be from Sir Redways, as no doubt you've heard. He said she was not to wait for her friend, Lady Stanton, but was to start at once alone, and she did not seem to have the least dread of the journey, though we thought it extraordinary that her father should allow it.” “And aid she go alone?” “Why, yes, as far as we know. There was no one who could have gone with her at such short notice, even if—"" “Oh, no.” Miss Morley's face changed slightly. *“She didn’t drive to the station alone, of course. I am afraid I must bave misled the police on that point. Quite unconsciously I led the man who called here to believe that she had been by herself. I was so startled, so con- fused. He asked if we knew the number of the cab and had wired Mrs. D'Esterre, and really I was hardly responsible for what I said, though I tried very hard to be clear and concise. Mrs. D'Esterre herself intended to drive to the station with Miss Grant, but at the last moment @ very old friend of hers who had been in India for many years called on her unexpectedly and a servant was sent with Miss Grant. If this maid had been still in the house of course I should have thought to mention it te the policeman or detective or whatever one should call him. But Jessle Delancey was going home for the holidays at the very time Miss Grant was leaving us. She had her hat and cloak on, and as her mother's house was somewhere not far away from ‘Waterloo Station it was a great thing for her to drive off in the'cab with nothing to pay instead of walking with her bag to an omnibus. As it happens it was I who suggested to Mrs, D'Esterre that Jessie should be sent.” *Oh, then, the maid herself did not pro- pose it?” “Ye-es, now that I recall the circum- stances, which seemed unimportant enough at the time, Jessie, Jessie—a nice girl, rather a favorite of mine—did say, when she heard that there was & ques- tion who should go with Miss Grant: ‘Oh, ma’am, if I might, 1 should be very pleased to do it’ That was all. And I dare say Miss Grant didn'y mind the change, as Jessle had ll-kfl' care of her room and had always been, I fancy, most attentive. At all events, I know that she gave the girl a great many presents.” *Could I see this Jessie Delancey forfia few minutes?” asked Carrismoyle. “She hasn't come back vet. She had permission from Mrs, D'Esterre to stay for a week with her mother, who hadn’t been well, I believe. As all the young ladies, are away at this time there is comparatively little work for the ser- vants, and one could easily be spared.” “Of course, the first thing that the Scotland Yard man would do, if he hadn’t understood that Miss Grant left this house alone, would be to see the person who went with her in the cab to the rail- way station,” said Carrismoyle, thought- fully. ‘“Fortunately for me, perhaps, I have that one advantage in beginning. I should like to call on Jessie Delancey this morning if you would give me her ad- dress.” i “I don’t know it,”” replied Miss Morley. “I suppose the housekeeper has it, but she is out at present and isn’t likely to be back until nearly luncheon time.” “Isn’t it possible that oné of the ser- vants would know where Jessie lives?” .“I can inquire,” said the spinster, doubtfully. *“But do you know, I fancy the first thing the police will try to do is not to find Jessie Delancey but to find you. After what passed here this morn- ing, after what I was forced to tell of the meeting on Saturday, the notes ex- changed, and Miss Grant's having nearly fainted just before you came, I feel sure they look to you to solve the mystery.” Carrismoyle heard only half that Miss Morley was saying. ‘“‘She nearly fainted?"’ he echoed, in a puzzled way. ‘‘But sure- ly my coming could not havi caused that. There must have been "some other reason.” Miss Morley shook her head. “I know of no other. To be sure, a very disrepu- table-looking man did stare through the window at her, but he could not have been an acquaintance. He was—oh, an impossible sort of person. And he mere- ly walked very slowly, staring in at the girls in a horrid way, which I resented; and naturally he looked most at Miss Grant, whose appearance, of course, in- variably attracts considerable attention wherever she goes. She Is so exceedingly striking in her style, you know.” “I know that she is the most beautiful girl I ever saw or ever expect to see,” said Carrismoyle, in a rapt way, that somehow warmed Miss Morley's spinster heart to him, although she had always been vaguely, half-consciously jealous of the lovely young creature who had so many blessings. But all.the world loves a lover—even a soured, middle-aged wom- an has a kindly yearning over him, though he is not for her, and Miss Mor- ley suddenly felt that she would like to help this gallant, handsome young man, if she could, so that he might remember her in the future with gratitude. “Yes, Miss Grant is beautiful,” she re- peated, generously, with a slight empha- sis as If to show that.she believed the girl to be still in this world, not to be