The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, September 21, 1902, Page 5

THE €UNDAY CALL. 1 evidence was far more mislead- Berkeley and he wers while it began to be noyle to see how Jessie have been the connect- on the mantelpiece the lit- v indeed now—for it cautious, exciting no ong the path m} ¥ to discovery: at the table as if he v awaiting Mrs. Dawson’s n the suggested letter, he whole soul to thinking out the t he had collected so many bits f evidence, there were two courses open He could put his proofs into the f the police. thus saving their and atoning for the delay caused ss Morley’s unconsciously mislead- or—he could go on as he Lad ne n enough to desire pas- e might be the one to find because he thought her father's impulsively made promise, should he alone succeed, but be- cause he would not be able to quench 2 burning jealousy of any other human by fortun :gh to do for her what Le could not do. Yet, as he tried honestly to read his own heart, he believed that, if it were merely a lover's vanity which prompted him to keep what he knew to himself, I ng the police go their own way, he wouid be strong enough to resist the temptation of yielding to it. But he hoped it was not by sophistry he decided that duty did not compel him to share the advantages he had gained. There was a vulgar but expressive old proverb which said that “'too many cooks spoil the broth.” And maybe it might be more or less appropriate te the present case. If the man who had questioned Miss Morley early in the morning had been & person of alert mind, it seemed to Car- rismoyle that he would have catechised that confused lady until he discovered the error in her misguiding statement con- cerning the manner in which the missing girl’s journey had been begun. Had the man done this, instead of trusting alone to finding the cab in which she had driven to the station, he would at once have sent in quest of Jessie Delancey. But apparently Jessie had been left ut- terly out of the question, and at present, until the police arrived where Carrismoyle bad started, he might do better alone and unhampered. If he told what he had learnt, that would practically mean sit- ting still, and doing no more on his own account; for Scotland Yard would have no particular fancy for amateur assistance— “4nterference” it would probably be called —and would discourage it. “I'll go on by myself, and let them go on by themselves,” he decided. And no sooner was the resolution fixed than Mrs. Dawson's figure once more quickly passed the window. Carrismoyle would now be expected to write his letter to the mysterious Mr. Berkeley; but he must rack his brain for &n excuse not to have it go after all. For be had sent Mrs. Dawson out to buy paper merely that he might be alone; and the “inspiration” he had had at the moment of the suggestion was for a very Qifferent end. CHAPTER VL THE INSPIRATION. Carrismoyle began to write his letter on the cheap paper which Mrs. Dawson had brought from the shop around the corner. Bhe did not go out of the room, but stood waiting, ostensibly to hear his instruc- tions when he should have finished. » @as if on impulse, dropped the pen she given him and crumpled the partly covered sheet in his hand. n second thought,” he exclaimed, “I 't write after all. You see, the things I want to say are rather difficult to ex- paper. The fact is, if this Berke- my Berkeley there may be money ing to him. I could put him in the of getting it. But I should have to some technical details. And if doesn’t set to work to claim what 1o be his, why, it will be impossible for him ever to touch it. Do you under- stand? Carrismoyle, who had always from hood been truthful because he was now lied caeerfully and without scruple. He could see that Mrs. Dawson was in- terested by the expression of her face, which lit up at the talk of money. Even thought of other people’s money was ithralling to her. She loved it. She loved the very feeling of it in her hand— the beautiful shining yellow of gold, the nice clean crispness of bank notes. Some- times at night she dreamed (hat unex- pectedly she came into possession of large sums of money, and awoke from an in- toxication of joy to a shocked sensation of having been robbed, defrauded, when she found that reality broke the charm. “Yes, I understand,” she said. “Will Mr. Berkeley be a rich man?” Bhe was wondering whether she could make it appear to him that his good for- tune came through her and that he owed her something for it. But it was not easy to make Mr. Berkeley think anything, much less do anything, though lately he had paid his way very well. She was afraid that she should not get anything out of him, no matter what his change of circumstances. “No-o, he won’t be rich,” angwered Car- rismoyle calmly, watching her face, “not exactly rich, in any case. But it's lucky for kim I came here accidentally to-day on quite a different errand, for at the end of & week the lawyers will have got everything that might have been.his if be doesn’t find out and make his claim meanwhile. That's the reason, I think, instead of writing I'd better telegraph, and get him here as soon as possible. Or rather, as I should like not to appear in the matter until I can see him, becausc he might misunderstand, I should like you to telegraph.” “I don’t think he’d come back for me, eir,” sald Mrs. Dawson, who seemed al- ways ready to begin a subject with objec- tions, her motive being something like that of an auctioneer who does his best to start the bidding. “Dor’t you know any argument or in- @ucement you might use which would bring him back in a hurry?” A queer look, like a lightning flash, passed across her yellow face, so quickly that it could scarcely be seen before it was gone. Yet Carrismoyle did see it, and was answered as well or better than if she had spoken, though she shook her head. “Of course, I see why you hesitate,” he ‘went on, “and you are quite right. You don’t trust me. You wish to protect your lodger, who, as you say, is a valuable tenant, and you are afraid I may mean treachery of some sort. In any case, you think be would be angry when he found out that he had been sent for by you on a false excuse—"" “He would be angry, sir,” she broke in. “And I can’t afford to lose a lodger to please a stranger, even if you do vow it’s for 'is good.” ¥ “Do you mind telling me how much he péys you for your rooms in a year?” asked Carrismoyle. Uniike the young man the elderly wo- man was an old hand at lying, and took to it as naturally as a duck