CXXXIII. TIED TO THE TRACK――A STATION MASTER’S STORY…

CXXXIII. TIED TO THE TRACK――A STATION MASTER’S STORY

“Our friend here,” said the station-master, “has given you a notion of what a life on the ocean wave is, now I’m just going on a different track altogether. Perhaps the most monotonous unromantic life it is possible to conceive is that of a railway servant, whether guard, engine-driver, porter, or station-master, and I dare say you are all astonished at my volunteering a tale about railway life.”

“Not at all! No such thing! Go on,” cried several.

“Well then, here goes,” cried the narrator.

“Along about the years sixty-seven and eight it got to be altogether too common a thing on our line putting sleepers across the track and tearing up rails, to throw the train off, so as to rob the express car; and some of the villains who were caught got pretty severe sentences.

“It so happened that in an especially noteworthy case it was my own evidence chiefly that convicted two of the most precious rascals you ever set eyes on, Tom Jackson and Clint Parker by name.

“They were sent to Joliet for fifteen years, and I was mighty glad to serve as ‘humble instrument’ in the case, I tell you; though sometimes I did feel kind of squeamish-like when I repeat to myself the last words Parker said as they took him out of court:――

“‘As for you, Joe Townsend’ (and he shook his fist significantly in my direction) ‘all this comes of the cowardly lies you’ve sworn to; and I want you to understand that Tom Jackson and me, we aint the men to stay down at Joliet for fifteen years breaking stone. We’re goin’ to git out, we are, and you may depend upon it we’ll be keerful to pay our first respec’s to you. We’ve invented a new kind of sleeper to throw trains off with――eh, Tom?’ and he leered horribly to his crony as they passed through the door.

“Those last words of Parker’s I turned over in my mind a good many times during the next two years――somehow or other they stuck by me:――‘We’ve invented a new kind of sleeper to throw a train off the track.’

“I kind of felt as though he meant something unusual by that, although I could not make out what. It seemed that I was to find out, though, before many months.

“The house, where my wife and the babies lived was just about three-quarters of a mile below the station, and quite near the track. I generally got through at the depot at half-past eight, as soon as the accommodation went down.

“The night express, which goes through at 9.55, doesn’t pull up at R―――― at all, and the through freight, which meets it down the road a piece, at W――――, of course I have nothing to do with. I might mention here that the road is double-track the entire length; but there is a long bridge at W――――, so that the freight always waits there for the express.

“At half-past eight, then, as I say, I was at liberty for the night, and it didn’t take me long to shut up the depot and start off down the road for home; and a lonely enough tramp it is, I tell you, even on a bright night, for the track runs all the way through woods and swamps, and it’s mighty dark and uncomfortable at best.

“Well, the night I’m going to tell you about was black as the inside of a two-mile tunnel. When I started down the track I almost wished I’d gone around by the highway, for I had to feel my way half the time.

“However, I knew the path tolerably well, and could tell where all the culverts and dangerous places were, pretty nearly.

“So I held up my lantern like the head-light of a locomotive and stumbled along, making pretty good time on the whole.

“I must have been just about half-way home, I guess, when all at once, without the slightest idea on my part that any human being was within half a mile of me, I felt a pair of arms clasped around my waist with a strength it was impossible to overcome; then, suddenly, I was thrown down, the light from a more powerful lantern than mine (which had fallen from my hand and become extinguished) flashed about me, and by its glare I saw three powerful fellows, who, in spite of my struggles, and I am no baby, proceeded to tie my hands firmly behind me.

“I did not recognise them at all till, at length, as I lay there on my back, entirely helpless, one of them snatched the lantern from his companion and held it close down to me, while he brought his own face close to mine.

“‘Wall, Joe Townsend,’ he said, ‘do you know me?’

“‘Yes, I know you, Clint Parker,’ I answered, as coolly as I could.

“‘I thought as how mebbe ye would. I didn’t mean to stay down there to Joliet so long thet my dearest friend would forgit me. I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout you, Joe, most all the time while I was down there gittin’ up my muscle-breakin’ stone. And here’s anuther feller you may remember――leastways, he aint forgot you, eh, Tom?’――and I now recognised Tom Jackson, the other prisoner of two years before. The third man I had never seen.

“‘This place’ll do as well as any, I ’spose,’ Parker went on, presently. ‘What’s the time, Jem?’

“Jem consulted his watch, and pronounced it to be about nine.

“‘All right; he’ll have jest about fifty minutes to think things over in and repent having lied about two such exemplary gentlemen as Tom Jackson and myself――eh, Tom?’ and Tom chuckled, approvingly.

“‘Now git out all them ropes,’ still Parker went on. He seemed to be the leading spirit and spokesman of the enterprise. ‘Do ye know what we’re goin’ to do with yer, Joe? We aint goin’ to throw no trains off the track. Oh, no! Tom and me, we wouldn’t do nothin’ of that kind――eh, Tom? But we’re goin’ to let you throw one off. I told ye, ye know, that Tom and me we’d diskivered a new kind of sleeper for throwin’ trains with. We’re jest goin’ to tie you down here across the track awhile, that’s all. We wouldn’t do nothin’ cruel――eh, Tom?’

“So their hellish purpose was revealed at last. They were going to tie me to the track and let the train pass over me! I confess at that moment my limbs actually shook with fear. It was not only death within less than an hour that I was to suffer, but death in a most violent and horrible form.

“Certainly a revenge worthy of two such monsters as stood there gloating over my misery. For a moment I thought only of myself. Then I groaned aloud as I remembered Jennie and the little ones.

“I don’t know why I should be ashamed to tell it――I doubt if there are many men who would not have done the same in my place――but I just sank down on my knees then and there, and begged those heartless villains to forego their desperate purpose.

“I might as well have gone on my knees to the great iron monster that would be along in so short a time to crush me.

“They only laughed merrily over my despair, and began their work.

“You’ll acknowledge yourselves, gentlemen, that it’s rather a dismal look for a poor fellow to be gagged and bound, hand and foot, and then be tied fast across a railroad track with his neck across one rail and his feet over the other, and to know that in something like half an hour’s time a fast express train is coming down that very track without paying any attention to him whatever――and this in a dark, drizzly night, and in a lonely spot where no human being is at all likely to find him.

“And that’s the way those double-dyed scoundrels left me――they tied me there fast and firm――they mockingly bade me good-night and pleasant dreams――the leader, Parker, even stooped over me and kissed me with pretended tenderness, and I felt his hot, liquor-freighted breath on my cheek.

“And yet I could not cry out in my agony nor curse them in my desperation as they moved off.

“No words of mine, gentlemen, can describe the horror and agony I felt during the time I lay there.

“You can not half imagine it――I doubt if I can recall it now as it really was myself. I go over it again and again in my sleep to this day――fancy myself once more bound down to that fearful rack, powerless to stir hand or foot, yet striving with almost superhuman force to burst the ropes that bind me――till I finally seem to succeed and awake shrieking from the horrid nightmare, with the sweat standing out in great drops upon my brow.

“But I did not burst my bonds that night. The villains had taken good care of that. There I was in a most painful position, bound by the neck to one rail, and by the ankles to the other, my hands tied beneath me, and my body fastened to a sleeper.

“Oh, God! how I did struggle to free myself; how I sought to wrench away my legs; how I tugged at the cord which bound my wrists; and then, since I could not get them free, as I thought of the fearful death so soon to come upon me, how I strove to throttle myself with the rope that held my head to the rail!

