The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, September 28, 1902, Page 12

12 THE SUNDAY CALL. o R A DRSBTS K A SN S DUl S A O S e ARt S S e DL AR S SNt S Ak vy by e R e e T OO A R N S O P S W B il ol Bt e i B e B0 il s 7 him spying sbout and trying to get a handle on us.’ There were further noises in the room, and theh suddenly the little star of light at the keyhole went out. At the same in- stant came the sound of a door elamming in the distance. The two men, who added coining to their other crimes, had left their workshop for the night. Again Carrismoyle tried the door, and hoiGing the knob in his hand set his shoulder against the panel, pushing with all his might in the hope that it might be possible to break the door open. But the old farmhouse had been bullt in days when materials were solid and men did not slight their work. All Carrismoyle's strength went for nothing, and he ceased his efforts, knowing that they must be made in vain. Evidently the father and son had not paid a visit of late to the window of the strongroom, judging from their expressed satisfaction that both prisoners were se- cure; still, time pressed, for the parson who *“would not dare to break his ap- pointment” was momentarily expected. Carrismoyle lighted a match and leaned down the broken staircase. When he had first found freedom he had gone at once to the door with its starlike ray of light, but returning to the cellar he began look- ing about for some other means of exit. Apparently there was no second door, therefore it was probable that these un- derground regions were not in ordinary use by the present tenants of the house. Fortunately for Carrismoyle, however, there were two small barred windows very high up the reeking stone wall. He found a barrel and set it up on end under one of these. Mounting on top he was able to reach the window and test the bars. They seemed to be firmly set, but by means of working at the mortar which joined the stones together and held them in place, he loosened first one bar and then the other—for two upright iron rods had been considered sufficlent protection in windows so insignificant. It was all that he could do to crawl through the narrow space when he had pulled himself up to the small, square aperture; but the thing was done at last. He was out of the house and lying on the grass, wet and cold with the rain which had followed the snowstorm of a few nights ago. Now, to get into the house again was his object; to find his way in by some window, to discover the room where Cissy was kept a prisoner, and to take her away either by secrecy or by force. He got upon his feet and looked at the black bulk of the long, low building. Not & window within view showed a glimmer of light; and he was briskly turning the corner of the house when he came sud- denly face to face with a man approach- ing quickly from the opposite direction. Whether it were late or early Carris- moyle did not know, but the darkness’ of the night spread over the world, and he could see nothing of the stranger except that he was tall and slight, and wore the broad, flat hat and long coat of a clergy- m;‘ar —er—Mr. Berkeley, is that you?” in- quired & weak and slightly tremulous voice. No,” said Lord Carrismoyle, firmly, “jt's not Mr. Berkeley. But it is a man who knows what has brought you to this house.” as he spoke he laid his hand on the other's arm. *I wonder if you knew all yourself? Do you understand that you are required to read a mockery of a mar- riage service which will deceive an inno- cent, much-injured young girl and ruin her future? Though you have had the misfortune to fall into the power of two unscrupulous men, are you not brave enough to help instead of harming their victim?” “I don’t know who you are or what you want of me,” stammered the clergyman, in a tone as low as Carrismoyle’s. “I can do nothing to help any one; I can't even help myself. Since you seem so weil in- formed—whoever ycu may be—you must be aware that I have little cholce except to follow these men’'s instructions. And as for the lady of whom you speak, un- less many lies have been told you, you must see that marriage is the only alter- native left her. She is here in this house, hes been here for days, absolutely at the mercy of—those who are not over chival- rous in their dealings. If she can be brought to consent—"" “All this is rank sophistry, and you know it!” said Carrismoyle. *You only argue as you do to save your own con- science. But the very fact that you do so argue shows me that you have a con- science, and that's something to begin with. T'll tell you my name, which you may have heard. I'm called Lord Carris- moyle.” “The son of ‘the man who tried to run eway with Sir Redways Grant's first wife!” the clergyman impulsively broke in. “Good heavens!” exclaimed the young man. “Unless that's a lie, it's easy to see why he hated my father and me!” “It isn’t a lie,” answered the other. “Everybody knew it. I'm too young to re- member, but I heard. And, besides, this Berkeley has told me the story. He has reason to know it well. You, then, are Lord Carrismoyle. Strange that you should be there at this man’s house.” “I came to save Miss Grant, who has promised to be my wife,” Carrismoyle an- swered bluntly. “‘Miss Grant, you say? Not the daughter of that Sir Redways who—' “The same. His only child.” “But they told me I didn’t know— It's his daughter, then, I'm to marry the son to. I see it all now; I understand why.” “And now that you do understand, it you could aid her to escape from this trap without danger for yourself you'd do it, wouldn’t you? For heaven's sake, answer me! I've told you my name. I think you may trust me as & man of honor. And I swear to you that I mean you no treach- ery. Help me and I'll help you. You did something once of which you're ashamed now, and these men know It and have threatened to use their knowledge unless you do as they bid you. Isn't that the truth?” “¥es; unfortunately it is the truth.. I —committed a crime, and though it was repented long ago, and I hoped I had lived it down, still they found me out after years. For my wife's sake, for my little children’s sake, I can't refuse—* “I don't ask you to refuse. I only ask you to go quietly away, and if you will e lListen to m; for a few minutes I think 1 can persuade you that you may do without dread of consequences. yOnce-g can get into that house and find