cruelly relegated to the past tense when her name was spoken. “As for the man who stared at her, if it's any use to you to know, he was dark, middle-aged, and seedily dressed; but his clothes must once have been smart, and—yes, perhaps he might, years ago, have had a right to call himself a gentleman. Many years ago. And he had a horrid face—bold and yet insinuating. You know the type. One meets it often enough in London. But, as I said, it would be absurd to fancy that the sight of an utter stranger, a man of that description, could have been up- setting to Miss Grant, simply because he was rude enough to stare at her.” “It would seem to be so,” Carrismoyle agreed; but he spoke slowly and reflec- tively. “Another thing I might tell you before I send to find out about Jessie,” sald Miss Morley, abruptly; ‘“Miss Grant hadn't been as bright for the last two or three months as she used to be, I think. When she first came she was rather silent and depressed, as if she were homesick, per- haps; but she cheered up after a few weeks and seemed happy enough, though rather excitable always, particularly un- til after she had heard the news in the paper every morning from South Africa. Lately, however, she lost much of her color, and had a very poor appetite, I noticed. Sometimes she would be like herself for a day of two; but usually she ave one :bsent-minded. 1 hadn't thought much about all this, confess, as—er—I wasn't favored by Miss Grant's special friend- ship, until this morning, after talking with the Scotland Yard man. Then I be- gan plecing toggther old impressions, am: trying to make up some theory out of them. I must say, Lord Carrismoyle, that they all seemed to point to you—or, at all events, a secret love interest of some sort. Since you are not concerned in her disappearance, the mystery becomes d:’rk- er. I can see no clue to it; can you: 1 “Not yet,” returned Carrismoyle, gloomily. “But perhaps there will b; a gleam of light throqu';.thu gn"rknen when seen Jessie Delancey. lEx“:ul ring and have those inquiries made,” said Miss Morley, jerking the old- fashioned bellrope which dangled over the sofa on which she was primly sitting. The mald who answered the bell did not know Jessie Delancey’s address, but she hurried off to ask below stairs, and Te- turned presently with the information that Jessie's mother was supposed to live in a certain Alberta street, on the Surrey side of the river, somewhere not far from Waterloo $bridge. The number Was un- known, unless to the housekeeper, who, as Miss Morley had said, was not in the house. Five minutes later Miss Morley was peeping furtively out, through the thick lace curtains in the old-fashioned draw- ing-room, watching the departure of the only young men with whom she had had an actual tete-a-tete for at least twenty years. It stirred a forgotten appetite for romance within her and left her with much to think about; while for Carris- moyle, the poor, precise spinster had ceased to exist by the time he had jumped into his waliting hansom. Alberta street proved difficult to find, and when it was reached—a mean little cutting betwen two thoroughfares of larger importance—the presence of & han- som appeared to create so much excite- ment that Carrismoyle decided to send the vehicle away, pursuing his researches on foot. Alberta street contained not more than thirty houses at most, thirty grim little boxes, set on end, in a crowded row of perhaps fifteen on either side, each with one window and a slit of a door on the ground floor, and two windows in the story above. A chill wind blew through the street from end to end as if it had been a tunnel, whirling along bits of pa- per, scraps of arange peel and melancholy, nondescript rags. At almost every win- dow had appeared a head as the smart hangom, picked up in the “West End,” came jingling along the street, and Car- rismoyle had asked himself which of these heads, if any, appertained to Miss Jessie Delancey. He had fancied that the windows would empty when the cab had been sent away, but this was not the case. A well-dressed young man on foot, evi- dently with business to transact in Al- berta street, was quite as attractive an object to its denizens as the hansom had been. But, at least, the interest he ex- cited gave him one advantage. He was not obliged to knock at door after door to make his inquiries. Of a woman stand- ing in an open doorway he asked for Mrs. Delancey. She looked introspective and finally shook her head. She had never heard the name. She did not believe that a person possessing it lived in the street. At several houses women appeared to have business at the door. They came out with brooms; they shook crumbs from dingy red tablecloths, or they chased fur- tive-eyed cats into the street. Carris- the idea of being worried and* moyle inquired of each one as he passed along, but none had any knowledge of a Mrs. Delancey; and when he had been in- formed in rotation of the name of each houscholder on one side and at least half those on the