“How I prayed that I might suffocate there as I lay! I have heard that men have died of terror, but I don’t believe it. If such a thing were possible I think I should have perished in those dreadful moments. But I did not. Oh, no! The murderers were to have their fullest revenge.

“And now, suddenly I grew strangely calm. I philosophised with myself. I said resignedly, that a man could die but once; and after all, what would it matter an hour hence?

“Besides, in reality, this was an instantaneous and almost painless end. But my wife and children! Oh, I would like to live for them. And could I not? I was not dead yet. If I could only move myself a few feet. Oh, so very few feet! Yet I could not stir.

“Now, a thought struck me. Could I not signal the train in some way, stop it one little yard, or foot, or inch before it passed over me? Alas, how? They would never hear my cries.

“They would never see me in the darkness of the night. No one would know until the morrow, and then I should be, alas! crushed, and mangled, and dead.

“But my lantern――where was that? I turned my head, and could see it a few feet away where I had dropped it. If I only had it on my breast I could draw up my pocket with my teeth, I thought, and somehow get a match from it, and so light the lantern.

“And in my insane terror I called out to it, and begged it to come nearer, and save my wretched life. You may smile at that, gentlemen, but human nature is weaker than you think, and I believe I am as good a man ordinarily as the most.

“But all this time the minutes were flying by like lightning. Horrible as that hour was to me, I could have wished it was all eternity.

“Every instant I dreaded to hear the train coming. I knew it must be well-nigh time for it now, and I knew that it was on time, for we had telegraphed it an hour before.

“I will not dwell longer on my sufferings. I did not free myself. I could not if the salvation of the race had depended upon it. Nor did anybody come to free me. No one would ever pass that spot on a night like that, and at such an hour.

“Nor was the train behind time. No, I heard it at last; it was no creation of my excited fancy this time. I heard it at last, first a faint, rumbling sound, that seemed to come from deep down in the earth, beneath me; then the ground seemed to thrill and tremble; then the rails rattled a little, then more and more; then I heard the whistle and bell, and then, oh, God! another instant and it would be upon me. I could even see the reflected glare of the headlight.

“I tried once more to cry out; I struggled again for an instant, with all the power of my being, then I knew that my time was come, and I shut my eyes and lay quite still.

“And the great train came rushing on and on――it was close upon me――I saw it not, yet I felt it to be directly above me. Great heavens! what was this? Was it passing over me and I still living, and feeling it not?

“I opened my eyes; I saw the cars flashing by above and within a few feet of my head. Then the truth flashed upon me. The train was upon the other track! The reaction was too much for me, and I fainted dead away.

“When I came to consciousness again, I found myself in my own room at home.

“I had only a confused recollection of the events which had so lately befallen me, but they told me gently all that I did not know of the story.

“I had been very ill, they said, of brain fever. They had found me on the morning of that terrible night, bound fast――not to the railroad track, but to a tree, just a few rods away from it.

“I was very delirious, and was taken home raving continually.

“I had been sick for a fortnight. Then they asked how it was that I came to be tied to the tree.

“But, alas, I knew as little of that part of the story as they did.

“I told them how I had been seized by Parker and his companions, and tied to the track.

“My lantern, found near the spot, and distinct marks of a struggle, confirmed the story.

“The question was, how did I escape the train, and how did I become tied to the tree?

“My own theory is this: Parker and Jackson were not, after all, so bad as I took them to be. Their revenge had been, not to murder me, but to frighten me terribly; and they certainly had succeeded perfectly. I could see nothing, tied as I was, could hardly turn my head, and they had easily persuaded me into the idea that I was on the down track――that of the passenger-express.

“After the train had passed, they had come to release me before the up freight should be along. They had fastened me to the tree so as to get fully away before I could give any alarm.

“That is the only way I can account for the facts. And though I certainly don’t owe the rascals anything for what they did to me, I never think of the affair to this day without feeling a kind of gratitude towards them, and thanking God they were not as black-hearted as I thought they were, after all.”

“Well, that’s a jolly good yarn,” said the captain; “it beats mine into an almighty smash, and no mistake.”

“Oh, I don’t say that,” observed Whittock, “you are both good story-tellers. Talk about the ‘Arabian Nights’ Entertainment,’ I rather fancy we could knock up one ourselves if we had a mind.”

“I’m sure we could,” returned Peace.

“But the time is getting late, gentlemen,” said the captain. “The best of friends must part. Time is on the wing, and all that sort of thing.”

“Time was made for slaves,” cried one of the party. “Don’t go yet.”

“No――no; sit down, and make yourself as happy as possible,” said Peace, who on this occasion, as on many others of a similar nature, proved himself to be an excellent host and a most genial companion, so that the small hours of the morning had arrived before the party broke up.

There was the usual amount of leave-taking, shaking of hands, and protestations of friendship.

Peace saw his guests to the outer gate, and then, when all had taken their departure, he returned into the house with Bandy-legged Bill, who took up his quarters at No. 4 for the remainder of the night.

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Chapter CXXXIV

LORD ETHALWOOD’S RETURN HOME――REGRETS FOR THE PAST――NEWS FROM ABROAD.

Lord Reginald Ethalwood returned to England a sadder and in some respects a wiser man. He was no longer the gay and light-hearted nobleman whose merry pranks and jovial manner caused his associates to court his company.

A strange alteration in the mode of life and manner of the young earl had taken place. He was grave and thoughtful, and at times melancholy.

A shadow seemed to have fallen upon him, and the recollection of the events that had taken place during his sojourn on the Continent seemed to cling to him with terrible tenacity.

There were a number of circumstances connected with his liaison with Theresa Trieste which could not fail to cause him great uneasiness, but beyond and above all there was the fact that he had sent to his account a young man, who, whatever his faults might have been, was true, faithful, and self-sacrificing to the object of his love.

Indeed, Chanet had displayed an amount of chivalry and devotion which could not fail to command the respect of Lord Ethalwood.

Upon returning to his ancestral home Reginald had ample time to consider over past events. He could not but acknowledge to himself that his share in the business did not in any way redound to his credit, and now that he had time and leisure to reflect on the part he had played in the sanguinary drama caused him to upbraid himself for his rash and impetuous course of action.

Lord Reginald, upon his arrival in England, hastened at once to the town residence of his mother, to whom he paid his respects.

Nothing was said about the tragedy of the Jura mountains.

“My dear Reginald,” exclaimed Aveline, embracing her son with maternal fondness, “it is indeed a source of happiness for me to see you again in your native land, and I hope and trust you will not again leave the country――certainly not for some time to come――for, oh, my darling boy, you do not know how anxious I have been about you. Consider, Reginald, the position you hold as the representative of an honoured line――the only representative――and consider also how needful it is for you to uphold the dignity of the house of which you are, I am sure, a worthy representative.”

“I have duly considered that, mother,” returned Reginald.

“And, therefore, it behoves you to be mindful of yourself. Alas! my son, there are many reasons for you to be especially guarded in your conduct. Remember the untimely end of your predecessors――the earl’s sons――and the end also of my poor mother. I tremble when I think of the untoward events which have taken place; and it is, therefore, with something like a melancholy foreboding that I charge you to take special care of yourself.”

“You need not be any way concerned about me,” said Reginald, not very well knowing what his mother was driving at. “I am in good health and spirits. Why, therefore, should you be thus anxious?”