myself in the same room with their prisoner I can do the rest myself. I've no fear. To- night, this very night, I have reason to believe that they will be seized by the po- lice and made to suffer for their crimes— one of which may prove to be murder. The word of criminals, such as they wifl then be known to be, cannot harm a cler- gyman of the Church of England. Who would believe a story told by coiners and murderers, even supposing they remem- bered thelr power against you in the midst of their own troubles? No; safter to-night you can count upon being safe from this precious pair who call them- selves Berkeley.” “How are you to get ints the house &nd into the presence of the lady?" asked the clergyman. ““If you will do as I wish those two will admit me Into their house and take me into her presence of their own free will,” said Carrismoyle. “What do you mean?” ““I mean to play them a trick, somewha of the sort I think they must have served me last night,” Carrismoyle an- swered. “They took some of my clothes away, and one of the pair passed himself off in the darkness for me, I fancy, im- poeing upon the credulity of a cabman on whom I counted as an ally in case o1 foul play. For the foul play came, ns I expected, and his part was evidently not cerried eut. Now I want to turn the tables on them. I want you to let me have your clerical coat and hat, your raight collar and high waistcoat—"" ““What, you actually believe you can deceive those men who know my face and voice into taking you for me? It would be impossible to—"" “Not so impossible as you think. Our figures are much the same, and if I stoop a little—"" “The figure is nothing. The face, man— the face! And the voice!” “The voice difficulty I'll get over by having so severe a cold in my chest that 1 can’'t speak above a whisper. As for the face, the most important part of all, T'll engage to find an excuse which they ‘won't suspect for covering it with a hand- kerchief. In fact, I hava thought of the excuse already. I only wish I had a mask.” “I have & mask,” sald the other slowly. ““When I consented to keep this appoint- ment I stipulated that my face should be hidden from the lady I was to marry to young Berkeley. I could not have en- dured the thought that, in after years, she might come into my church, hear me preach and recognize me. Berkeley made no difficulty about granting this request, which would hide my identity from her; but I had not iIntended to put on the mask until the moment before meeting the lady and performing the ceremony. If you wore it from the first you would be questiongd—" “I'll risk all that,” said Carrismoyle, impatiently. *““Will you do this thing?" “Yes." sald the clergyman, after an in- #tant’s hesitation. “Then let's be quick about getting the preliminaries over, and I'll give you fif- teen minutes’ start before I knock at the coor.™ “One agalnst two,” cther. “And such two! man.” “I have an incentive. And now that I'm 8o near success, if there were five to cne I should still have good hope of the end. Off with the things. They may take it into their heads to come out and look for you. Or the dog in his kennel on the other side of the house may hear us ond give them warning.” CHAPTER XIIL soliloquized the You ave a brave THE MAN IN CLERICAL DRESS. A few moments later there were footl- steps on the weed-grown path in front of the house, and the dog began to bark and rattle his chain as he leaped in his ken- nel. Bome one knocked at the door, and Berkeley the elder opened it to see a tail man In the dress of a clergyman standing in the darkness. The light of the lamp which Berkeley carried in his hand fell upon the figure, but left the face under the flat, broad- brimmed hat so deeply in shadow that Berkeley stared curiously and held the lamp closer. “You're late,” he had begun, but broke the sentence short and changed it for an- other. “Why, man, what's the matter with your face?”’ he inquired, sharply. The clergyman was seized with a vio- lent fit of coughing as he answered. “Nothing is the matter,” he managed to articulate. “You agreed to the mask in your letter. And as you've brought me here from my bed, where I was down with influenza, I put the thing on as I left the carriage which drove me out to this queer place of yours. The damp night air is enough to give me my deatn, and the work is like to cost me dear.” He spoke hoarsely, as if scarcely able to raise his voice, coughing between the words. “It would have cost far dearer not to do It, you know,” returned Berkeley. “I do know or I shouldn’t be here, that's obvious,” said the clergyman bitterly. “At least let me come in, and we'll get what's to be done over as quickly as possible, My cabman is driving up and down walt- ing, and I want to get off toward home and put myself In the doctor's hands as soon as possible.” “There’s nothing to wait for,” replied Berkeley. “Come in. We've been ex- pecting you this last hour.” He stood aside to let the clergyman en- ter the narrow pasage. As the latter en- tered, a door in the distance opened and the vounger Berkeley showed himself. “Hullo, parson!” he ejaculated jovially. “I thought you wouldn't fail us. You know which side of your bread is but- tered. But you've kept the bride waiting. ‘Will you come and drink her health be- fore you're intreduced to her?"” S0 speaking. he saw for the first time the dark velvet face mask which hid the newcomer’s features. At this it was his turn to exclaim in surprise as his father had, and he also had to be given an ex- planation. The clergyman did not wish to drink, he announced, with thanks for the sug- gestion. In his condition it was very necessary to avold alcohol or anything which might induce a return of the parch- ing fever from which he had suffered. And if he might be allowed to finish at once that for which he had come, it would be hardly worth while to remove the mask which he had assumed with some pains. “You must watch us have a drink if you won't have one yourself,” said Berke- ley the younger. “I feel the need of a lit- tle Dutch courage. Afterward, when all's right, we'll have supper and ask you to Jjoin us if you will; though whether the bride will honor us with her presence or not is doubtful.” Father and son laughed as they ushered the clergyman into a bare room, with a table carelessly laid for a meal. Several bottles stood among the common dishes, and as Berkeley the elder took up one