other it became more and more certain that somewhere, somehow, a mistake had been made—a mistake which might mean for him all the differ- ence between success and failure. There were no cards advertising “apart- ments” in any of the windows, save one or two which anndunced that within a room might be had by “a respectable sin- gle man”; but at last, in despalr, it oc- curred to him that Mrs. Delancey might be a lodger, not a householder. He put the question to a woman with a baby in her arms who conversed with a pallid young “lady friend” in her doorway. No, there was no woman ljving in such rooms as were to let in Alberta street, at least not at present; but Mrs. Dawson at the corner once had had a, dressmaker living with her. Carrismoyle knocked (there were few bells in this thorough- fare) at the red-painted door of the cor- ner house. Nobody answered at first, and it was not until he had rapped smart- ly for the second time that he distinctly heard a sound of shufiling feet in the passage inside. A key turned rustily in a lock and the door opered half-way, to show one of the strangest faces that Carrismoyle had ever scen. For a moment he did not know what gave the features the pecullarly un- canny effect which struck him sharply at first glance.' It was not the waxy, yellow tint of the curiously smooth, unwrinkled skin; it was not wholly due to the fact that the face was shaped exactly like an egg, or that the gray hair, which had she insinuatingly paused, on what day she last heard from her daughter, Mrs. Dawson reflected for a moment, not so much, Carrismoyle was sure, be- cause it was necessary to recall the date. as be>ause she was gathering her forces together in the hope of earning a sover- eign. “It was Saturday,” she informed him at last. “Yes, I give up hope on Sat- of 'avin’ her with me for the 'oli- ‘Saturday morning or afternoon?”’ “Saturday afternoen. But that ain’t the question you was wishing to ask, sir?” “I'm afraid the question which was first in my mind can only be asked of your daughter herself, since you tell me that you Haven't seen her since Saturday, and she told you no details.” “Only that she 'ad to stop where she was on account of the missus changin’ her mind. You might go to Hashburnton 'Ouse and see Jessie, str. You'd git a ‘word with her and if you've a friend there I daresay you have the address. If not, I can give it you.” “Thank you,” answered Carrismoyle. It would not be wise to tell Mrs. Dawson that he had alread- been to Ashburton House. Whe.ner she were lying about her daughter, or telling the truth, it would be weil to keep this fact to him- self. As he debated waether t. appear cognizant of the address or not, he walked slowly across the room toward the chimneypiece, as if to admire the por- trait at closer quarters. Then, suddenly, at sight of thing which his eyes had missed until this instant, his heart gave a bound, and the biood sang in his ears. CHAPTER V. evidently once been fiery red, grew down +THE MYSTERIOUS MR. BERKELEY. in a ‘“‘widow’s peak” on the prominent, rounded forehead. The strangeness was in the eyes; but it was only after Carris- moyle had looked fully into them that he realized the exact nature of the malfor- mation to which it was due. The pupils, instead of being in the center of the yel- lowish iris, were at the bottom, as if they had dropped, and the effect when fhe old_ woman gave back look for look was de- testable. £ She smiled, a queer, three-cornered smile, which drew her mouth up at one corner and showed a black gap where two or three teeth should have been. ‘‘You're lookin’ at my eyes, now, ain’t you, sir?”’ she demanded. “Perhaps you're a. doc- tor. If you are, you won't be the fust has come on the same errand. Bless you, I been in all thé medical journals. It's one of the only two cases on record. I can see in the night as good as you can by day, though when it's light, I'm always knockin’ myself against everything. Are you one of the young gentlemen from the Eye Hospital?" “No,” sald Carrismoyle, with a strong feeling of repulsion; “I'm not in the medical profession. I called to inquire if you had ever had a lodger nagped De- lancey, and, if so, whether you could give me her present address.” This time the old woman laughed aloud —a sly, cackling laugh—and opened the door hospitably wider. > “Now!"” sshe exclaimed. “However 'did you 'ear that name, I wonder, and what did you want with the owner of it, i you could find her?”’ “Only to ask a question, and the, an- swer, which would give no trouble in making, would.be worth—say a sover- eign.” “Well, my daughter i{s known in some quarters as Miss Jessie Delancey,” safd the old women hesitatingly, eying Car- rismoyle as she spoke. y “Really! I'm glad to hear that,” he ex- claimed. “I have been inquiring for the name all over the street, but no one seemed to know it.” “That's not so wonderful, considering my rame’s Dawson. My daughter is what they call romantic. She fancied Delan- cey, so she saw no reason why she shouldn’t take it, when she went into ser- vice. Names is cheap. You might as well have a pretty as an ugly one, if you've a notion that way." “Certainly,” Carrismoyle assented quiet- ly. “Can I come inside and have a few minutes’ talk with you? And I should like to see your daughter.” * “The first you can do,” said Mrs. Daw- son. “But the last you can't. My girl's in a smart place up in the West End and the missus, though she'd promised Jessie a ’oliday at this time, changed her mind at the last and wouldn't or couldn’t let her off. Maybe I can answer your ques- tion, though—if it's of so much import- ance, sir.” The old woman stood aside as she let ker visitor enter the narrow passage, which was uncarpeted and not. toa clean. The pause gave Carrismoyle an instant to reflect upon the surprising, intelligence conveyed in her last words. Miss Morley had told him that Jessie Delancey had been given a week's holi- day, which she was to spend with her mother, who had been ill. Mrs. Dawson now asserted that the holiday had been denfed. Now, the question was, whether Jessie were really in this house, for some reason desiring to conceal her presence there, or whether her wish to spend Christmas week with her mother had been but a pretense to deceive Mrs. D'Esterre. In any case, the cloud of mys- tery seemed to thicken round the person of the young cervant girl. “A sittin’-room of my own I 'ave not got,” went on Mrs. Dawson, in a curious, emphatic, breathless way she had of talk- ing, gasping between words. “But my lodger is away at present, and we'll just step into his room for our bit of talk, if you please.” There were two doors in the passage The one at the,back had been left ajar when Mrs. Dawson came from her work 1o answer Carrismoyle’s knock, and if he had been a little nearer he would have obtained a glimpse of an untidy kitchen and living-room combined. But it was with an air of prjde that the old woman ushered him into the sitting-room of the absent lodger. To her, it was an “elegant apartment,” good enough for any one with its worsted table ats, its antima- cassars, its cheap ‘‘saddle-bag” furniture and its family portraits, which clustered thickly on the dingy brown walls. She thought her present visitor was a very fine gentleman, and sae was pleased at the chance of impressing him with her possessions, but to Carrismoyle the shab-. by littlg room was a dreary blank except for a large picture painted execrably in oils, which, hanging over the mantelpiece, faced him as he entered. It is represented a young woman who might in reality have considerable claim to good looks, though, if so, she had been caricatured by the artist. She had very yellow hair, whether bestowed by nature or not, dark eyebrows, a great deal of color, while in the shape of the mouth and chin there was a certain force and décision which redeemed th& face from the ordinary. . 1 “May I ask if that is a portrait of your daughter?’ asked Carrismoyle, hiding eagerness. If this were Jessie Delancey, then Jessie was a girl who weuld do few things on impulse, yet might do some bold things, with sufficient motive. “That's my daughter,” returned Mrs. Dawson. “She's considered a handsome girl. Perhaps it's no wonder she's a bit fond of dress, and making herself laok smart. The portrait was painted from a photograph, by a lodger who couldn’t pay me all he was owing, and I took it against the debt. But that question you was wanting to ask Jessie, sir? I suppose it ‘would be something about one of the young ladies at her place, for Jessie her- self, I think, you don’t know?" ‘‘Has she ever talked to you about any of the young ladies?” inquired Carris- moyle. y “No—o, sir, not much,” returned the old ‘woman, with evident reluctance, afraid of missing a lucrative chance. ‘‘Jessie's a close-mouthed girl—one you could trust with a secret. But some things she have mentioned. Now, if you could tell me the name of the lady you'd like to hear about, mebbe I could remember—"" “No doubt,” Aloud, he merely asked, as ' ¥ On the mantel, propped up against a common three-penny bottle of ink, stood a little gray suede purse, soiled with fin- ger marks and ragged at one corner, as if something had been hurriedly torn off. Probably there were thousands of such purses in London; but, soiled and marred as it was, this was still a thing more suggestive of Bond street than Alberta street, and it was in Bond street that on Sunday afternoon Lord Canrismoyle had seen such a’purse in Cecily Grant's hand. He was not a man wont to notice wom- en's fripperies, but somehow.