“Are you in good health and spirits? It has struck me that you do not look so happy and contented as when you left for this――this hunting expedition.”

Lord Ethalwood burst out into a loud laugh.

“Why, my dear mother,” said he, “to hear you speak thus one would almost imagine you to be a fatalist.”

“Well, assuming you came to that conclusion, what then?”

“What! You would not have me come to any such rash conclusion, I should imagine?”

“Have you reflected upon past events?” said Aveline. “Have you duly considered the strange vicissitudes of the house of Ethalwood, of which you are now the representative? Have you thought of the untimely deaths of the younger members of that honourable line――of the sad end of your grandmother, and all the events which have led to your being the rightful and acknowledged heir? It behoves you, my son, to be duly impressed with your position, to strive in every possible way to support, to the best of your ability, the dignity of our house.”

“I am duly impressed with all this,” said the young earl, “and do not need to be reminded of it.”

“Ah, Reginald,” exclaimed Aveline, “pardon me for being thus plain-spoken. In you I behold the sole surviving link, from the present to the past, of a great race.”

“I know that, mother. But why this concern and anxiety? I am well, and am heedful of the trust which is imposed upon me.”

“Spoken like my own dear son,” said Aveline. “I am sure you will never do aught to compromise or sully the honour of the Ethalwoods.”

“I hope not,” he added, with something like melancholy foreboding in his tone, for he remembered at the time the sad events which had so recently taken place.

It was evident enough from his mother’s manner that she had some inkling of the part he had been playing in the dark drama on the continent――albeit she wisely forbore from alluding directly to it.

She was concerned and troubled about something――what this was Lord Ethalwood could only surmise.

After paying his respects to his father-in-law he returned to Broxbridge Hall, which has been the stage upon which so many scenes of our drama have been enacted.

At Broxbridge he was, in a great measure, secluded from a host of acquaintances who, at that particular time, he was not anxious to meet.

Mr. Jakyl, full of years and servitude, was still the majordomo of the establishment; he appeared to be as devoted to his young master as he was to the late earl.

Jakyl was at this time a very old man; he had the same soft, respectful, unobtrusive manner as of yore; indeed, these qualities were even more apparent in his declining years――if this were possible.

The slightest hint given by Lord Ethalwood was considered law by his faithful and venerable servitor, and it afforded the old domestic a considerable amount of pleasure and satisfaction at beholding the earl return to his ancestral home.

Mr. Jakyl was not at all demonstrative――was never gushing, but those who knew him best were at no loss to comprehend when he was pleased or otherwise.

Lord Reginald, after his return to Broxbridge, remained for a considerable time secluded.

He did not court the company of his quondam companions, and his retainers could not fail to observe that he had come back a sadder and more thoughtful man.

It is true he received a few visitors, with his accustomed good fellowship and courtesy, but there was no longer that sportive mad-cap merriment which had marked his course of life before leaving for the Continent.

No one was quite able to account for the altered demeanour of the gay and merry young earl.

Very shortly after his return he received a letter from abroad which seemed to deepen the shadow which had so suddenly fallen upon him.

The epistle in question came from Theresa Trieste. It was couched in the most affectionate language. In almost every passage the writer gave expression to deep and unfailing love, but at the same time the tone of it was melancholy and sorrowful to the last degree. In fact it appeared that Theresa was plunged into the depths of despair.

Her mother had been suddenly and unexpectedly struck down with a fit of apoplexy, and after lingering for a few hours, she expired. This was a sad blow to the earl. Theresa was left with little or no provision, and in addition to this she expected very shortly to become a mother.

Lord Ethalwood was greatly concerned upon learning this. He naturally enough upbraided himself for the part he had been playing, but it was now not possible to retract. The death of Madame Trieste was an event he had not counted on, and it, of course, added to the complication of circumstances with which he had become surrounded by his own imprudence.

But he was in an exalted position, was wealthy, and under all the circumstances felt bound to make some provision for the woman whom he had so deeply wronged.

This was an easy matter enough, but Theresa did not view the matter in a mercenary light. She would have been content to share poverty with her seducer so long as she was near him and was assured of his love.

Lord Reginald did not know what to do under the circumstances. He was still greatly attached to Theresa, and he, therefore, wrote a most affectionate letter to her in reply to the one he had received.

He enclosed a draft for a considerable sum with the letter, and bade her consider him in the light of both a friend and a lover.

The position was both a difficult and a delicate one, and he was therefore specially cautious in wording his letter, not that he had the faintest notion that the unhappy Theresa would take any advantage of any incautious expression, but still he deemed it just as well to be on the safe side.

He also dispatched a missive to the Chevalier de Monpres, bidding him wait upon Theresa and comfort her as he best could.

He also entrusted the arrangements of the funeral of Madame Trieste to his friend, De Monpres.

He begged, as a special favour of the old Frenchman, his attention to these matters, and wound up by an earnest request that he, De Monpres, would pay a visit to Broxbridge.

In a week or two after this the earl was both surprised and delighted when one of his servants announced that a gentleman――a stranger to Broxbridge――was waiting in one of the reception rooms.

Upon looking at the card handed to him by the domestic, the earl saw it was none other than his late second, who desired to speak with him.

The chevalier was at once conducted into the presence of the earl.

“My dear good friend!” exclaimed the latter, “this is, indeed, kind and considerate of you. I know not how to thank you sufficiently for your kindness and attention.”

“Well, the fact is, Ethalwood,” said De Monpres, “I could not remain away any longer. I felt, naturally enough, that you needed advice and consolation; besides, it was essential for me to communicate with you personally.”

“I am overjoyed to see you. Sit down and make this place your home, for some time to come, at all events.”

“Ah, but I intend to do that,” cried the chevalier, with a shrug and a grimace. “Eh, but you’ve got a fine old palatial mansion, a grand old place, which I should imagine has stood for centuries――that is, if one is to judge from appearances.”

“It is very old――almost as old as our genealogical tree.”

“I should suppose so. Well, my young friend, I intend to enjoy myself while I am here, so you mustn’t think of assuming a serious or dejected aspect, for I tell you frankly I will not permit it. You are under my care now――do you understand?――and are to be as merry and jocund as possible.”

“I will endeavour to be so,” returned Reginald. “That is as far as circumstances will admit.”

“Bah! circumstances! What have you to complain of? Nothing――positively nothing!”

“Very well, it shall be as you say. I will not repine.”

“I hope not, indeed. I am not an envious man, my dear Ethalwood. If I were I should long to be in your position. You have youth, health, wealth, and bear an honoured name second to none within these realms. What more do you need?”

“A clear conscience,” returned the earl.

“Mon dieu, don’t be so weak and silly. You had better have some champagne, and we can talk this matter over at our leisure.”

“I won’t say no. Let us have some sparkling then, if you have no objection.”

“None in the least.”

“Ah, I see you are not so bad as I thought,” cried De Monpres, raising the glass and pledging his friend with the same.

“Is that better?” said he.

“You received my note, of course,” observed Ethalwood, when the first civilities were over.

The Frenchman nodded.

“And――ahem――the funeral, how did that pass over?”

“I carried out your instructions to the very letter.”

“I was sure you would do that. A thousand thanks. And poor Theresa?”

“Ah, mon ami, she was sadly borne down, poor girl. I thought she would have gone into hysterics, but she is better now――much better. Ah, she will be all right again in the due course of time. These things are always sad, and in her case there was every reason for deep and poignant sorrow. I am thankful for having been of service to her.”