half full of whisky and began to pour a generous allowance of the contents into a couple of glasses the clergyman edged slowly near to the table. He leaned a hand upon it as his two companions drank and filled their glasses for a second time. They were too much occupied with their own affairs to watch him as he stood walting for them to finish. If it had not been so they might have noticed that when the clergyman ceased to rest his right hand upon the table something which had been there before he came had disappeared. “We ought to have another witness be- sides you, oughtn't we, governor?” in- quired the younger Berkeley, grinning and showing his white, even teeth. “‘Shall we have the gentleman who would like RE you ever justified for finessing to act in another capacity? It would be rather interesting, eh?"” “It might be rather too interesting,” grumbled his father. I think we'll let the gentleman sleep until after the wed- ding and then we'll announce it through his window. We won’t have any more games with him if I know it until star- vation has begun to tell upon those mus- cles of his.” “All right, I daresay you're wise, espe- clally as our friend the parson here would be but a broken reed to a.opend upon in case of any fighting. We'll let sleeping dogs lie—a little longer, any- how. And now, parson, we're ready 1t you are. I'll go first and light you up- stairs. We don’t {lluminate very bril- liantly here o' nights. Dark windows are like dead men in a way—they tell no tales.” As the clergyman went upstairs between the father and son he coughed rackingly; but the eyes shining out from the narrow slits in the mask glanced about with alert- ness. At the top of the stairs Berkeley tho elder took from his pocket a bunch of keys, and his son laughed slightly as they jingled. v ““You see, parson, the governor hasn’t trusted me,” he explained. “He insisted on being the bride's jailer, and I've only beer: admitted to an interview now and then on sufferance. What do you think of my respected parent as a chaperon of youth and innocence, eh?" “Don’t be a fool,” growled the other, as he fitted one of his keys Into a dodr In a wing which they had reached by leaving the main passage and golng down a step or two. ‘“Both of you wait outside for a moment or two. I'll prepure the way.” Neither of the two he was leaving answered, and opening the door which he had unlocked he disappeared into dark- ness, closing the door again behind him. “The young lady is not allowed a light when she’s alone,” remarked Berkeley the son, “and we've been obliged to nail to- gether the wooden shutters outside her windows or there would have beex ruc- tions. But after to-night there'll be an end of all her little eccentricities. She's been difficult to win, but we found a scheme to-day for making her hear rea- son. And we expect no more trouble with her after this, which is the betier for .you. Your task will be an easy one. Just to gabble a few words, get your fee, which we shan’t forget, and be off home to nurse your influenza.” As he went on carelessly his father came out of the room, flushed and frowning. “That girl's got a tongue!” he said to his son. “By Jove! you're going to catch a tartar.” “She likes me rather better than she does you, governor,” returned the young- er man. Not that that's saying much.” “In that case,”” hoarsely croaked the clergyman, “would it not be well for you and me to go in to talk with the lady while your father walits for us outside and returns to witness the—er—ceremony? Let us get through this business as peaceably as we can by all means.” “I don’t mind,” said the younger Berke- ley. He opened the door and sauntered into the room on the other side, leaving the clergyman to follow. Sullenly Berkeley the elder remained in the passage, allow- ing the door to be shut. The room into which the two men passed was empty, but light came through an inner door, which stood half open. They passed on toward it, young Berkeley going first; but the clergyman was close behind him, so close that he could look over the other’s shoulder. As they reached the threshold there was a slight sound in the room beyond, and a girl rose from a chair where she had been sitting beside a table on which were the newly lighted candles. She was dressed in a common, {ll-fitting robe de chambre of dark red, which looked as if it might have been bought ready-made at a cheap provincial shop. Nevertheless, with the candlelight shin- ing up into her pale face, she was as beautiful as a tall white lily that has fallen among weeds. Her hair, bright as guinea-gold, was cut short to her little head, and curled in childish rings about her forehead and .he nape of her round, white neck, but her eyes, black with excitement, were like stars under their dark lashes. “Good evening, my queen,” the young man greeted her mockingly. “I hear you aren’t exactly in a bridal humor.” “You coward!” she exclaimed, her bosom rising and falling quickly under the red dressing-gown. “What proof have you to give me that Lord Carris- moyle is in this house and still alive? You cannot force me into marrying you unless I choose, and I do not choose, as I assured your horrible father, unless I am certain that the story you have told me {s not a lle; and then, when I have been made sure of so much, I must be sure that he has left this place un- Rarmed.” ¢ “I am afrald we can’'t go so far as you demand, my love,” said the young man. “But if you make us too much trouble and keep this gentleman waiting too long we shall be driven to glve you proof of—er—well, exactly the contrary of what you want.” “You mean you will kill Lord Carris- moyle, who came here to save me?” “Carrismoyle himself has something to say to that,” broke in an unexpected volce. And then a thing happened £o suddenly that Cecily Grant was hardly able to believe the evidence of her own eyes. The tall, masked clergyman (who was apparently a friend of Berkeley's, since he had been base enough to come for the purpose which had brought him at their bidding), had been standing a few steps behind young Berkeley as the latter spoke. He had been standing quietly, his head, on which he still wore his broad clerical hat, slightly bent. But it was he who spoke out so suddenly in a voice like Carrismoyle’s own, he who leaped upon the other man, seizing him round the throat with both hands, so that Berkeley could only give a stified, chok- ing