-he always knew what Cissy wore. Secarcely a detail missed his notice, from the pale tortoise ghell hairpins, which almost matched the gold of her hair, to the dainty little shoes which often matched her frock in color. He had sometimes told himself that he could remember every dress in which he had seen the girl, even so long as that halcyon time in Switzerland when he had met and loved her. X Now a vivid picture of Cecily as she had taken a step toward him in the Bond street tea rgoms rose before his eyes. There she was, her sweet, smiling face shadowed a little at the left by the brim of the gray hat, which turned down on one side and up at the other. Again he saw the way her Iittle pinky-white chin nestled into the soft chinchilla fur of her gray jacket. He saw her change from her right hand into the left'a scrap of Jlace-edged handkerchief and .a purse of the same gray suede as her gloves, with her monogram at one corner in gold and turquoises. She had done this just before she put out her hand to him, gnd so in- curred Miss Morley's prim displeasure. On the purse which stood upon the mahtel in this room there was no mono- gram; but in the exact spot where the ‘gleaming twist of blue and gold had been on the pretty thing in Cissy Grant's hand was that jagged, suggestive tear. Carrismoyle’'s heart was , knocking against his side. Here was a clue, in- deed, and it had been given to him, not to the police. Of course, it was possible that this was an old purse of the same pattern, pre- sented to Jessie “‘Delancy” by its owner, when another had been obtained and the . monogram transferred. Or, it was pos- sible that this had never been Cissy's. But instinct, hot upon the trail of a vague sus- plelon, would not be convinced- by such ents. |\ y 4 ‘“‘Another trace of your d-ught’, I see,” sald Carrismoyle, indicatin the spoilt purse with affected carelessness and turn- ing to Mrs. Dawson with a forced smile. “‘That ain’t Jessie's,” sald Mrs. Dawson. “It's Mr, Berkeley’s, my lodger's.” Carrismoyle grasped the edge of the imi- tation marble mantel to keep down the start of surprise which went flashing through his nerves. For the success of his quest this was a critical moment. A false step and this woman’s suspicion would be roused. Then farewell to any hope of extracting Information. The young ‘man’s mouth was dry as he re- peated the name she had just spoken. “Berkeley,” he sald, slowly. “I've a friend called Berkeley. Wefve lost sight of each other for some timeé. What sort of fellow is this lodger to look at?”’ ‘The face of Mrs. Dawson grew more sly than ever as she peered up at Carrismoyle out of the corners of her queer eyes. ‘‘He’s a very good tenant, sir,” she re- marked. “‘Of course, if he’s the 6ne I mean he Wwould be,” said @arrismoyle, warmly. “I know I'm giving you a lot of bother With all these questions of mine. But when F've finished I must ask you to accept the sum mentijoned for your daughter.” The old woman'’s tone instantly changed. “I'm sure you're very kind, sir, and I never minds trouble, as Mr. Berkeley says. Wgat's he to look at? Well, he's a. perfect ntleman, sir, but it's like he's seen better days. He's tall and dark, Wwith black hair that's turning a bit gray, and he's got a pair of eyes, set deep in his ’ead, can look straight through and through you. And they grow closer to his nose than most, making a narrow space in between. Is that like your friend?” “It's the man I mean without a doubt,” exclaimed Carrismoyle. And he spoke truly, for Mrs. Dawson's description of her lodger, and Miss Morley's description of the man who had looked into the win- dow of the tea room in Bond street, had enough family resemblance to make him Jump impulsively to a conclusion. “You say your lodger's away,” Carrismoyle went on. “I should like immensely to make sure he’s—er—my friend, and then surprise him. When will he be back?"” “He didn’t say precisely,” returned the woman, cautious again. Carrismoyle took from his pocket a sov- ereign and laid it on the table. “In case I should forget at the last,” he said, pleas- antly. “Is Mr. Berkeley likely to be away - over Christmas?” “‘Oh, yes, sir, quite that.” “Perhaps you could give me his ad- dress?” “Indeed, that I couldn't do. I don't know it.”” “If this is my friend Berkeley I could tell him something very much to his own advantage,” said' Carrismoyle, lying with an unmoved face, creditable (or discredit- able) to an amateur in deceit. “In his in- terest I think I might offer you another pound for the information.” “Not if 'twas a thousand pounds,” re- turned Mrs. Dawson, with a discouraging appearance of sincerity, “What a body doesn’t know, a body can't tell. Not but what, if you was to write a letter, sir, I mightn't be able to get it to Mr. Berkeley one way or another. I don't say I might not do that.” ‘“Very well,” replied Carrismoyle, calm- ed by the coming ef a sudden inspiration. ““Will you bring me some paper and let me write here?” i As he spoke, as if by accident he brush- ed his sieeve agalnst the purse, Insecurely propped up on the mantel close to which he was still standing. The poor, little ruined wallet of suede fell to the fioor, and Carrismoyle stooped to pick it up, kwardness. “I hope it has not suffered,” he sald, turning the purse over and over, “But no, I think these stains Were there be- " “Oh, I don't fancy, sir, it’s of any im- portance,” responded Mrs. Dawsun reas- suringly. “I found it lying on the floor by the grate just as you see