“You did your best to cheer her up, I have no doubt.”

“My very best.”

“Umph, it is altogether a most unfortunate affair, De Monpres, and I need not tell you that it has been a source of trouble to me, which, despite all the philosophy I can bring to bear upon it, still hangs heavily on my conscience.”

“Conscience――bah! You have nothing to charge yourself with――have acted in every way as becomes an honourable gentleman.”

“Oh, no――no!” interrupted the earl, with sudden warmth.

“That is my view of the matter,” observed the Frenchman, “and I am a much older man than you are, and ought to be a competent judge of what is wrong and what is right. Why, my dear young friend, in my young days these things were as common occurrences as possible. Nobody even thought anything of them. You became enamoured of a young and fascinating female, and she was attached to you; well, the end we both know. What do you propose doing?”

“That is precisely why I have been so anxious to see you.”

“To seek my advice――eh?”

“Yes.”

“You cannot do otherwise than make a provision for her.”

“Of course not; but that will not satisfy her.”

“No, it will not,” said the old Frenchman, as he swallowed another glass of wine. “She seems to me to be what one might call madly infatuated; but, dear me, women are such strange creatures, that one hardly knows what to say to them. She wants to come to this country.”

“Yes――so she gave me to understand.”

“To be near you――that is her only reason, I believe. Ah, she is infatuated! But you mustn’t compromise yourself merely for the sake of a love-sick woman.”

“What would you advise me to do, then?”

“Ah, that is a question one finds it difficult to answer upon the spur of the moment.”

“But you have thought the matter over, I suppose.”

“I have certainly given it due consideration, but then I am not Lord Ethalwood――I am only an old military officer. My view of the case and yours may be diametrically opposite; don’t you see that?”

“Yes, I quite understand what you mean, but take another glass.”

“Thank you. It is unfortunate for us――and especially so for her――that her mother died at this juncture, but it could not be helped, and it is not, therefore, any use dwelling upon it.”

“It is very unfortunate.”

“And you know, Ethalwood, I am really sorry for the girl. Perhaps you won’t believe me when I say so, but I am, indeed.”

“I have no reason to disbelieve you, monsieur――far from it.”

“Because, you see, she is placed in a false position.”

“Yes, that is quite true.”

“But you mustn’t compromise yourself. You mustn’t do that, come what may.”

“I should be base, indeed, if I deserted her, after all that has passed.”

“Oh, dear me, no one could think of advising you to do that. Certainly no one who had any respect for you.”

“By the way, this is a splendid glass of wine. A little sweet, perhaps, but it’s none the worse for that. It is of the finest vintage.”

“I am glad it meets with your approval, as I know you are an excellent judge.”

“Well, as I was about to observe,” said the chevalier, carelessly. “Theresa thinks only of you. You are the father of the child, which is soon to see the light, and I am in some doubt as to what course I ought to advise you to take. I should not like to be instrumental in bringing an encumbrance on you――still, at the same time, I cannot conceal from myself that to leave her to take her chance in those cursed mountains all alone, and without any other companion than her maid, who, to say the truth, is a giddy, flirting little puss, is not altogether desirable.”

“I am delighted to hear you say so,” cried the earl, “and for this reason, that it coincides with my own view of the question. I am now determined I will have her over here――take a villa for her in one of the London suburbs.”

“Or apartments for her in the metropolis.”

“Yes, or apartments. Perhaps that would be better.”

“Much better. Villas are all very well in their way, but she would be much more cheerful and contented with apartments.”

“I think you are right; but that is a question which we can determine upon her arrival. I will write at once and tell her to come over to this country without any delay. What say you?”

The chevalier answered with a shrug.

“I think I am in duty bound to do this――eh?”

“Well, perhaps you are. One thing has been made manifest to me plainly enough.”

“What is that?”

“She won’t be contented where she is――that’s quite certain; and――bah!――after all you can well afford to keep a mistress, or half a dozen or so for the matter of that; and you are quite justified in doing so. They are at times troublesome to a man, but one can’t have any pleasure in this world without its alloy. Send for her. Let her come over at once, Ethalwood, before I leave. Possibly I may be of service to you.”

“My dear De Monpres, you are as good as a father to me. I don’t know what I should have done without you.”

“Oh, you would have done well enough, I dare say,” observed the chevalier.

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, we won’t dispute upon that subject. I am here enjoying your society and hospitality, and I don’t intend to leave you for the present. Certainly not, till I see you out of this little difficulty.”

“And how about the mountaineers? Did you see or hear anything of them after I took my departure?”

“I heard a good deal,” cried De Monpres, in a serious tone; “heard enough to fully comprehend that they intended to polish you off if a chance had been afforded them. Sacre, I shudder when I think of the bloodthirsty miscreants.”

“Ah, they meant mischief then?”

“Mon dieu yes.”

“But how did you know this?”

“From the young fellow who was Chanet’s second. He has behaved in a way which meets with my unqualified approval.”

“Has he?”

“Yes, he is an honourable and upright young man and evinced the greatest possible solicitude for your safety. He knew the danger of the situation――knew that a band of mountaineers were in league together to――well――bah――murder you at their earliest convenience, and made me acquainted with the whole of their proceedings. I had three or four of the rascals arrested, but as there was no direct evidence against them they were discharged with a caution. This is all I could possibly do, and I believe that to a certain extent it had a salutary effect. They were intimidated. They knew the eyes of the officers of justice were on them, and they returned to their fastnesses like a set of curs as they are. Still, my friend, despite all these precautions, we cannot conceal from ourselves that your life was not worth a few hours’ purchase while you were in the neighbourhood of those treacherous mountains. Neither would it be now if you were imprudent enough to return.”

“I am not likely to do that,” said Lord Reginald; “not at all likely, for very many reasons.”

“I should suppose not.”

“Oh, dear me, no; but the day is still young, what say you to a stroll in the grounds?”

“Nothing would please me better, but before proceeding thither will you just let me have a look at your picture gallery?”

“By all means――with the greatest pleasure.”

Lord Reginald Ethalwood conducted the chevalier to the gallery in which the late earl so loved to linger, and here it was that Charles Peace, in an earlier day, succeeded in making such a wonderful restoration of one of the portraits which now looked as fresh and bright as when it was first painted.

As the old Frenchman passed through he came to a sudden halt, and stood for some time gazing upon the portrait of the late earl.

“How lifelike!” he ejaculated. “What an admirable representation of my late friend! I should have known it anywhere, and under any circumstances. I never saw a better portrait.”

“It is wonderfully well done, monsieur. The artist has caught the habitual expression of his features, which, to say the truth, were generally tinged with a shade of melancholy.”

“Say, rather, thoughtfulness,” quietly remarked the chevalier. “The late earl was thoughtful and meditative by nature. There were many reasons for this, which it would be needless to dwell upon now.”

“You are quite right――such was the case,” returned Lord Reginald.

After passing through the gallery, the two friends rambled over the grounds and in the woods on the Broxbridge estate, returning to the hall to dinner.

De Monpres’ visit proved to be a great source of comfort to the young earl.

The chevalier had been so mixed up in recent events that he was specially welcome, and was made much of by the master of the hall.

The days passed pleasantly enough. The chevalier had a whole fund of anecdotes at his command, and although advanced in years, he was brimful of jocularity, sparkling repartee, and lively discourse upon present and past events.