gasp. “Don’t scream, darling, went on in a low, te voice. “You know who I am. I want to get rid of this young brute before I have to tackle the other.” the parson “You won't kill him?” breathed Cissy, asking no other question; for she was a brave girl, with quick intuitions, and in an instant she understood all, or at least enough to trust completely and help if she could. . “No, I won't kill him. But—turn your back, my dear one, this is no sight for you."t Cissy shuddered silently and covered her eyes with two little thin white hands. For a moment young Berkeley fought like & madman, his eyes bulging out of his head, his face purple, his mouth hang- ing open, and a horrible gurgling sound issued from it, in his intense effort to regain his breath and utter a cry which mignt reach the ears of his father in the passage outside. But flaghes of red light danced before his starting eyes; there was a ringing In his ears; his senses became confused, and his strength ebbed like a spent wave. His arms fell helplessly at his side, his eyeballs rolled up under the lids, and he lost consclousness. Scon he would revive again, however— tco soon, perhaps—when the hold on his throat relaxed; and Carrismoyle could not afford to run the risk of fighting again two men when he had his dear girl to protect and save. He laid the uncon- sclous wretch on the floor, gagged him with a handkerchief, but not in such a ‘way as to stop the breath, unbuckled the leather belt which young Berkeley wore around his waist, ploioned his arms with it behind his back, and tearing off his own braces tied Berkeley's ankles. Thus trussed like a fowl Carrismoyle rolled the helpless form behind the door. ““Now for the other,” he said in a low, cheering voice to Cissy. ‘“This is terribie for you, darling, and I would spare you 1f I could. But in a few moments I hope to take you out of this house; and to- morrow you can begin to forget.” “Yes,” she murmured bravely, though her face was even whiter than before. “I am not frightened any more. How could I be frightened now you are safe— and with me?” “For a moment I must leave you here— with him,” her lover said. *“But he is no more than a log of wood for the present.” As he spoke Carrismoyle opened the door leading into the outer room and half closed it behind him as he passed through. In the hall Berkeley the elder was still standing, his lamp on the floor. He had lighted a pipe during the absence of the others and begun to smoke. “Well, is all ready for the ceremony? Do you want a witness?” he inquired as the figure In clerical dress appeared. “All is ready,” answered Carrismoyle, in his natural voice, pulling off his mask. Berkeley, who had not taken his pipe from his mouth to speak, lifted his head andl stared, almost stunned for the instant by surprise. Before he had recovered his wits he had received a tremendous “knock-out”” blow on the point of the chin. His pipe flew from between his teeth and he went down, striking the back of his head on the bare floor. There he lay still, as dead to all that went on around him as his son behind the door of the little inner room. Cissy, who had seen nothing, though she had heard the thud made by Berke- ley’s head as it struck the floor, could endure the suspense no longer, but flew to the “door. “Oh, thank heaven it's not you!" she panted. “I—I didn't know. I had to come.” “And now, in a moment more, you shall go, and I with you, my precious one,” Carrismoyle said. “The tables are turned. These men are the prisoners of their prisoners, and when I have shut ~ them up so that they shan't escape the police there'll be nothing more to keep us in this hateful den.” “‘Hateful, indeed!"” echoed the pale girl, standing aside, trembling, as Carrismoyle dragged Berkeley's limp body into the room which had lately been her prison. The wooden shutters at the windows, which had been securely nailed together to prevent her escape, would perform the same office for the masters of the house, and no doubt it was for this reason that Carrismoyle had so unhesitatingly decid- ed upon making use of those two commu- nicating rooms. ‘When he had locked the door and put the key in the pocket of his clerical coat he took Cissy in his arms and, clinging to him, she began to sob. “Oh, if they’d killed you!" she said. “And you'd come to save me. I should have died, too. But—but I would have done anything to save you. When I was sure that all was well with you—then it would have been time enough to die.” “Don’t talk of dying, my darling,” Car- rismoyle pleaded.; “You're going to live for me—and for your father. I'm going to take you home to him to-night. To-mor- rcw these men will be in the hands of the police.” ” ‘“Are you certain they’re not dead?” “As certain as that we two are alive and together, in spite of them. There are hundreds of things which we will explain to each other by and by, but there's no time for that now. I only want to get you away: and if it's true that there's a horse and trap of some sort here, as I've heard, I won't be long in doing it. Are you all alone here, or is there some wom- an in the house?” “No other woman save myself—now,"” Cissy answered, with a changing face. And as she spoke she shivered. “If you are going out to the stable you must take me with you. Oh, you can't guess all that I've seen and endured in this horrible place. If I had to stop a moment longer in the house without you, I—-I think I should go mad. My nerves are all gone.” Of course, Carrismoyle took her with him, and when they searched for the sta- ble, oblivious now of the dog's warning voice, they talked. *‘Has poor dad been very anxious about me?” the girl asked. “Yes, he has been anxious,” Carris- moyle answered, not meaning to tell her now of Sir Redways’ lllness; but some- thing in his voice made her question him further, and he had to tell the truth. Be- fore he quite knew what he was saying it slipped out that Sir Redways had been given cause to believe her dead, and Cissy would not rest until she had heard the whole story. B Carrismoyle found the horse and trap, as he had hoped, and it was not until they were driving away from Deepchine Farm EASY LESSONS IN THE FRSCINATI the jack, from ace jack, or king jack, in suit, or trumps, is one of the vexing questions asked so oft- en by the student as well as the more advanced player. Although we know that In suit it is considered very bad whist, yet the