takes to wa- ter. “He pays me ten shillings a week,” she responded, promptly, “which makes twen- ty-six pounds a yean or thereabouts. And he engaged this room and the front bed- ;"’0"‘ upstairs for a whole year from In reality she received rix shillings a week for both rooms, and considered her- self lucky, not only to (gct that but to have it cortinued from month to month with the more remote future unsettled; but sbe would have cheerfully tacked twenty extra shillings instead of four on to the genuine sum in her statement had she thought thers was the remotest chance of getting this very free-handed gentieman to believe it. ‘At the same time, her motive for telling the untruth was to enhance her own importance and <how how much she would lose if she lost the valuable Mr. Berkeley. At the answer she received from Carrismoye she was unaffectedly surprised; but it was not “the game” to show surprise in this instance, and she strove to conceal it. “I will give you, not twenty-six but thirty pounds if you send that telegram to Mr. Berkeley, and if by its means you succeed in getting him to come here to this house without expecting to meet me. You can have balf down when you've sent . the telegram and the other half when you can show me a telegram from him an- swering yours and appointing a time to come. Then, you see, if he's angry—as I'm sure he won’t be when he finds out why he is wanted—at least you will have lost nothing.” ¢ This began to seem like one of the dreams come true. And It was -certainly as unexpected as the best of them. Mrs. Dawson had no reason to suppose that Mr. Berkeley intended to remain her lodger for any length of time. Indeed, not long ago, he had dropped a hint about leaving London when some business which had kept him shonld@ be finished. Thirty pounds! Mrs. Dawson would have done almost anything for thirty pounds. And she did know, or thought she knew, of a way of wording a telegram which would bring Mr. Berkeley back to town from the merriest Christmas holiday in the world. She had, however, still to prove her theory. “I can but try, sir,”” she said, with ex- treme meekness. “Do you think he could get back by to- night?” asked Carrismoyle, not sure whether Mr. Berkeley were to be thought of as near or far, and anxious that Mrs. Dawson should commit herself to an-opin- on. But she was not thus easily to be taken in. “I told you, sir, I didn't know where Mr. Berkeley was,” she reiterated. *“I only have an address where I can let him know if there's.anything particular, but I'm sure a letter or telegram would have to be sent on—perhaps a long way. He may be abroad even, for all I can tell.” “Say in the telegram, then, that it is of the utmost importance he should be in this house between 6 and 6 to-morrow evening, and ask him to answer. I'll call in again to-night or early to-morrow morning to find out whether you have heard from him.” “And the first fifteen pounds, sir?” “Well, I haven't it in my pocket,” said Carrismoyle. And he might have added: “For obvious reasons & check is out of the question.” But what he did say was that he would get the money in gold or notes, which- ever Mrs. Dawson preferred, and bring it back to her himself within the course of an hour and a half. But before the money was put into her hands he must see the telegram, and see alsosthat it was duly sent. To this the old woman demurred. It wouldn’t be fair to Mr. Berkeley that a stranger should be acquainted with his address, which had been given to his land- lady with instructions to keep it private. Besides, the arguments she would use to induce his return ought to be between themselves. Of course, the people in the telegraph office were not supposed to count, but she would have to draw the line at an outsider. “I don’t ask to see either the address or the arguments,” said Carrismoyle, impa- tiently. “‘Show me only the man’s name and the part of the telegram which con- cerns the day and hour of his return to vour house. That is all I want before I part with the first installment of my money.” After some haggling, this was agreed to. And when it had been definitely ar- ranged that on his return with the money, Carrismoyle was to accompany Mrs. Daw- son to the nearest telegraph office he left her, taking with him hidden In his pocket not only the note and the diary, but the incriminating sheet torn from the blot- tirg pad. He might have gone straight to his bank and obtained the amount neces- sary to make up the required sum, but he determined to go home first, and, ‘while picking up his check book, see whether a telegram had arrived, for he had been a long time with Mrs. Dawson and it was now close upon noon. Cabs were not to be had in the immedi- ste neighborhood of Alberta street and he had to walk for some distance before finding a free one. By the time he had reached Savile row it was half-past twelve, and as his hansom drove up to the house a telegraph boy came out. ““What name?” he asked, quickly, jump- ing from the cab. “Lord Carrismoyle,” youth. P Carrismoyle's heart beat sicKeningly as he sprang up the sta’'s to his rooms on the first floor. He was certain that the telegram which had just arrived must be from Robert Lester, consequently there wes already news of some sort from Stonecross Abbey. Was it good or bad? On a desk at which he was accustomed to write Taunton had laid the brick-col- ored envelope, on top of several letters, which had come from Lord Carrismoyle during his absence. The young man took up the telegram and tore it quickly open, with a desper- ate conviction that unless he did so on the instant he should not have the cour- age to do it at all. AT For a second or two the written words danced curiously before his eyes. He could make out nothing. Then suddenly they righted themselves, and he read, with a dazed, unbelieving stare. It could not be true. There were some things which a just God, a merciful God, could not allow. This was one of them. Yet the words were there—cold words, scrawled hurriedly by the hands of a telegraph clerk. “Deeply regret useless continue your quest. Body found by coastguardsmen cast up by the sea early this morning, and has been identified. Hope you will come immediately to us.