The visitors to the hall were quite charmed with him, and Reginald looked forward to his departure with something like sorrow and regret.

But De Monpres was too well satisfied with his present quarters to dream of leaving them at present. He had passed his word to remain in England till the arrival of Theresa Trieste, who had written a reply to the earl’s letter, intimating that she would be with him as soon as she possibly could. Theresa lost no time in carrying out her promise.

She had become an object of mark in her mountain home, and the mountaineers regarded her with malevolent looks, in which aversion, not to say hatred, formed the chief ingredient.

They did not attempt to molest her, or offer any positive insult, but she was duly impressed with the fact that there was a general feeling of discontent and animosity towards her in consequence of the part she had played in the sanguinary drama.

[Sidenote: No. 72.]

Theresa Trieste had lost her parent, and she was left alone in the world, with no other protector than Lord Ethalwood.

To remain any longer in the chateau at the foot of the Jura mountains was therefore quite out of the question.

She therefore gladly acceded to the request of Lord Reginald, and made preparations to take a speedy departure from the home which had now no longer any charms for her.

She believed, as many other women have done under similar circumstances, in the honour and integrity of her seducer. Any way she had no other alternative than to trust to his good faith and consideration.

She hastened at once to England, and upon her arrival at Dover she dispatched a letter to Broxbridge, making him acquainted with the fact.

The Chevalier de Monpres had been commissioned to engage apartments for the lady.

Strange to say, he took a suite of rooms in the house occupied by Mrs. Bourne.

The last-named had long before this furnished her house in Somerset-street in the best possible style, and, as it was a much larger one than she required, she had deputed an agent to procure her a lodger.

The courteous old Frenchman applied to the aforesaid agent who recommended Mrs. Bourne.

De Monpres waited upon the doctor’s widow, with whom he was greatly pleased, and at once engaged the suite of rooms on the first floor.

He was at no loss to divine that Mrs. Bourne was precisely the sort of person Theresa Trieste would, in all probability, get on with; consequently he struck a bargain and engaged the rooms for the young French lady, who was about to arrive from the Continent.

The earl and chevalier met Theresa at the London station, and accompanied her to the widow’s house in Somerset-street.

She was greatly pleased with her new quarters, and her countenance became irradiated with a smile as she gazed on the handsome features of her lover.

She hoped for the best, and had not at this time any misgivings for the future, for the earl demonstrated the strongest affection for her, and was profuse in promises. Nevertheless, deep down in his heart was the canker-worm of remorse.

However, he strove as best he could to assume an air of cheerfulness, and after remaining for the best part of the evening with his mistress he took his departure in company with the Chevalier de Monpres.

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CXXXV. SOME PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF A LONDON THIEF

Alf Purvis, alias Mr. Algernon Sutherland, had, with the exception of our hero, become one of the most daring of metropolitan thieves. His genteel appearance and engaging manners were of essential service to him in carrying on his nefarious practices.

In this respect he had the advantage of Peace; but with all these qualities he was not nearly so cunning or artful as our hero.

Nevertheless, Mr. Sutherland was, in his own particular sphere, a young gentleman of note and mark, who was greatly admired and envied by villains of coarser type with whom he was wont to associate.

He was known by the cognomen of the “Dandy,” in consequence of his fashionable attire and finicking ways.

A more audacious, unscrupulous young scoundrel it would not be easy to find. As far as pocket-picking was concerned he was a sort of prodigy; but he did not confine his attention to this branch of the profession, as he termed it; he had at times recourse to other means to replenish his exchequer, and of late he had hit upon what he deemed a most ingenious scheme to furnish him with the means of indulging in his extravagant mode of living.

The reader will doubtless remember the “Smoucher,” whose acquaintance he made at the thieves’ haunt in Whitechapel.

The “Smoucher,” as he was termed by his familiars, was an adept in penmanship, and had the faculty of imitating the handwriting of any person in a manner which was at once remarkable and surprising.

It occurred to Mr. Sutherland that he might make very good use of the Smoucher’s ability, and he at once put into practice a scheme he had pondered over for a considerable period.

Mr. Sutherland had an extensive circle of acquaintances, and, strange as it may appear, he did, by some means or another, contrive to push himself into certain coteries of respectable society, one reason for this being attributable to the fact that he belonged to one or more gambling clubs in the metropolis.

At these he picked up all sorts of acquaintances, good, bad, and indifferent. He picked up also a vast amount of information at these establishments which he made serve his purpose in many ways.

He occasionally lost large sums of money at the gaming table, which had a certain amount of fascination for him, so that he was a frequent visitor to these “hells.” The term is an old one, but it is remarkably expressive.

In the course of play he became possessed of cheques for both large and small amounts, and was, as a natural consequence, in a short space of time very well acquainted with the signatures of persons of wealth and position.

When aground for money, Mr. Sutherland sought the assistance of the Smoucher.

That worthy performed the secret of removing the handwriting on the body of the cheque by some chemicals.

He also removed one or more of the figures, and then wrote in figures to perhaps ten times the amount for which the cheque had been originally drawn.

Mr. Sutherland paid his confederate handsomely for this little favour, and then changed the cheque.

He had done this on very many occasions, and, strange to say, had escaped detection. But the game was a risky one, and it was only under pressing circumstances that he had recourse to this species of fraud; but he was so extravagant, so reckless in respect to money matters, that despite the large sums he gained by his robberies, he was, like most of his compeers, continually in need of a fresh supply of coin.

It was on one of those occasions that Sutherland or Purvis endeavoured to put into practice a robbery on a much more extensive scale than he had as yet attempted. He was not aware at this time that suspicion had been aroused, and that the detectives were at work to run him to earth.

He held a cheque payable at the Saltwich bank. It was for forty pounds odd. This he took to the Smoucher, who, with his accustomed skill, took out the handwriting, and substituted in its stead four hundred pounds instead of the forty.

It was so admirably done that no one could detect the alteration, and Mr. Sutherland, who knew perfectly well that the drawer of the cheque had a large balance at the bank in question, hastened down to Saltwich with the altered cheque. He had for his companion the unscrupulous scoundrel, “The Cracksman,” as he was termed. This personage has already been introduced to the reader.

Sutherland and his accomplice put themselves into the train and booked to the nearest station for Saltwich.

Sutherland was to present the cheque while the Cracksman kept watch and ward outside.

When they arrived at their destination Mr. Sutherland made at once for the bank. He was fashionably attired was of aristocratic appearance, and had all the ease and self-possession of a person who was accustomed to move in good society. And he had the audacity of the old gentleman himself.

He walked into the bank with the greatest possible assurance and presented his cheque, which was paid without a moment’s hesitation.

He pocketed the money and met the Cracksman at an appointed spot some distance down the road.

“It’s all right――got the browns,” said Mr. Sutherland. “We had better not be seen walking together. You make for the station as soon as you see me turn down Hagget’s-lane. I’ll wait for you at the station. Do you understand?”

“All right, Dandy. Best not be seen together till we are out of the wood. All right, I’m fly.”

Sutherland walked rapidly on till he reached the lane in question.

He had not gone very far down this when he was accosted by a stranger.

“You have paid a visit to the bank at Saltwich, I believe?” said the latter.

“What business is it of yours whether I have or not?” returned Mr. Sutherland.

“I ask you a simple question, and I must insist upon an answer. Have you been to the bank?”

“If I have, what is it to you?”