inordinate desire to finesse will arise. There are threé things that are sup- posed to justify your finessing: The ob- vious advantage of the finesse on account of the known or inferred position of the cards; strength in trumps; or a willing- ness to have the lead on the next trick come from the left. You will find many players who have a fondness for finessing the jack on a low card led by partner, when holding ace or king also. They try to ease their con- sclence by saying that chis finesse is just as good as that of the ace, queen, being 2gainst one card only. If you are third hand and hold the king and jack of any suit, ycu will find it a losing game as a general thing to finesse the jack. The finessing, if there is any to be done in the suit, should be the privilege of the part- ner, for on the return of the suit you should give him back the jack, unless you are longer in the suit than the part- ner. Of course, there is an exception to this rule which should not be overlooked; and that is, when your hand contains a very good suit of your own, In which case you can return the suit low. The trouble with the finesse of the Jack in plain suit is that you are not sure what honor your partner holds, if any. By playing the jack you allow the adversary on your left two chances to get the trick; by playing the king, you give him only one; by playing the ace, you make sure of the first round. If you finesse the jack from the king jack, you may let the queen make the first trick in a suit in Wwhich you hold ace, king, jack between you, and you may seriously confuse your partner by preventing him from placing the high cards of the suit. If you finesse the jack from ace jack, and your partner holds king or queen, he will naturally think that the ace of the suit is against :A‘lm, m;ld he ]wlll be afraid either to con- nue the suit or to lead trumps - fend it, being in the position orn tola;"‘:l‘ Wwith the second best guarded—on the de- fensive. 1f there is any choice between the two finesses, that of the jack from ace jack 1s better than rrom king jack, because the former has at least the vir- tue of retaining the command of the suit. Some players take the finesse of the ace Jack only when the ace is necessary for & re-entry. Now, then, in trumps you are allowed the liberty of finessing deeper and have in your favor that you do not give up eontrol. When partner leads trumps originally, showing only rour, it is often right to finesse against ome card, and * | BY MRBS. E. P. SCHELL. l 3 sometimes you may finesse against two; that depends upon the character of your hand. If you have a hand that is good to be led up to, 1t is usually advantageous to finesse, for if your finesse fails you you must then be the last player to the next trick; if you have fair strength in all the plain’ suits and partner shows four only you may be pretty sure that this is his only four card suit, and you can finesse deeply if your hand justifies it. If your partner has first shown his great suit and then leads trumps from probably fair strength in them there is less room for finesse, as your partner is evidently anx- fous to have two or three rounds out at once; especially is this so if your left- hand opponent is marked with more of partner’s great suit, and your right hand adversary ?robably short of the suit. In this case, if your finesse falls, your enemy may lead your partner's great suit, and it may be trumped. Such conditions as these and hundreds of others enter into the matter of finessing in trumps, and either modify it or render finessing out ot the question. An instructive deal: North. S.—J. 8. 2 H.—4. A, 10, 9, 4 D.—J, 81, 6 & that the girl heard of the mysterious box and the dead body cast up by the sea. “It must have been a poor servant maid at Mrs, D'Esterre’s,” she faltered. “Jessie Delancey?” Carrismoyle added. “You know?” “I know many things we have not ta.aed about yet. But you are going to tell me everything, aren’t you, my dar- ling?" “Ah, I would so gladly—but there are some things which I must always keep hidden. Things which will—which will prevent us from being happy together as —as you are planning. Though I canrot be really unhappy—altogether unhappy— now that you are safe. And—and we can see each other sometimes, when dad is better, and has begged your pardon for treating you so badly.” “See each other sometimes?” Carris- moyle echoed. “I should rather think we should. Husbands and wives are in the habit of meeting comparatively often.” “But—but we can’t be husband and ‘wife.”" ‘“You will find yourself very much mis- taken on that point, sweet one, for we shall be married the moment Sir Redways is well enough to give his consent. which somehow I think he will do now. If you are brooding over some ridiculous black- malling lies that Berkeley told you—"" “You know. Oh, if I could believe they were lies “I don't know what they were exactly, but on principle I'm sure they were lies. Blackmailers seldom tell anything else. Believe me, darling, if you'll only open your heart to me I can relieve it of its burden. And then, for a reward, you'll have to give it to me.” ‘‘But it'’s yours already, and has been ever since we first met. You know that, den’t you? Only—" Her voice broke and she glanced fearfully over her shoul- der as if she were not able to believe that she was really to go free, really to be happy again after remembered hours. For an instant she was silent, then she exclaimed: ‘Do you see that red light behind us? What can it be? can that awful house be on fire?” Carrismoyle looked back and suddenly reined in the horse. “I think that you have guessed rightly,” he sald. “Somehow the house has caught fire—that scoundrel's lighted pipe, per- haps, which fell from his mouth, I re- member uow, when I knocked his arm. They’re both villains, but one can't let them die licked up in a room to roast helplessly. Cissy, darling, I shall have to g0 back; and I must get them out, save their lives if I can; not that they are worth saving, but for the selfish reason that I should feel like a murderer if I didn't.” “They are murderers,” cried Cissy. “If you go back and if you save their lives do you dream they will be grateful? No; one of them was unbound, and by this time hé has freed his son. They will do their best to kill you, and me, too.” “But ‘you will not be there, darling,” said Carrismoyle. “It's a straight road now to Southampton, and