—LESTER." Carrismoyle could not read the message over and over and not come to belleve in its truth at last. And it seemed to him that. in acknowledging his belief, he had reached the end of all things—the end of the world. It was as if unawares he had been walking on the edge of a precipice hidden by luminous clouds which sud- denly parted to show an unfathomable abyss, when it was too late to escape. For him there had been clouds indeed, but it was hope which had made them luminous, and now that they were gone nothing was visible save the black depths of utter despair. He shuddered at the word which Lester had used. “The body!” It was impossi- ble to think of the lovely temple which had held Cecily Grant's beautiful soul as “a body”—a dead thing to be identified and then put away out of sight in the ground. Carrismoyle had not belleved at the worst moment of all, before, that Cissy could be dead, because he had not been able to make himself realize that death ‘was any more possible for so young, so sweet a thing, than for all sunshine and air to be taken from the world. There had been a chance—a good chance, he had told himself and others—that she lived, that they should have her again, safe and well. But now those awful words killed hope. It was true. It had happened. There was no longer any future. She was dead. The life of the man who had loved her seemed frozen in his veins. For a long time—it mattered not how long, since nothing mattered any more— he stood like a man of marble, looking at the words of the telegram, trying to make himself realize that there was no more to do for her. She was dead. The world was empty of her. He had never known before how horrible, how appalling was the word ‘“‘dead.” Anything else it seemed to him now he could bave borne. He could have endured the loss of her in any other way. He answered the could even have seen her married to an- other man, he could have seen her ves turned from him in coldness, if only, only she could still have been alive. And, since it was fated that she must die, if she could have passed quietly away from this world to another, with her friends at her side, there might at least be, after a long time, some kind of dull resigna- tion; but that the beautiful, beloved, petted young girl should have been wrenched out of life with pain; and fear, and violence, was a thing to drive those who adored her to frenzy. Almost, for a moment, Carrismoyle wished that he might go mad—if madness meant forgetting—now that there was no longer any hope, any need, to work for her. Yet, was there nothing that he ecould do? Cecily was dead, but it still remained to find and punish her murderer; and that task was for him, only for him. The one dominant thought in his mind, since receiving Dr. Lester’s telegram had been that she was gone. But now another, though not taking its place, came and stood beside it, two dark, shadowy shapes together. Carrismoyle began definitely to plan how he should carry out his re- venge. For the time he had forgotten Mrs. Dawson and the strange discoveries he had made in Alberta street; and now that he recalled the woman and what had happened in her house, he told himself, miserably at first, that since Ceclly was no more, all he had learned was in vain. But then he remiembered that without Mrs, Dawson it would be extremely diffi- cult, perhaps impossible, to reach the man Berkeley, at all events without un- bearable delay and constant watching. As it was, he had but to carry out the programme as arranged, and he stood as good a chance as ever of coming face to face with the suspected murderer to-mor- row. He would not now go to the bank him- self, and then take the first half of the thirty pounds to Mrs. Dawson, because he intended to catch the next train to Waycross. He could, however, send a messenger boy on both those errands; and the messenger could also be instruct- ed to see that a telegram adddressed to the person named Berkeley, making an appointment at Alberta street for the following day, was sent off. And unless tkis were done, he need not pay the money. Carrismoyle thought of Taunton, in- stead of a district messenger, for this mission; but Taunton had only been with him since his return from South Africa, and the valet had rather a sly and curi- ous face. It seemed preferable to Carris- moyle to employ a stranger, a_gervant of the public, a person practically an auto- maton. He made his preparations automatical- ly. not so much like one who dreams as one who is dead and has been galvanized into a strange semblance of life. He wrote a check; he rang for his valet; he directed Taunton to fetch a messenger, and see that one of the oldest and the most reliable was sent. While his man was gone he refreshed his memory of the t:me table, for although it was only yes- terday afternoon that he had gone so hopefully, so happily to Waycross, al- ready he seemed to look back over a chasm into which spent years had fallen, and he had forgotten the hour when he had started. i By the time of the messenger's arrival Le had reminded himself that he was al- ready too late for the train in which he had gone yesterday. The next was a slow train, leaving at 2 o’'clock; but that was Letter than waiting hours for a better one, and he could easily catch it, since some one else was going to the bank and Iberta street. AHe had told Mrs. Dawson that he would perhaps return to hear her news in the evening. This he could not do.. But he could still call upon her in the morning; for he would arrive at Waycross soon after 7 to-night, would hear what his friend had to tell, and, it possible, see all that was left on this earth of beautiful Cecily Grant. Then he would travel back to town by the midnight crain, as he had yesterday. Already he seemed to hear Lester’s protestations. “My dear boy, it's impossible. You mustn't think of doing such a thing. After all you've gone through these last two days, you can't stand it.” That would be nonsense, of course, and he smiled with sneering bitterness when he thought how little importance it was whether he were tired or hungry. When he had avenged Cecily, then—he would be glad to die. In such a mood fatigue, hunger, thirst, all bodily needs and ail- ments appeared absurdly insignificant. The messenger boy recelved expliclt in- structions. And when they had been car- ried out he was to wire Lord Carrismoyle at Dr. Lester's house in Waycross. All being understood and a short noté writ- ten to Mrs. Dawson, Carrismoyle drove on to the station and was only just in time to catch his train. He hagd had no lunch, indeed had scarcely tasted food for twenty-four hours, nor had he slept at all; yet he was not consclous of being hungry or weary. His body seemed a mere machine to execute the demands of his brain. One thing he forgot. It did not occur to him to telegraph