“You presented a cheque drawn by Mr. Leathside, and the cheque was paid?”

“Upon my word, your insolence is most remarkable. What have you to do with my business transactions? Stand aside, and let me pass.”

“You will have to accompany me. I arrest you upon the charge of obtaining money under false pretences,” returned the stranger. “It is of no use you attempting to carry the matter off with a high hand, Mr. Sutherland; you are my prisoner,” observed the detective, for such he was. “You are my prisoner, and will have to answer the charge preferred against you.”

As he uttered these last words he placed his hand on the Dandy’s shoulder.

“Confound your impudence!” exclaimed the latter. “If you attempt to detain me, I’ll lay you flat in a brace of shakes.”

“You had better go quietly. If you resist it will be all the worse for you. I am a detective.”

“What do I care for that? You don’t suppose that I am in fear of a detective.”

“You had better go quietly. If you are innocent, you have your remedy; but once more I have to inform you that you will have to go with me.”

“Upon my word, sir, I am astounded at your impudence. Arrested, and for what, I pray?”

“I have already told you. For obtaining money under false pretences――for forgery. Come, Mr. Sutherland, don’t attempt to deceive me, for that you will find to be hopeless. I have a warrant for your apprehension. You are my prisoner.”

“Prisoner be hanged. If you attempt to molest me I’ll give you the soundest thrashing you ever had in your life.”

The detective made no reply, he only smiled.

Sutherland rushed past him and took to his heels, but the officer gave chase and proved that he was as fleet of foot as the young fugitive, whom he overtook, tripped up, and then seized with a firm grip.

The Dandy by this time was duly impressed with the danger of his position. He struggled most desperately to escape from the clutch of the officer, but found all his efforts unavailing.

“You are a foolish young man,” cried the detective, “and are only making matters worse by this violence, which will not serve your purpose.”

“Unhand me――let me go,” said the Dandy.

“Not if I know it,” returned the other.

Sutherland shouted out for assistance, and in a few seconds the Cracksman came upon the scene.

“Have at him,” cried Sutherland. “Polish him off if you have any care for me.”

With a yell of indignation the Cracksman precipitated himself upon the officer, who was probably astounded at the strength and savage ferocity displayed by his athletic assailant.

The struggle was a short but desperate one. The Cracksman threw the detective, and when he was down pinned him to the earth with his knee upon his chest.

The Dandy laughed. Escape seemed certain. The officer of the law was at the mercy of the two thieves.

It is not possible to say how the conflict would have ended, but assuredly it would have not been in favour of the detective had not another actor arrived on the stage.

The noise of a horse’s hoofs were heard on the hard road, and in a moment or so a farmer drew the reins of his champing steed.

“What be this?” he ejaculated. “Two upon one――that beant the right thing. Look here, you ugly varmint, leave go of your man. Do you hear?”

This last observation was addressed to the Cracksman, who, in reply to the same, uttered an imprecation, at the same time pressing his knee more firmly on the officer’s chest.

“If ee beant disposed to take heed of words, maybe blows will suit ee better,” cried Ashbrook, for such the new comer proved to be.

The speaker whirled round his riding whip, and with the butt end of this he dealt a terrific blow on the side of the head of the Cracksman, who howled with pain.

“Just you let ’im go, or maybe I shall give ee a crack on the crown as’ll knock ee silly.”

The Cracksman sprang to his feet, and at once made at the farmer, whom he endeavoured to pull from his horse.

But Ashbrook rained such a shower of blows on the head and shoulders of his brutal assailant, that the latter, blinded with the blood that flowed from the wounds, and staggering from the effects of the punishment he had received, like a coward and bully as he was, turned tail, and took to his heels.

Mr. Sutherland, seeing that the odds were against him, followed the Cracksman.

“He’ll get clear off,” cried the detective. “He can run like an antelope.”

“Who do ee want, then?” inquired the farmer.

“The young un, the swell cove.”

“I’ll ketch him,” cried Ashbrook, “please the pigs,” and he forthwith put spurs to his horse and galloped after the fugitives.

Of course the Dandy ran his hardest, but he was soon overtaken by the horseman.

“Ye beant a goin’ to gi’ us the slip, ye circumwenting young vagabond. Not if I know it,” cried the farmer, as he came up with the runaway. “Hold hard, you scoundrel. The game is up, and so surrender.”

“I’ll have my revenge upon you some time or another,” said Sutherland. “What business had you to show your ugly mug here?”

“Don’t ee gi’ me any more of your cheek. If ee do, I’ll spoil your beauty for the next three months at the very least.”

And with these words the farmer rode full at the fugitive, whom he collared and dragged along for some distance.

“You will have to answer for this. I shall bring an action against you for assault and battery,” cried the Dandy.

“Ah! oh! it be you, Mister Fortescue――be it? Glad we ha’ met. So, my beauty, you are run to earth――eh? Don’t ee think to get away ’cause you see the ’pleece want ee, and what is more I want the ’pleece to ha’ ee, so it be no manner of yoose yer strivin’ to get clear off. Hilloa there, I’ve cotched ’im,” cried Ashbrook, shouting out at the top of his voice to the detective.”

Mr. Sutherland strove in vain to slip out of the hands of the farmer, who was altogether too strong for him.

Panting and perspiring from every pore, the detective came up with the runaway, and while the farmer held him the officer clapped on his wrists a pair of handcuffs, and made him his prisoner once more. He had now no chance of making his escape, and was therefore fain to submit quietly.

“What be going to do wi’ him?” inquired Ashbrook.

“Take him before a magistrate,” was the prompt answer.

“Ah, that be best. What be he charged wi’?”

“With forgery.”

“Oh, that be all, eh?”

“Yes, and quite enough too. I am greatly beholden to you, Mr. Ashbrook, for the service you have rendered me, for without your assistance I should have hardly known what to have done.”

“You’re quite welcome, Todd, quite welcome. I be glad I coom up in the nick of time, seeing as how it might ha’ gone hard wi’ ee. But ye’re a brave fellow and stuck to your man like a Briton, and I shall just let un know how gallantly ye behaved”

“I am sure I dont deserve this praise. I merely strove to do my duty.”

“An ye’ve done it right well. As to this young varmint the sooner he’s lagged the better, for he be a rank bad un.”

“Do you know him, sir?”

“Know him――I should think I did. He passed himself off as a gentleman, and I like a fool believed him, but we won’t enter upon that now, Todd; ye’ve got yer man――that be enough for both on us. Where be ee goin’ to tek un to?”

“To Squire Kensett’s.”

“Aye, lad, that be the best thing to do.”

Mr. Todd marched off with his prisoner, and Ashbrook promised to follow on to the house of the magistrate.

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CXXXVI. THE JUSTICE OF THE PEACE AND THE PRISONER

Mr. Sutherland was run to earth.

It was the first time during his lawless career that he had been brought under the ban of the law; nevertheless, he was by no means so downcast as persons would suppose.

He had unlimited faith in his tact and address, which he hoped would stand him in good stead on the present occasion.

He told Mr. Todd that he was perfectly innocent of the charge, and assumed an air of quiet resignation which was quite charming.

He objected, however, to the ornaments on his wrists, and begged as a special favour to have them removed.

Mr. Todd declined to oblige him, and said that he would have to bear them till they reached the magistrate’s house.

Mr. Sutherland made a wry face, and declared that he was an injured person, and that the indignity was quite uncalled for, since he was a gentleman who was well able to meet the charge, and leave the court without a stain on his character.