rather than {ake you back to that lions' den I want you to drive into town. It's not really late, though it's so dark, you know, and “I shall not leave you,” Cissy answered. “You can’'t make me do it—it would be too cruel of you. We must drive back to- gether if at all.” Carrismoyle hesitated; and she, seeing the lock on his face in the light of the lamps on the dogcart, spoke hurriedly 2gain. “I see you must go,” she said. “I would not have you do otherwise, no matter what may come. So they turned, and in fifteen minutes they were driving rapidly into the farm gates once more. The red light was very bright now, for the old house, once fully ablaze, would burn like tinder. Even if Cissy had driven with all haste into South- ampton to give the alarm it would have Leen too late to save the house. The fire had not caught the lower floor yet, for it had begun in the story above, and there it was running riot. Cissy knew. as they stopped the frightened horse half way between the gates and the house, that the man she loved was going to attempt a thing which might cost him his life, so narrowly saved to- day. Yet she no longer tried to dissuade hign from what he had come to do. Be- cause he was himself he must do it; and it was because he was himself that she loved him so well. From the unshuttered windows the red light glowed, and only those which had had thelr shutters nailed fast for a pur- pose were dark. Carrismoyle went to the stables again, and in the dilapidated barn he found a ladder and a rusty, broken ax. The lad- der he carried to the house and set up against the wall under one of the shut- tered windows. Mounting, he began hack- ing away at the wood, but had not cut his way through when the axhead broke from the handle and fell to the ground. Still he would not give up, for it would be useless to try and find his way into the house, going to the room where his prisoners were through the passage which must now be a furnace of fire. He thrust his hand into the hole made by the ax and tore at the shutters till the nails which held them gave way and they flew apart. Then with the handle of the ax He smashed the glass, and find- ing tbat the sash was also nailed down he broke the slight woodwork which framed the panes. The sudden draughts of air drew curl- ing snakes of flames under the door and through the cracks. The room was filled with smoke, and Carrismoyle, climbing in through the broken window, felt instantly as if a hand clutched at his throat. “Berkeley!” he called. But there was no answer: and the ruddy light of the fire flltering in under the locked door showed him two dark figures lying as he had left them, under the pall of smoke which hung a little above the floor. 1f the men had ever regained conscious- ness after the punishment they had re- celved they had lost it again. r Carrismoyle took a few steps across the floor and found his head reeling. He dropped on his knees therefore, the smoke being less dense near the floor, and grop- ed until he had got hold of one of the inert bodies which for an instant he had seen a moment ago. He dragged it near- er the window and then, blinded and choking, he went in search of the other. At last he found it, close to the door, got it also to the window and had to thrust his head far out to draw in one free breath before he could begin work again; for his task was not half done. By this time the door had caught fire and was burning merrily with a horrid cracking sound and the heat grew in- tense. Carrismoyle stooped, lifted one of the two men, he no longer knew which, on his shoulders and exerting all his strength—less than of old after these last few days’ experience—climbed through the window, holding the inanimate body with one hand. ; Staggering under the burden, he never- theless succeeded in bringing it to the ground. It was the elderly Berkeley he had rescued. The bound man was still in the burning house. Weights of lead seemed tied to Carris- moyle’s legs as he began to climb the lad- der again.. He realized as he had once before that day how he was suffering from fatigue and lack of food. But he set his teeth and went on. Now the window was bright with fire. As he half stepped, half fell into the room the thick cloud of smoke was all aglow. Fortunately he had already brought the man he had returned to save close to the window, or all hope of rescuing him would have been at an end. It was more difficult to lift the son than the father, for there was no time to unfasten his bonds and the fact that his hands were tied behind his back and his ankles bound together made the handling of him ex- ceedingly awkward. Suddenly, as the cool air from out of doors blew upon his face consclousness began to stir. As if he were moved by a galvanic battery he gave a violent start and, all bound as he was, writhed him- self out of Carrismoyle’s grasp, falling heavily across the window. So unexpected was the movement and with such tremendous force did the young man, only half conscious, launch out with his long legs, that he flung Carrismoyle back into the room, while he rolled out of the broken window, carrying down with him the ladder. Wik e el e s el b o As the moments passed and Carrismoyle did not come back Clssy's agony of sus- pense turned to despair. She saw the happiness held so tantalizingly before her for a brief moment snatched away again, and her world, empty of the man she loved, turned for ever to darkness. She had promised him that she would not go into the house whatever hap- pened, and for a time she had stood at the horse’s head hoping that her lover would return, and that once more they might drive away together. But when he did not come and the time began to Seem endless, she ran toward the house, crying wildly, “Help! help!” though she ‘was miserably certain that no help was near. The red light showed her which way to 80, and she did not even think of the sparks and embers which were blown here and there, with clouds of smoke, by the night breeze. She had found the two men lying on the ground under the window, and with all her might was striving to raise the ladder that she might find Carrismoyle or die with him when quick footsteps soundad behind her and Dr. Lester’s voice exclaimed: “Thank heaven, it's Miss Grant!” Somehow she was not surprised that he should be there, and did not wonder how he had come, but simply accepted, as a great blessing, his presence and the