Lester that he was coming, and by a certain train; yet when he arrived at Waycross in the stariit darkness of a frosty December night, there was Lester standing on the plat- form waiting. And neither of the two guessed that Carrismoyle had been ‘“‘shadowed” from Savile row to Devonshire by a man who had had a “tip” to watch him, and was much surprised at the meeting of these two. As Carrismoyle stepped out of his com- partment, followed by the ‘“shadower,” Lester strode quickly forward and silent- ly held out his hand. Carrismoyle could not have spoken at that moment; but presently Lester began to talk in his quick, dependable way with the sympa- thetic voice, which had been as balm to many who suffered. “I knew you would take this train if you found the telegram in time,” he said, as he steered Carrismoyle toward the exit, “so I came to meet you on the chance. I'm thankful I did. And I'm glad that you are here, my poor boy, if it’s in me to be glad of anything to-night. Poor old Sir Redways has had a bagd breakdown—a slight stroke of paralysis. 1f he had an incentive for living he’d get over it all right; but as it is, I don't think he will. I believe the old man will slowly fade out of life.” ‘‘He’s to be envied, I think,” said Car- rismoyle. “Yes; you think so now. But you are a brave fellow. It isn't In you to be a coward—as a man must be to set free that ‘prisoner of the gods,’ as Plato calls the soul, before its appointed time. So I know you are to be trusted. Sir Red- ways wouldn’t have broken down if he'd been a few years younger. But he’s old— 1 never quite realized that till yesterday. I think, in spite of himself, he hoped a little—in you—and then to find out sud- denly that it was ali over, was too much for his strength, which had been a good deal broken in the last ten days by that severe attack of Influenza, from which he'd by no means recovered when he— went out with us last night.” “My dear Lester,” sald Carrismoyle, in a voice unlike his own, “I see quite well that your object is to take my thoughts off myself and—what has happened here, by rousing my sympathy for another. I do sympathize with Sir Redways. And I am perfectly able to hear all that—that there is to hear.” Dr. Lester had given previous instruc- tions to his man that, if Lord Carrismoyle came by this train, he (the groom) was to walk home. So quietly was the affair managed that Carrismoyle scarcely no- ticed the servant's dearture. He hardly knew that he and his friend were alone together in the dogcart; yet it would have jarred upon him greatly had any one'else been there. - “She—is at Stonecross Abbey?"’ asked. “Yes. She has been taken there, of course. And—it was poor Lady Stanton who broke the news to him—almost breaking her own heart at the same time. But she has great courage—and tender- ness. It would be better if you did not see—the dead at all.” Still, if you wish it, to-morrow—"" “To-morrow!” echoed Carrismoyle, an- ticipating the words. ‘“Don’t speak to me of ‘to-morrow,” man. It must be to-night. For heaven's sake, let me see her now— now!” Lester did not answer for a moment. He saw that Carrismoyle was in a fever- ish, excited state; he guessed that the young man had had no sleep, and little food, and he knew that it would be better for his body that he should be taken home and delivered over to Mary's kindly ministrations; but, after all, there was something besides his body to think of just now. So he made no effort to oppose Car- rismoyle’'s wish. Poor Sir Redways could not order his enemy’s son from his door now, even if he wished. Carjlsmoyle would be allowed to go with him—Lester —to the room where all that was mortal of the dead girl lay. “Very well,” he said, “I meant to take you home to-night, but you know what is best for you. We'll go to Stonecross Abbey. They'll put up my horse; and I'll wait for you, of course you know, as long as you wish. But I'm afraid in mercy I must warn you of—one thing. It will be a torture, not a comfort, to see that— pdor body. It's certain now that murder has been done. She—was stabbed. And, for some strange reason, snhe was laid in No Man's Cave, as it was supposed at first, then taken away agaln and left to the mercy of the sea. And—poor boy, the sea wasn't merciful! Her poor little body was beaten backward and forward on the rocks for so long that now the face is unrecognizable—"" “Then how did you identif- her?’ de- manded Carrismoyle, his voice sharp with agony. - 2 ““There was so much other proof,” Les- ter answered, sadly. “If there'd been room for doubt, I wouldn't have tortured you with such a telegram as I sent. But you aren’t the sort that want to have things broken to you, Carrismoyle. There was the golden hair—that wonderful hair!—the fact that it had lately been cropped close to the head (you know what was in the box!), the dark eyebrows, the youthful figure, the measurements of the body, -the perfect white teeth, except that—that even those which had been broken in front by the cruel beating against the rocks; a ring that she had worn since early girl- hood, on one of the fingers; clothing em- broidered with her ' initials, and other proofs besides, which all point without a chance for doubting toward the one ter- rible conclusion which we would all put from us if we could. You don't know what a grief it is to me that I must rub these details into a raw wound. But—it would have been less merciful to let you see her without having been prepared.” “I know. And I thank you,” said Car# rismoyle. They spoke no more, as they drove fast through the tingling air, the road lying like a dark ribbon before them, with a thin white film of snow unmelted still upon the grass on either side. So at. last they arrived at Stonecross Abbey—the great gray house with the bleak glint of starlight on its many dark windows, only a few showing streaks of yvellow light between heavy curtains. Dr. Lester had been for years a per- sona grata in this house, and a few half- whispered words from him to the butler made clear the way for what was to come. s “I know where,” he said. “No one need go with us.” He and Carrismoyle went slowly up the broad, shallow flight of polished stajrs which led from a big, handsome square hall on the greund floor to a long, dimly lighted corridor above. They went half way down this, then de- scended "a step or two, turning into an- other corridor at a right angle with the first. In a moment Lester stopped before a closed door. “She is here,” he said. “I think Lady Stanton will be with