it, torn and dirty, but not being quite sure whether Mr. Berkeley wished it thrown away, and 1 a woman whose honesty ain’tnever been doubted, I picked it up and set it on the mantel till I could ask the gentleman if 'twas meant to go into the fire or not. By the look of it "tain’t much use to anybody —unless it happens to be Mr. Berkeley's sweetheart’s!” And the hideous old woman chuckled in a way that was mad- dening to Carrismoyle. He carefully set the purse up once more against the ink bottle. But Mrs. Dawson indicated the latter with a clawlike fore- finger. . “You ean use that for your letter. sir. As for paper, I don’'t know. There's a blotter on the side table under’ them old newspapers. I seen it yesterday.” “Berkeley—my Berkeley—and I used to have a joke about always writ- ing to each other on big blue papar, like lawyers' paper, you know,” ventured Carrismoyle, naming the * sort most unlikely to be at hand. “It would be amusing to use that kind now. Have you any? Or, if not, if you wouldn't mind just stepping out to_ that shop I saw round the corner, a#fi—er—keeping the change—"" He dld not finish the sentence, but he held out half a sovereign. And it began to appear top Mrs. Dawson that she was en- tertainin® a millionaire. Of course, there was the danger that he was deceiving her and wished her valued lodger no good; but Mr. Berkeley wasn’t the sort of man who left letters lying about, and, indeed, he received very few. She glanced round the room; wondering if any of her treasures would be endan- gered if this handsome stranger were left aione with them; but she could see not- ing small enough to be carried away in s pocket of a nature likely to tempt im. And as for her little store of money it was sewn ihto her stays, where she had always kept it since a thief had walked in one day whep she was out mar- keting. Besides, this man gave money. He was not apt to selze upo. and secrete worsted mats, ‘antimacassars or even china vases at threepence-half-penny aplece. She picked up the first soverelgn which Le had laid on the table, and with an air of dignity accepted the smaller coin which he held out to her. “I'll see what I can do at the shop round the corner, sir,” she sald. “I shan’t be much above five minutes.” She knew that she would be ten at ieast, for the man in the shop round the corner was leisurely- in his ways, but she thought it well that the stranger should rot feel he tad time to make too free. Carrismoyle’s impulse was to spatch the purse and examine it closely ide as well as out the instant the woman’s back was turned, but he knew it would not be prudent to do this. She was only going to #et her bonnet and cloak to go out, and it would be like her, he thought, to pop un- expectedly into the room again to see if she could “catch him at anything.” And e did not wish to be caught. In case she fulfilled his expectation he forced himself to stroll across the room ‘it was not a long stroll) and begin indif- ferently shuffling about the papers which lay piled on the blotter Mrs. Dawson had pointed out to him. Then. if she came back, he could be carrying the blotter over to the center table, to be ready for use when the other writing materials had been collected. “As she had said, under several half- penny papers of recent date lay such a blotter as is sometimes given away by certain business firms in the form of gn advertisement. Mechanically he opened it, hoping every second either to see Mrs. Dawson and get rid of ker once for all, or to hear the fgont door close. The blotting pad had not been much used and suddenly a group of large black letters, almost in the center of one white page, seemed to start out to his eyes with potent meaning. The -words were all turned backward, of course, for they were mere impressions from originals made with such thick black ink that they had repéated themselves here in almost un- broken lines, while the fact that they were printed, not written, rendered them more readily decipherable without the aid of a mirror. ‘Well nigh before Carrismoyle realized what he was reading the scene in Sir Redways Grant’s study at Stonecross Abbey came up before him, and once more he was staring at the sheet of pa- per which had been found in the mys- terious box. Then, almost simultaneously with this impression from the past came the knowledge that here were the same words, reversed on this plece of blotting paper. A’line was missing; if a stranger had picked up the blotter and seen/ what Carrismoyle saw he would have suspected nothing. If he had taken the trouble to make out the words he would have sup- posed that the writer had been sending away a Christmas box; but Carrismoyle was sure that the first line was the same, word for word, as the crude, cruel state- ment which had fixed Sir Redways’ belief in his daughter’s death by violence. To make assurance doubiy sure he hur- riedly held up the open blotting pad be- fore a small, greenish mirror hanging askew over the mantel and hardly had he satisfied himself that