presence of some other men whom she vaguely saw. “Lord Carrismoyle!” she gasped, point- ing upward at the window, with an im- plering look. And then all the lurid brightness of the fire was suddenly quenched for her as if by the breaking of a great black wave. For she had borne all that she could bear and fell back fainting. . . . . . . . Lester, who had been clever enough to read the Invisible writing, lost not a mo- ment in answering Carrismoyle’s strange summons. He had only waited long enough to send a message to Sir Redways Grant that his daughter lived. If he had been five minutes later Carrismoyle’s life ‘would have been given for those who had meant to take his. But five minutes can mean as much as an hour; and this par- ticular filve minutes meant the difference for Carrismoyle between life and death, for Cissy the difference between misery and happiness. The policemen whom Lester had brought took charge of the two Berkeleys; and when Carrismoyle had come to himself in a dazed way he and Lester were driven off in one of the cabs that had brought the rescue party from Southampton. It was useless to try and save the old house, and it was not for days afterward that Carrismoyle remembered the iron-bound box which might contain treasure. Then he told what he had seen. All that re- mained of the box was unearthed from under great masses of charred debris. and a huge mass of gold and silver melted to- gether was discovered. Many thousands pounds’ worth was there, and though—as the miser who had hidden the treasure had left no relatives who could be traced— the fortune went to. the crown, Carris- moyle was offered a generous present. He took it, only to give it away again in charity, for though he was a poor man he could not have been happy in accept- ing that money. It would have recalled too much. But then all that came long after this night of escape, and does not properly belong in the story. Nor does Robert Lester's late-coming happiness, which could never have been his i Lody Stanton, to whom he appeared more of a hero than ever after this strange experi- ence, had not taken her courage in her hands, told him she had always loved him, and asked if he cared enough to want to marry her. That is not actually a part of this story, but it came out of it, and it so slipped into the telling instead of Cissy’s home- coming that night. Already Sir Redways Grant was better. The news that she was not dead had given him a new lease of life; and when he heard the story of her escape (there was time for nothing more at first) he feebly asked for Carrismoyle. Then, when the young man came into the rcom, the old man took Cissy’s little hand in his and gave it with only two words to Carrismoyle. These two words were: “Forgive me!” NG GAME OF WHIST. West. East. 8.9, 8K, Q, 6 4 H—Q, 6 5. D—A; 10, 3 3 Tek. North South. West. 1 e 3 2 2. 9c 24 e 3. 4h 3h 2h 4 5a 9d 1d 5 6d Qa *Kd 6. *Ac Qc 7. d h n 8. Js 5h 3s 9. 8s *10s 35 10. *8d Js 10h 1. 28 6s *is 8c 12, 10c Qs *As Je 18, *Ja Qh Ks An Trumps, diamonds, 2; leader, West. Trick 1—West sets out to establish his clubs, holding the heart suit for re-entry. Tritk 2—East's strong suit being only king, queen to four (in which his best chance of two tricks is to lie quiet), he plays rightly to return at once his part- ner’s lead. With weak trumps South ruffs the doubtful trick. Trick 3—South’s suits are very similar to West's, and he opens on similar princi- ples. North can hold no more of the suit, which South sees to be hopeless, ace, queen and ten being all adverse. g 4—It is imperative for East to ob- struct the impending cross-ruff in clubs and hearts. Trick 6—West continues the clubs, hold- ing second and third best. He leads th» higher to make certain of forcing the command. Trick 7—North extracts the losing trump. South discards his hearts, which his partner can never lead. West is now quite safe in discarding hearts, but he must not blank the ace. He carefully re- frains from discarding his worthless spades, as he must on no account dis- ciose his weakness therein to the strong adversaries. This point in discarding is too frequently overlooked. Trick §—North is now bound to look to his partner for something in spades. East's false card is an attempt to deceive South as to the position of the queen. Trick 9—With the same purpose, he now proceeds to return the suit up to .vorth's known weakness, either to give West a finesse or to induce South to put up the ace if he holds it. South knows, however, that queen of spades must be adverse and that it is as likely as not to be in East's hand. He takes his best chance of a good sccre by fines#ng the ten. West's weas- ness is now exposed. North's play in throwing the eight of spades under the nine is very good. He knows South to hold ace and hopes that he may have the seven also, in which case another leal gromsNutx;:h's ‘limml!“wlll ubelcure both tricks or Scuth and will enable N rid of his losing club. poacdple Tricks 10 to 13—It falls out as North had hoped, and he and South win all the re- | maining tricks. ' ] It was not till next day that Clssy told her story, and In telling it explained all that had been most mysterious. One day, months before, when walking out with several of the girls and a teach- er, she had noticed two men, One young, the other middle-aged, who had stared at her impertinently, then whispered to- gether. Next day she had seen them again, almost at the same place, and that night the maid who attended to her rcom, Jessie Delancey, had handed her a letter. The writer seemed well acquaint- ed with her father’s affairs, and hinted at a dreadful family secret. His tale fell in alarmingly well with certain allusions to the past made by an old nurse who had hinted mysterious things sometimes in Cissy’s presence during the girl's child- hood. The writer claimed to be the son of Sit Redways’ first wife, who had been a wid- ow with one boy when she married for the second time. Sir Redways and she had quarreled. Finally she had run away, and he, belleving a false report that she was dead, and married again. It was not until after a daughter (Cecily herself) had been born, the writer of the cruel letter went on, that Sir Redways had Jearnt that his first wife still lived. Hor- rified and anxious to hide the scandal which would affect not only his dearly loved second wife—in reality no wife at all—and the future of his child, Sir Red- ways had caused the other woman to ba shut up in a private asylum. The letter went on to state that this unfortunate creature still lived, though her son had only discovered her where- abouts after a long search. She was now in reality mad, but the writer, her son, had all the proofs of Sir Redways’ gullt in his hands. If the young lady who had no real right to call herself Cleily Grant would pay him certain sums and tell no one that he had communicated with her Sir Redways might go unpunished, but otherwise—and here the wretch’s threats were alarming and specific. Cissy, half sick with terror and distress at the situation, endured this blackmail and pald the man’'s demands, not once but many times, Jessie Delancey acting as go-between, yet making her acquaint- ance with him a great mystery. At last one day the girl received a letter asking her to meet the writer for five minutes’ talk at the steps of Wltflloxz on a certain afternoon. 