Mr. Todd only smiled at the last observation, and so the two――the prisoner and the detective――walked on conversing in what might be considered to a casual observer in a friendly and jocund manner.

They had not very far to go, for the magistrate’s house was within three-quarters of a mile from the spot where the affray and capture had taken place.

The magistrate and his wife were at this time seated together in the old oak dining-room of their habitation. He was reading the pages of a book on heraldry, watching from the window the broods of rooks who were cawing as they flew from bough to bough.

These two persons lived in that which their tenants believed to be a palace, but which was in reality little better than a prison. They were forced to live in this great house, which they could hardly afford to repair, surrounded by these lands which were taxed in proportion to their extent, but which only yielded income in proportion to their real worth.

The squire was always anxious. He was buried in hopeless poverty, engaged in an endless struggle to keep up appearances.

His wife was always sad. Providence had given her but one real blessing――it was a son――and for this son, who had died in his youth, she had never ceased to grieve.

That is why her face was always pale and her eyes so hollow――that is why she lived but in a reverie, and so seldom spoke. Her thoughts were always in the past; she had nothing to care for in the present――nothing to hope for in the future.

They lived together, and yet so isolated; they seldom spoke to each other――they never quarrelled. Misfortune, which had at first made them cling closer to each other, had finished by making them gloomy, taciturn, almost misanthropical.

They had now learned to nurse their own sorrows in their own hearts, and never to give vent to their troubles by words.

Such misfortunes, however, as they had become inured to were now about to yield to another――poignant, appalling, dangerous.

There was a sound of bustling and voices in the kitchen which reached into the dining-room. The servant presented himself and informed his master that Mr. Todd, of the local police force, wished to speak to him.

The magistrate requested his domestic to show the officer in.

Mr. Kensett rose. His face, which had been before melancholy and abstracted, now became dignified and severe.

It was necessary to put on the mask of self-composure which he was obliged to wear before the world.

Mr. Todd entered and made a respectful obeisance.

“Beg your pardon, sir, and yours too, madam,” said he, in a conciliatory tone; “but if you please, sir, I’ve managed to capture the fellow who has been defrauding the bank by a false cheque.”

“Indeed, Mr. Todd; I am pleased to hear it,” exclaimed the magistrate. “Caught the rascal――have you?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Wrench sent a telegram from Scotland-yard, and directed us to watch for our man.”

“Quite right; very good of Mr. Wrench. He has done well. Where is the culprit?”

“I have him here, your worship.”

“Oh here――eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s better still. Bring him in; and you, my dear――――” observed the magistrate, glancing at his wife.

Mrs. Kensett obeyed his gesture, took the hint, and left the room.

The magistrate was astonished at the aristocratic and gentlemanly appearance of the young man who was conducted into his presence by the police officer.

“Is this the accused?” said he.

“Yes, your worship.”

“Under what circumstances was he arrested?” was the next query.

The officer explained all those particulars with which the reader is already acquainted.

“Have you searched him?”

“Yes sir.”

“With what result?”

“The four hundred pounds paid by the bank have been found upon him.”

“The cheque is a forged one――is it?”

“The signature is genuine, but the amount has been altered.”

“We shall want the drawer and the bank clerks to depose to this fact.”

“They will be forthcoming, your worship. I don’t think there is much mistake about the forgery.”

Mr. Kensett took a volume from his book-case, which he consulted as to the law in such cases.

“What have you to say to the grave charge preferred against you, young man?” said the magistrate, addressing himself to the prisoner.

“I deny it in toto,” said Sutherland, in an indignant tone. “It is utterly false. I have changed a cheque, it is true. That I do not for a moment dispute; but as to tampering with it I do not admit.”

“Well, if you are innocent, I hope and trust you will be able to prove such to be the case; but you will have to be detained.”

“Detain an innocent man! It’s most unjust!” ejaculated the prisoner.

“Of that I am the best judge,” quietly observed the magistrate. “If you had been innocent it is not at all likely you would have made such a desperate attempt to escape. However, I should be sorry to prejudge the case, and shall, therefore, forbear from making any further observations. Mr. Todd, you will have to bring this young man to the court by ten o’clock to-morrow morning, and be prepared with what evidence you can by that time. Enough must be procured to justify a remand, do you understand?”

“I quite understand your worship.”

“Am I to be locked up till that time, sir?” said Sutherland.

“Certainly, you must remain in custody till the morning.”

Sutherland approached the table, and taking a pen between the tips of his fingers, wrote two words upon a slip of paper.

When the magistrate read these two words he became frightfully pale.

“You see, sir,” said Sutherland, “this is information which would be of material value to the cause of justice. I must, however, decline to enter into the matter before witnesses, and――――”

“Clearly so,” interrupted the magistrate. “It would not be desirable for you to do so. I don’t desire it for a moment.”

“Then, sir, all I ask of you is to give me a private interview.”

“I am in duty bound to accede to your request. Mr. Todd, the prisoner has secrets of importance to communicate, and will you, therefore, be good enough to wait in one of the upstair rooms?”

“Certainly, your worship.”

The magistrate rang the bell. A servant appeared to answer to the summons, and Mr. Todd was conducted into another apartment in the magistrate’s house.

When alone with the prisoner Mr. Kensett turned the key of the dining-room, and looked inquiringly at Sutherland.

“Now, sir,” said he, “you have the opportunity of explaining yourself. You have written upon this paper your grandson. I do not know what you mean. I have no grandson, and if this is but a ruse, a trick on your part, I shall take very good care that you shall be severely punished.”

“It is no trick or ruse,” quietly observed Mr. Sutherland. “It is nothing of the sort.”

“Well, sir, I fancy you will find it difficult to impose upon me.”

“I have no desire to do so, Mr. Kensett. On the contrary, I wish to give you valuable information.”

“These are but idle words,” cried the magistrate, “a mere sound.”

“Permit me to relate to you a little story. I am sure it will not only surprise, but will interest you much. With your kind permission I will take a seat. Am I constrained to wear these handcuffs? They are by no means agreeable.”

“Let me hear what you have to say. As to the handcuffs that is a question which rests with the officer who has you in charge,” returned the magistrate.

“They are needless appendages, but we will not discuss the advisability of submitting me to this indignity――so let it pass. So if you are agreeable I will at once proceed with my narrative.”

“The incident which I am about to relate to you occurred seven-and-twenty years ago, come next September. On the night of the eleventh of that month a woman, with a baby in her arms, proceeded through the bye-road leading to Saltwich. She was in the depths of trouble, so I have been given to understand, and bore in her arms a newly-born infant.”

Mr. Sutherland paused, and placed his hand on his forehead as if to collect his thoughts.

The magistrate seemed to be almost stupefied with astonishment, but forbore from making any observation.

The prisoner proceeded――

“The woman’s name was Isabel Purvis; she is the heroine of my story.”

The magistrate uttered an exclamation of surprise and horror.

“Doubtless the name may be familiar to you, sir,” said his companion. “Well, as I have already observed, she went by the name of Isabel Purvis, but her real name was Kensett.”

“It is false,” cried the magistrate, “utterly false. She had no legal right to the name of Kensett.”

“I don’t wish to contradict a gentleman in your position,” returned Sutherland, “but I think you will find what I have just said is true in substance, and, in fact, her real name was Kensett.”