he had not been mistaken and shut the book again when erl. Dawson opened the door and peered in. “I'm just going, sir,” she said, with a quick glance round. But as Carrismoyle had calculated, it raised no suspicion in her mind that he should be standing by the table with the blotter to which she herself had drawn his attention. A mo- ment later he saw her pass the window, in her rusty bonnet and shabby plush cape; then he snatched the little gray purse from the mantel, a thrill going ::r(;ushh his fingers with the assurance at he touched som been Cissy’s. ething which had He pressed the spring, kn that anything of mtr’:m ”-::‘ Whlc.h“n the p:rae b:;mulnnd would ha: move ore this. Mrs. - lodger had been careless enou:;"z':ml,.: ber spoil fall on the floor by the fire- place. But, if the man had meant to burn the purse, thinking, perhaps that h, had don it t o e g0, It might not have been emp- tled of papers such as women often about with them. If there were only 4 memorandum for a shoppi ~ ping expedition, written in Cissy's well-known, well-loved hand, remaining, Carrismoyle would have gained a stronger proof against this nn; Who called himself Berkeley. As he had supposed, there was not a penny in the purse. If there had been ‘:z]l:ney; it had gone with the gold and quoise monogram, an ai'il‘i}::ult to dispose of. < Would Ne lems ere were several compartm with gray watered silk of the ue:‘::,.g::,: as the suede outside, but all ‘were empty, or so he thought at the first hasty ex- amination; but as his fingers delved into the smooth depths searching for some- thing unseen, it felt to the touch as if there were something #tiffer than the lined silk between two of the miniature pockets. Looking more closely, and as- sisting his eyes with his fingers. Carris. moyle dllcover_-d that there was a small extra space, only large enough to con- tain a slim little volume bound in gray sk, which had been made to fit into it as If in a tiny, secret compartment. So thick was the book, and so tightly did it fit, that he could not bring it out of its place until he had inserted the point et, anc At Pnitimen G D e e For an instant he hesitated before open- ing it, for on the cover, painted in gold letters, were the ‘words, ‘“Memorandum and Diary.” Cissy’s secret He' had no right thoughts, which perhaps she had written bere in these pages, and yet—and yet, this scruple might be the one thing which should break the new found clew in two. m-yvgdtmmm-dm Please ven he would tell her, and ask for her pardon one day. So he opened the tiny book, and out dropped from between its pages the scrap of paper which he had sifpped Into Cissy's hand at the tea-room on Saturday. Now there was no longer any doubt! <4 Not only was the purse hers, but it had been in her possession late on the day she disappeared: while the fact that his note had been hidden in the concealed diary was proof positive in his mind that the purse had not been voluntarily parted with. He meant to leave the purse where he had found it—though it was hard to do so, since it had been hers—but the note and the book he could take with him. The former he thrust into his pocket; the lat- ter he opened at the first page. It was blank—but further on, upon a date he well remembered, were a few sentences in her pretty hand, written very small. that they might be wedged into the cramped space. “l saw Roy to-day in church. I know why he came. It was the first time for so long. I could hardly think of anything but him, though I did try. I shall like to look into this little book years and years from now, and remember this date. I know I shall remember exactly how I felt, too, if I'm a hundred.” That was all. And there was no clew to the mystery; only a clew to the heart of a young, loving girf. and Carrismoyle kissed the page, feeling gullty, yet not repenting that he had read it. Then he turned quickly onm, for the time pressed, and he could not wait with patience un- til he should be in his own rooms, with no horrible, cat-eyed Mrs. Dawson. liable to appear at any moment. A few pages further on was a seco entry. “Another date to remember, “ oh, how different—how miserably dlffers ent! ‘A terrible thing has come into my life. Even here, I cannot bear to put down what it is. I can never tell any one as long as I iive. It seems too strange to be true that I, who have lived such an ordinary life—except for Roy, and the part conected with him—should suddenly be face to face with such hateful mys- tery, like a ghost that comes creeping out to haunt one when it is night. But with me it must always be night after this—or so I feel now. In one day, from a girl, [ have become a woman.” This had been written on a date just three months ago, almost to the day. And Miss Morley had told him that for the last three months Cissy had appeared changed; that she had been absent- minded, nervous and excitable. No won- der, poor child, Carrismoyle sald to him- self, with hot anger in his heart against the unknown person who had wrought the