her, per- haps, but—she will come out and let you go in alone.” Lightly he touched the door; it opened, and his prophecy was proved correct, for Lady Stanton stood on the threshold, her plump, pretty figure in dead black, sil- houetted against a faintly lighted back- ground. She saw Carrismoyle, and, only gently touching his hand without a word, she slipped quietly away. e took a step forward, blindly, and the door softly closed behind him. he CHAPTER VIL THE ROOM OF THE DEAD. Stonecross Abbey was a very anclent house, and it had not been spoilt by ana- chronisms, There were no electric lights in its beautiful old rooms; and this which Carrismoyle entered was softly lit by wax candles, which gave a pale and tender light, almost as’pure as moonlight. One window was wide open, but that was at another end of the large, low- ceiled room, and as there was no wind this clear, cold night, the flames of the candles rose straight and tall and steady. All that was left of the fair daughter of the house lay upon an impromptu bier, which Lady Stanton had caused to be prepared, for the coffin in which the poor marred body would go to the grave was not ready yet. This room, oddly shaped, had been a. chapel 200 years ago and more and there was, at one end, over a great alcove, a domed ceiling under which long ago the altar stood. Now the bier, draped with black, was there. Over the dead, a plece of soft white drapery had been spread, and Lady Stanton had heaped it with such white flowers as could be found in ‘Waycross, until others more rare, if not more beautiful, should come. There were many white chysanthemums, and snowy roses, a few waxen-white camellias, too, and tube roses which, with a groan as if of physical pain, Carrismoyle snatched up and threw fa~ away, with an unreason- ing feeling of anger. Clssy had hated tule roses. He remembered hearing her say (had he ever forgotten anything she had ever said to him, or even in his pres- ence?) that they were the only flower sne disliked. They always ‘‘reminded her of funerals”; and—smiling a little—''she hoped that people wouldn’t use them for hers!” . Carrismoyle felt that this ignoring of her wish had beén cruel. Poor Lady Stan- ton had done her best, and if she had ever heard Cissy speak of tube roses, she had not a lover's memory, but for a mo- ment Carrismoyle's nerves tingled with resentment against her. He did not at once lift the drapery which covered yet outlined the still form with an effect, in the dim light, of a re- cumbent marble figure only half carved from the white block. When the brief storm of anger had died away and a prayer, wordless, well-nigh unconscious, had gone up from his heart, he laid his kand on .the white cloth. Even then it seemed as if something held him back. The last time he had seen her she had been so bright, so beautiful, so radiant with youth and life. Would it not be bet- ter to remember her always as she had been, instead of letting what he must see now come between him and that gracious image? This would be unforgettable till the day of his death. Was there anything to be gained from deliberately putting himself to the torture? Had not Rob- ert Lester advised him rightly, after all? Almcst as he was minded to listen to the beguiling voice which bade him keep forever in his heart the beautiful picture enshrined there now. His hand fell to his side again. He took a step away, then turned back. He was struck with sudden horror at the thought that there might have been a mistake, and he would have to let the opportunity slip from him ‘moyie sald, obstinately, to make sure—sure, not with faith in others’ eyes, others’ convictions, but his own. Then quickly, without waiting for further questionings, he lifted the corner of the white cloth that covered the dead. He had braced his nerves for a shock. yet when it came he knew that the prep- arations of a lifetime could not really have prepared him for what he saw. Not one feature had been spared by the sea and rocks. The sight was terrible. He shut his eyes upon it, giddy and stag- gering. But in a moment strength had come back to him and he was bending over the bler again. It was as Dr. Lester had said. There was still a glittering of gold on the shorn head. The curve of one dark brow could be traced. The hand had been crossed upon the breast. On one was a little ring which Cissy had ai- ways worn. She had been fond of rings, poor child; but this was the simplest she had had. It had been a birthday present from her father when she was a child—a cabuchon ruby, cut in the shape of a heart, Now the stone lay like a drop of biood on the marble-white hand. It was astounding to Carrismoyle thal after the first stab of horror he should feel so little. “How can it be,” he asked himself, dazedly, “that I can see her like this and not be struck down? It is not to me as if it were really Cissy. I might be looking at a stranger.” _Then again came the thought: “What if it were a stranger? He bent closer. He touched the yellow hair. Once—the night when he had first told her that he loved her—she had let him lay his hand for a moment upon her hair. To this day he could recall, as if the past were the present, the ineffable softness of the shining gold, the crests and hollows of the thick waves as they rippled under his tingling palm. The hair was absolutely different in texture, or so it seemed to him. But then he reminded himself, in the midst of sud- den heart-boundings, that it had been soaked for hours with sea water; that, thou(fi it had dried again long ago, it must still be sodden and harsh with sait unless they had thought to wash it. Still —was that all? Were there not other dif- ferences which loomed large in the eyes of a lover who had thought of this one girl by day and dreamed of her at night for a year and a half? Once he had been with Cissy in a sud- den downpour of rain in the Alps. She had been drenched from head to foot. For a few moments her hair had looked almost dark, so heavy had it been with water, and the waves and curls had been beaten irto comparative straightness. But as scon as the rain was over her hair had curled into the most ~exquisite little crinkles and rings, far tighter than be- fore. It had been like a halo of light framing her halr. The closely-cut hair of this dead girl had been wet to-day, yet now that it was dry there was but the suspiclon of a wave in it—only enough to show that it had been slightly inclined to curl. Carrismoyle's blood began to sing in his ears. He hardly dared trust to his own