5?3‘;' r]e‘nlx?nder of this which she had written in her dlary, for she had been de- cided, if possible, to keep the tryst by a certain inducement held out. If she could produce thirty pounds on that occa- sion her tormentor would go to America and trouble her no more. She had received the thirty pounds from Carrismoyle, and the only remaining dif- ficulty was to get to Waterloo Bridge. She had been striving for some excuse to get out of the house with Jessie Delancey, the maid, when the opportune telegram (presumably from her father) had ar- rived. If she left Harley street early, she would have time also to go to Wa- terloo Bridge and rid herself (as she dared hope) forever of her incubus. This scheme was speedily arranged with the maid. They went to the station first and left a box; but Jessie had carried the traveling bag with Cissy’'s jewelry and smart bottles and brushes in her hand. Her dark golf cape had been lent to Cissy and thrown over the pretty gray frock so that as she passed out of the station the young beauty became a less cdnspicuous figure than she would otherwise have been. Not a soul had been in sight at the trysting place except ¢he man who had made the appointment. Cissy and he had spoken together for a moment, then she had suddenly felt a pungent-smelling wet handkerchief pressed over her face, and remembered no more until she woke up in the room where she remained after- ward at Deepchine Farm. She had then, observed that Jessie Delancey was in the dress of a nurse, and was removing from her. (Cissy) a disguise which had turned her apparently into an old woman. As consciousness came to Cissy she heard the man who had tortured her for o long telling Jessie not to be a fool, that his son had never really intended to marry her. That would be too big a bribe for anything she or her mother had done; but she would be well paid and ought to be satisfied. Thus, while Cissy still feigned unconsciousness. wishing to learn all she could, Jessie cried out that she wanted no other pay. It was for love sha had worked, not money, and if they had meant to cheat her all along she would 8o back to London and tell everything. ‘With this she had sprung toward the door, which, as Jessie was trusted, had evidently not yet been locked. But with a stride the man had intercepted her. Then something awful had happened. Cissy had not seen the beginning, but Jessie had uttered a scream and fallen on the floor. A moment later the young man whom Cissy had only seen once before came hurrying in, and together they had carried Jessle away. After this Cissy had been left alone for a long time. During this interval she dis- covered that her hair had been cut off and all her clothing taken away, cheap and common things having been substi- tuted for the lacking garments. Beyond all these things, and the fact that the kidnaper had decided upon her marriage with his son, Cissy knew noth- ing. The missing links were supplied by a confession made by the younger of the two men who had called themselves Berkeley—a confession made after the death of his father, who contrived to kill himself while awaiting trial by opening a vein in his wrist with a bit of ragged metal he had found and secreted. It was the elder man who had planned everything, and carried out most of the details; but his son had apparently been no unwilling tool. The box had been sent to Sir Redways Grant in the hope that the ghastly sight and the message which would be found among the contents would kill him. But the red stain on the sacking had been made by the life-blood of Jessie Delancy, not Cecily Grant. A letter had been forged by Berkeley, purporting to have been written by Jes- sle, in a new home, to her mother, that no suspicion need be aroused In that quarter. At first they had intended to mutilate the body and throw it in the sea near Waycross (as was done after- ward), but Berkeley the younger, who had helped to bring it secretly there in a box far more horrible than the one Which appeared at the Abbey, grew afraid at'the last. He thought they had done enough. Sir Redways was sure to dle of the first shock, and there was no need to risk being discovered, as they surely must be sooner or later, and hanzed for murder. He had wished to bury the body, after all, and get away as soon as possible from the dangerous neighborhood. Berkeley the elder had known Waycross well in very early youth, and he had suggested No Man’'s Cave. But afterward he had confessed to his son that he intended even then to re- turn and, unknown to the less bold spirit, carry out the original plan of throwing the terribly mutilated body into the sea. The locket found in the cave had been dropped unawares, but the ring and Ce- cily Grant's clothing had been “lent” to the murdered Jessie Delancey for a spe- cial, ghastly purpose. As for the story teld to Clssy by the blackmailer, every detail had been false except ome. He was, in reality, a son by a first husband of the beautiful. vi- cious, half-Spanish woman who had. as his wife. made the misery of Sir Red- Ways Grant's early manhood. With her lover and her father recon- ciled and the. stigma which she had thought rested upon her name removed, there was no reason why Ceeily Grant should not be one of the happiest girls in the world—as soon as she could begin to forget. And it is wonderful how soon onme can forget what is best forgotten when one has beauty, youth, good for- tune—better than all, great love. THE END. (X