change. Again he turned over a leaf or two, which were blank. Then came another page, partly filled with close, fine writing. “I have had the interview. Everything is evan more horrible than I had feared at first. I am very unhappy. I cannot bear to look at her now. I wonder if she knows?” Opposite, a line or two only had been scrawled. “Sent something by her. All I could.” Again: “Sent more. I have nothing left now except two rings and the dear locket Roy gave me.” The man who had given the locket felt his heart contract, with the thought of Wwhere and how it had been found, only a few hours ago. At length, as he turned over the pages, he reached a date a few days old. Here had been written only a few words; yet they were not words to be easily forgot- ten. “It is to be two Saturdays before Christmas.” Carrismoyle closed the pathetic littlp book, and put it away in his pocket with the note which he had given and Cissy had kept. ‘What was “to be” on the last Saturday but one before Christmas? What had she meant, what had she thought of, in mak- ing that memorandum? Certain things which had been myster- lous before were clearer now In the lurid light cast upon them by the jottings in this diary. For instance, Clssy had writ- ten him a note not long ago, begging him ‘“not to be very much surprised and dis- gusted if she begged a great favor.” She had then gone on to say (after explaining anxiously that she would not ask such a dreadful, unheard-of thing, If it were not ‘really necessary”), that she desperately Wwanted thirty pounds by a certain date. Her next allowance 'was not due for some weeks, and as she had had an advance last‘ nm& uh; was afraid, if she asked again, at e @ father might put ques- “Of course,” she had gone on, “I needn’t answer him, but—well, I can hardly tell you why I don’t want him even to wonder. I know you won’t ask questions; and I know you will un- derstand that I am net just frivolous and extravagant. As soon as I get my al- lowarce I shall pay you back. It won't be long. But thirty pounds is a good deal of ‘money, and perhaps you may not have it at the moment. If you haven't it can’t be helped, and you mustn’t mind, for I shall manage somehow. If you have, and can lend it, try and come to the Koh-i-noor tea-rooms in Bond street next Saturday, about 4, because,it is better not to send through the post. All the other girls have more liberty than I—you cam guess the old,tiresome reason. I shall try and arrange to be there. We may not buve a cnance to speak more than a word to each other without making our- selves conspicuous, but I shall have a note with ‘how do you do’ written to slip into your hand, and you can slip a line into my hand, with the bank notes, if ¥ou can spare them.” Carrismoyle could remember her letter almost word for word, because he had read it many times. He had thought Wwhen he received it that the poor child probably wished to give the money away before Christmas to some person in distress in whose case she had become In- terested. It would be like her, he knew— her impulsiveness and her generosity—to promise help and then determine at ail hazards not to break her word. He had fancied, too, that perhaps the reciplent of her charity was a person not liked by Sir Redways Grant; and perhaps it was natural that the young man who had been insulted and scorned by the irritable cld gentleman should sympathize the more because of that supposition. Be- sides, he had been delighted beyond words that the dear girl (who he was determined should be his Wife as soon as she became her own mistress) turned to him in her dilemma. He had said as much in the note which now came so strangely back into his pos- sesslon; and, of course, when he had puir that pote in her hand, three ten—puund’" notes had been with i, rolled into in- credibly small bulk. Now he saw that Cissy’s need for thirty pounds on a certain date had been of a very different nature from his first guess. Some wretch had found means to terrify the girl and extort from her not only all her poor little girlish treasures (except his locket and two rings), but large sums of money as well. And the question which arose in his’ mind regarding that last mysterioysly worded entry in her was, whether the date were con- nected with the blackmailer, or only with the hoped-for meeting with the man she loved. If it were the former, this might also mean that Cissy had gone voluntarlily to some rendezvous, to pay the promised money, and had @ been made pris- oner, or—but hé would not let himself dwell for a moment on the worst which might have happened—that awful worst which Sir Redways Grant seemed to have accepted without a doubt. As for the villain who haq made Cecily Grant's young life burdensame to her at the time of its sweetest blossoming, Fate seemed to have brought Carrismoyle far on the road toward finding him—pugishing him also, he flercely hoped. For it seemed In these moments of wild yearning for re- venge, that no punishment could be too mereciless. If the Berkeley