judgment.. It was so easy to believe, to see, what one would give all of life to belleve and see. ‘“What if it's only that T'm going mad?”’ he muttered, brokenly, balf-aloud. His eyes turned to the hands folded on the quiet bosom. Often he had said to himself that he would know Cissy Grant's hand anywhere. If she had been velled and cloaked so that no single gold thread of hair had strayed into sight, so that face and figure alike were hidden, and only one little hand held out, he would know her—so he had thought. Now the time had come to test his self- assurance. When he had first lifted the white cloth he had but given a glance at the crossed hands, with the ring on the third finger of the left, which lay upper- most. Then he had staggered back, sick and faint, and when he recovered himself he had looked only at the hair. § Cissy had had a marvelously vivid per- ,sonality, and her hands, with the slightly tapering, sensitive’ fingers, their perfectly led pink nalls, their dimples at the Junction with the hand, and the decision of character expresSed by the.shape of the thumb had been exceedingly ‘“indi- vidual.” These hands were pretty hands; but as Carrismoyle studied them, his whole xlul in his eyes, a great sob of thanksgiving rose in his throat and choked him. “Thank God!"” he cried out. “Thank God, this is not my love!” Now he could hardly wait to let the others know what he knew—for he was sure, absolutely sure—that the dead wo- man was not Cissy Grant. The hair being cut short, the wearing of the ring which had been hers and clothing marked with her initials, was but a part of the plot begun by the sending of the box. The mystery was as deep as before, perhaps even deeper; yet Carrismoyle was ready to fing himself into it and fathom it at last, since he had found hope again. Since this was not Cissy’'s body, he was as cer- tain as he had been at first that she still lived. He did not stop even to cover up the poor marred face, but hurried from the room to find Robert Lester. Lady Stan- ton and the doctor were to-day in Sir Redways’' “study,” talking in subdued voices of the dead daughter and the father who, perhaps, would join her soon, when Carrismoyle broke in upon them. “It Is not Cissy!” he exclaimed, ab- ruptly. “I swear to you that it's not she! For pity’s sake, tell Sir Redways, if he's conscious. It may save his life.”” They stared at him unbellevingly, fear- ing even that grief and the shock he hai endured had disordered his senses. “I wish 1 could think you were right,” said Lester. ‘“But—" g “I tell you there is no ‘but'!” insisted Carrismoyle. “It seems to me you must all have been blind to think that it was she. Come with me, both of you, and I will prove that youre wrong and I'm right. Then Sir Redways must be made to understand that there’s hope—as much hope as ever there was, and more per- haps—for why play such a ghastly trick if it hadn’t been desirable at any cost to hide the fact that she was living?"” Speechless, they went with him, but they still belleved that Carrismoyle was under a delusion. Poor Lady Stanton could scarcely bear to look again at the disfigured face, but turned away her eyes from the uncover- ed horror, with a low, stifled cry, stop- ping at a distance from the bier and let- ting Lester's broad shoulders come be- tween her and what it held. Somehow, though the feeling was more than half uncons¢ious, it was good to know that they 'were his shoulders, that she owed protection to him. She had loved him when she was a girl and married for am- bition; now that she was rich and a widow, she loved him still. But she could not tell him so, and she could not guess whether or not he:had forgotten. To-day they had come very close to- gether, and, in spite of her sorrow for Sir Redways, and her own sincere grief in losing Cissy, of whim she had been very fond, she reproached herself for not having been as utterly unhappy as| she ought, Carrismoyle explained his theory about the hair, but Lester remained reluctantly unconvinced. The sea-water had made a difference, he maintained; besides, the fact that it had been so closely crépped ‘would alone account for the stiffness and comparative straightness. Hair was sel- dom very curly so close to the head. And the color was identical with the great golden mass that had come to Stonecross Abbey in the mysterious box. The two had been compared. . “I can’t help that,” Carrismoyle insist- ed. “A woman's hair may be any color she chooses. This looks to me as if it had been dyed or bleached. Did you think of that?” “ Lady Stanton drew a little nearer. “It doesn’t look dark at the roots, does 1t?” she asked. “It is certainly a little darker,” Carris- *‘Cissy’s was not,” Lady Stanton assert- ed. “I used fo think it seemed ‘even lighter—like the palest gold.” “It is easy to find out by a simple test Wwhether the hair has been artificially brightened or not,” said Lester. “The doubt had not occurred to the Coroner, or any one else, so far as I know.” “It's not necessary to satisfy me that a mistake has been made,” Carrismoyle answered: “I know aiready. Lady Stan- ton, I appeal to you—are those Cissy's hands?” “I—1 couldn’t be certain,” she stam- mered, forcing herself to look. “There are a hundred differences. And the ring—that's one of the proofs I rely on to convince you. See how tight it i@ The ring must have been forced on by a great effort. 1If it were to be removed it would have to be cut off. Oh, I know ‘what you are going to say, Lester. Prob- ably Sir Redways told you, or Lady Stan- ton reminded you, that she'd worn it from childhood and outgrown it. But I happen to know that she had it enlarged & year and a half ago. 1 was with her at the queer little shop in Zermatt where she had it done. ‘The ring was so tight that it made her nervous, she said, and she could not wait till she got back to England, as she didn’t like leaving it off. Next day she showed me her hand. The Jeweler had made tHe ring almost too large. Now—what answer have you to make to that?" ““This, that after the length of time {his poor body has probably been tossed about in the water, the force of your evidence has disappeared. The fingers are slightly bloated.” “Not enough, I'm certain, to make that ring sink deeply into the flesh as it does,” Carrismoyle persevered. ‘“Besides, I told you before, the shape of the hand is dif* ferent. Will you belleve that I know what I'm talking about, at all events, it you find that the hair has been bleached? You know well enough that hers was not. Besides, you could compare the other which was in the box with this one again?”’ “I should be only too thankful to be- Heve, it there came a gleam of hope,” re- sponded Lester. “But mnothing must be sald to Sir Radways until we are sure—as sSure as we were of the contrary a short time ago. He shows no sign of conscious- ness, but it is possible that he knows more of what goes on than we think. He might understand if—but it would be cruel to give him hope and then snatch it away again. Even if another comparison of the hair proved a difference, we can't swear that that which came in the box was Miss Grant's, sure as we'may feel. As for the hands—you are prepared to take your oath they’re not hers. You knew her for —a year and a half, wasn't it? and during that time saw her two dozen times at most. Yet her father, who has known her for more than eighteen years, did not make that contention. When he saw the Ting he cried out her name, with a groan, and fell down unconseious. If this dead glrl of the same height, the same age, thg . same golden-colored hair, contrasting Wwith dark brows, the same number of inches round the waist, is not Ceeily Grant, ‘who has so mysteriously disap- peared, whe then was she? Where did she come from? Where is there another such girl missing at this moment?” “Great heaven!” ejaculated Carrismoyle, staring straight through Robert Lester, rather than at him, “What thought has come to you?” Lady Stanton asked, quickly. ; “I—hardly—know,” he answered me- chanically, in a queer, absent-minded way. “I was wondering if—but I 't suppose it could be so. A atmge“:a came into my head, that's all. It's just possible I can guess from what place a glrl of some such appearance is missing. It may be I shall know to-morrow—and more, much more than that, I hope. Iam going back to town by the 12 o’clock train, as I did last night. I meant, at all events, to do that, for—I have an engage- ment in the morning which can’t well be broken. But now that I have hope again —thank God I shall have a very different sort of journey.” “You'll make yourself {ll, Carrismoyle,” sald Lester. “Remember that you came back from South Afriea an invalid.” “That's hundreds of years ago. I've the strength of three men now. Will you cut off a plece of the halr and make that test you spoke of—not to satisfy me, but yourself, and to give yourself an excuse for carrying good news to Sir Redways?" Lady “Stanton slipped softly away and returned in a moment with a pair of scissors. A lock was cut from the shorn head lying so quietly on the white bier among the flowers. Then the two men went out, leaving Lady Stanton alone with the dead once more—for, even if this were not Cecily, she would remain where she was, according to the promise she had made, until midnight. The sea water was washed from the bunch of hair, which Lester held in his hand, and after a few moments of careful examination he exclaimed: “By Jove, you were right, Carrismoyle! This halr has been bleached not once, but many times, with peroxide of hydrogen. It has been made brittle by the strength of the solution, and great care must have been taken, for there is scarcely any vis- -ible difference in the shade, as close to the roots as I could ‘cut this lock. The hair must have been treated with the peroxide as lately as the day before death, I should say. While the other— the hair that we belleved to have been Miss Grant's, is as soft and fleecy as that of a child which has never been cut.” “Then, whether you have yet assured yourself or not that this has been a case of mistaken identity,”” sald Carrismoyle, “go and tell Sir Redways at least as much as we have found out. TI'll wait here, and you'll come back presently to let me know whether there was any change in him— enough to make you hope that he knew what you were saying. Before long, you know, it will be time for me to go back to the station again.” . Lester looked keenly at Carrismoyle. “Have you had anything to eat to-day, my friend?’ he asked, drily. “I forget,” Carrismoyle answered. “I thought so. Do you want to break down?" “I shan't break down. Not till after I've found my love and given her back to her father, And I shall do that now, if—"" “If what?” “I was going to say something foolish. 1 was going to say if I had to go—where Pluto had carried off Proserpine, to find her.” If Carrismoyle could have seen as in a vision, where he would be to-morrow night at this time, his words could hardly have been more prophetic. B . . . . ““All satisfactory,” had been the word- ing of the telegram sent by the messen- ger boy, according to Lord Carrismoyle's instructions. And at $ o'clock on the morning after his second journey to Dev- onshire and back the young man was again at the door of his little house in Alberta street. This time Mrs. Dawson was not long in answering it. She had been up betimes, in the expectation that she might have an early visitor. ‘“Well, sir, I've got news for you,” she £aid, with an encouraging smile. “Late last evening I had a telegram. Come in, and T'll show it to you.” She took him once more into- the sit- ting-room of her absent lodger, where, on the mantelpiece beside the little gray purse, she had conspicuously displayed a brown telegraphic envelope. Hobbling a little in advance, she snatched the en- velope, with a chuckling laugh, and peer- ed at it with her catlike eyes. It was not_in her nature to trust any one, and though she had been honestly dealt with so far by this extraordinary young man, who was willing to pay so much for so little, she thought it better to hold the telegram as a bait until the second instaliment of the promised thirty pounds should be actually in sight. Carrismoyle was blessed with quick per- ceptions, and he saw at once what was in her mind. “I heard that it was all right about yes- terday,” he sald; “and I have the rest of the money to hand you in cas the answer to your telggram should Be satisfactory.” He produced three fives pound' notes, ostentatiously counti them over, and Mys. Dawson was cons tent. She gave him the envelope. and he opened it with mere eagerness than He chose to let her see. “With you at 5 o'clock Wednesday.— Berkeley,” the message ran, and though Mrs. Dawson had evidently tried her best to erase the name of the place from which it had beet sent. Carr'smoyle cou'd. make out a letter or two. The telegramy had been dispatched from some town (the namie of which he hoped to arrive af later) at 6:30 o'clock the preceding afters noon and had been received at the Lome don office nearest to Alberta street at T. It was now certain that the mysterious Mr. Berkeley had not gonme out of Engs “| land. and in all probability Mrs. Daw! had been acquainted with this fact fromy the first. Carrismoyle anathematized the wasted hours, since, being so near, Berkeé~ ley could doubtiess have been induced to return earlier by the same arguments which had persuaded him to make the present appointment. Put that could not be helped, and Carrismoyle must think himself fortunate that the fish had takem the bait at all. He gave the money to Mrs. Dawson and pocketed the telegram. “T shall be here by 4 o'clock.” -he sald, “because 1 want to arrive before Mp. Berkeley, and surprize him by being in the room when he walks fn. And it's pos- sible that he may return a little earlier than he is expected.” “Deary me,” faltered Mrs. Dawsen, “I'm frightened out of my life he'll hé vexed with me for the liberty I've takem. He ain’t a man to take liberties with, ain’t Mr. Berkeley. Not that I ever sa much as tried It before.” “You can afford now not to distress yourself,” remarked Carrismoyle. glane- ing at the notes which the old woman was nervou folding between her fingers. “It a‘n’t only the morey; it's those eyes of his I'm thinking of,” ruefully rejoined Mrs. Dawson. “Whatever excuse eam [ make to him when he comes home this | afternoon?” | “I fancy T suggested yesterday that you should be out when he arrived,” said Car= rismoyle. “When I call at 4 o’clock, you can slip away and leave me as caretaker saw yesterday when you left mea alone, that I didn’t run off with your val uables. And I believe I can promise you that when you come home, say at 7—bet= ter that you remain away till then—Mp. Berkeley will so thoroughly understand Why he was wanted that he won't re= proach you for your agency in bringing him back.” “Very well,” returned Mrs. Dawsom. “Maybe that will be the best plan. But it's a queer business. I hope I haven't been and let Mr. Berkeley in for anything he won't like. He'd make a bad enemy. But what's done can’t be undone, and it ain’t no use crying over spilt miik. “I think you'll find that you skimmed Off the cream before you spilt the milk,”™ said Carrismoyle. He was conscious of & strange, tingling elation in the prospeet of being face to face with the man Berke- | ley in the course of a few hours—though he wished ardently that they had beem fewer than they were. Even had it beem only revenge which he sought in the meet= ing, he would have longed for it flercely, but now there was more to look for. Hope was born again and much depended upon the coming interview. He would not dwell upon the thought of what his feel= ings must be if, after all, Berkeley failed to keep the tryst, and, as the doubt flitted [§ stealthily and batlike through the dark corners of -his brain, he dr it aw: by turning to another question whi since last night had greatly occupled his | mind. “Have you heard from your daughtes | since 1 saw you?" he asked, with an alp of indifference, which he wore like a bad= ly iitting coat. He was almost certain | that she would say no, and her negative would lend color to a theory which he had been building up out of small ma- terial. ““Yes, sir, I have heard from her,” Mrs. Dawson promptly answered, and down tumbled Carrismoyle’s house of cards. He was not to look here then for the “other girl who was missing”—the other girl whose hair had been yellow (unless her portrait Tlied), eyebrows dark, skim fair and figure slight and young. | “She ain’t at Ashburton ‘ouse, after| all,” the old woman went on, blisstully | unconscious of the grim conjecture which had been quickly passing through the listener’s head. “‘She only told me that story, it seems, so my mind would be ecasy till she could let me know more particu= lars. Instead of stoppin’ om, as she me to understand, she never meant to nothin’ of the sort, and, as a matter : fact, she left town last Saturday. Though | why I'm botherin’ you with all this, sir, as it can't be of no interest to you, i more than I know.” She either gave Carrismoyle a sly, sus- picfous glance as she suddenly broke her narrative short, or he morbidly fancled 1t. 2 “Pray don’t think I'm not interested,” he said quickly, though not too eagerly. “You have guessed, perhaps, that a friend of mine has often spoken to me of your daughter, who must, from all accounts, be a good and clever girl. I hope if she's taken a new place that it's even better than the last.” ““Well, she seems to think so, sir,” Mre. Dawson deigned to go on, her suspicion of him, if she had had any, appa once more allayed. “She answered an vertisement which she saw in the papae for a lady’s maid, wanted immediate, to gc abroad, and good wages offered. She was afraid I wouldn’t approve; but she’s able to say that the new lady likely to be the best mistress she's bad; and as she got a month's wages fn advance, in consideration of things needed to buy for the journey, she senmt| Jme_a bit of a Christmas present. I pect she thought I'd e no obj to make after that!” and the mother chuckled complacently. “When was this letter written?" Carrismoyle. “Tuesday morning, I got it last night. She was just on point of leaving for France with lady.” On Tuesday morning, them, Mrs. son’s daughter appeared to have writ! at thé very time when the poor batts body had been cast up by the sea, discovered by the Devonshire guard This seemed to settle the question w! Carrismoyle had been asking himself; still left him to learn, as Lester had ‘where “another such girl was missing.” CHAPTER VIIL THE KEEPING OF THE TRYST. Seldom had hours been so long to Ci rismoyle as those which intervened tween his morning visit to Mrs. Da and his return to the house for a d ent purpose in the afternoom. Time dragged. He knew not what to ‘with it. He forced himself to eat, for did not wish to lose his strength perhaps he might stand in special need it. There were long arrears of sleep make up; and some men might hs slept, but Carrismoyle was not one them. The blood was racing through hi veins; life was pitched in a high key. As the time dragged on he himself with many self communings accusations. Was he doing the thing in acting alone, without u ing the police with such ies as he had made and the proc he intended to take? Instead.of Y on his love’s ume}.mv:al he umn-u o 11, a s xvl:.b}l:nw' fored hito the tpldu"m- web? Mrs. Dawson tricked him, and was some deep game, in which and Berkeley would have i their own way while he was vainly gratulating himself on his own