“I am lost!” cried the magistrate.

“Lost in wonder, doubtless, but not yet lost, I trust, in the extensive sense usually applied to that word. But this is digression. To continue: It was a cheerless night, the wind was beginning to rise, and moaned among the trees of the forest by which your house is so gracefully encircled, the rain dashed in torrents against the windows as if the very elements――but you can imagine the rest.”

“I can do nothing of the sort, sir. I don’t know to what you would allude.”

“Well, Mr. Kensett, I assure you that I have every reason for believing that what I am about to tell you is correct in every particular. The woman placed her child on the doorstep of a house, and then fled precipitately; but she did not escape――she was arrested by the village constable upon the charge of attempting to murder her offspring. You were, on that night, seated in this room, as you are now――on one hand a book of the law to assist your memory――on the other hand a Bible――before you a felon. You were alone with this criminal, as you are alone with me now, and you were in the power of this criminal, as you are now in mine.”

“In your power?”

“Most completely. But to my story. This woman, who was charged with abandoning her offspring, was not so bad as people were led to suppose. The father of her child was your own son――was Mr. Robert Everhard Kensett――he went to sea, and the ship he set sail in foundered, and all hands on board were lost.”

The magistrate uttered a groan.

“He was not only the father of the child but the husband of its mother.”

“I never can――I never will believe it,” cried Mr. Kensett, in an agonised tone of voice. “It is not possible.”

“It is not only possible but an actual fact. You might have read the Roman history, sir. It is possible that you might have heard of Brutus, the first consul. However, it is very certain you did not attempt to imitate him. You aided your daughter-in-law to escape from this house, gave her some money and exacted a solemn oath from her that she would never trouble you again. That is true――is it not?”

“I will not deny it. It is true.”

“Then it appears to me that you are in my power.”

The magistrate tried to collect his bewildered thoughts.

“On that night,” said he, “there was a legal paper in the possession of the prisoner. I was, therefore, in her power, but were you to state these circumstances in court you would not be believed.”

Sutherland smiled.

“I will not give you the second chapter of my story. You evince but little curiosity, and are perhaps not anxious to have it completed, but remember the words which I have written down, and to which I have not yet given you the clue.”

“I will hear you to the end,” said Kensett; “but wait awhile, Mr. Todd will wonder what has so detained me.”

He went to the door and called the officer by name. Mr. Todd came down from the upstairs room.

“Ah, Todd,” cried the magistrate, “it appears that this young man will detain me much longer than I had at first expected. You had better have something to eat and drink. The servants will bring you what we have in the house,”.

“Thank you, sir. It will be very acceptable.”

“Good. Then make yourself at home. When this young fellow has finished his――ahem――confession, I will call you.”

“All right, your worship, I am in no hurry.”

Mr. Kensett shut the door and again turned the key.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CXXXVII. MR. SUTHERLAND IS TRIUMPHANT――THE AMICABLE ARRANGEMENT

“Now, sir, you can proceed, if you please,” said the magistrate, sternly. “I have consented to hear what you have to say in this matter, but it does not necessarily follow that I place any reliance upon this specious tale of yours.”

“Oh, dear me, no. Certainly not. You will, of course, take it for what it is worth. I am not the first man by a good many who has had the misfortune to be looked upon with doubt and mistrust.”

“You will be pleased to confine yourself to the facts, and not indulge in extraneous or impertinent observations,” cried the magistrate.

His companion bowed and said quietly――

“The facts are in themselves significant enough.”

“Are they?”

“Yes, I hope so. Let me see, where did I leave off? Oh, I know, at that part of the narrative where you parted with this unfortunate woman. Well, Mr. Kensett, she went her ways. She kept her promise; for from that day to the present moment you have not seen or heard anything of her. Is that so?”

“Yes, that is so.”

The magistrate began to feel a vague fear, and shuddered in spite of himself.

Mr. Sutherland continued――

“The child was taken to the union, where it remained for some three or four years; then it was taken charge of by Mr. Searle, your wife’s brother. I believe he elected to be its natural protector, and placed it in charge of an old woman, whose name I do not at the present moment remember, but she was, so I have been told, a most worthy person, and did her duty, was mindful of her young charge. Any way the youngster thrived, and when old enough Mr. Searle apprenticed him to the late Mr. Jamblin, owner and occupier of Stoke Ferry Farm. The farmer had instructions to bring the lad up us an agriculturist. He obeyed the instructions given him by Mr. Searle. By injudicious punishments and injudicious pardons he taught this boy, whose father was dead, whose mother was a fugitive, and whose grandparents dared not acknowledge him, to be mischievous, discontented, and deceitful. Finally, he ran away from his foster father, and a reward was offered for his apprehension, but all efforts to regain this treasure proved ineffectual, and his relatives resigned themselves with Christian resignation to his loss.”

Mr. Kensett was perfectly bewildered. He stretched his hand out mechanically towards the bell.

Sutherland only smiled sardonically.

“On reaching London,” said he, “after leaving Stoke Ferry Farm, the boy sold birds’ nests in the street, till he was adopted by a fence or receiver of stolen goods, who instructed him in the way of cheating, in which he soon became a proficient. He then passed into the hands of one of the most notorious thieves in the metropolis.”

“Gracious Heaven!” exclaimed the magistrate, with a deep-drawn sigh. “Can this be possible?”

Sutherland took no notice of this last observation, but went on.

“In a twelvemonth,” he observed, “like Raphael and other great artists the boy had surpassed not only the expectations, but also the chefs d’œuvre of his master. At nineteen he became notorious――at twenty-one he became celebrated. Now he is a Claude Duval in politeness, a Lovelace in intrigue, a Richard Turpin on the highway, and will perhaps prove a Jack Sheppard among the prison locks.”

Mr. Kensett began to have a dim perception of the terrible secret in store for him.

“This man,” continued Sutherland, “this glorious hero to whom the London detectives, if they knew heathen mythology, would attribute the ring of Gyges, which rendered its possessor invisible, is myself, I, Alfred Purvis, alias Sutherland, alias Fortescue, who have the honour of standing before you now.”

There was a pause. The magistrate was deeply moved.

Presently he said, in a tone of anguish――

“Do you mean to say, young man, that you are Alfred Purvis, who ran away from Stoke Ferry Farm?”

“Most certainly I am,” answered the prisoner.

“It appears to me to be altogether incredible.”

“That is likely enough, sir, but it is a fact. You see, sir,” he said, calmly, “how intricate and mysterious are the ways of Providence. By a miracle I was saved from death in my infancy, and why? Most probably you have committed some crime, which has never been discovered. It is I who have been selected as an instrument of retribution. I own I would have preferred that I had been some one else, but――――”

“Silence, sir, this insolence is altogether intolerable! Me commit a crime! Are you mad to make such an assertion?”

“Pardon me,” said Sutherland. “I did not make the assertion. I only threw it out as a suggestion, as a possibility, but no doubt the hypothesis is incorrect. It does not, however, in any way alter the leading facts connected with the history of your humble servant. You will find it difficult to set aside the relationship which exists between us.”

Mr. Kensett rose from his seat, and paced the room with rapid strides.

“It is enough,” he presently said. “There is no further need for threats or taunts if what you have been saying is true.”

“It is true――every word of it.”

“Well, if such be the case, you are the son of my son――you have my blood in your veins――you are a felon.”

“That has yet to be proved.”

“I hope it never will be, for both our sakes.”

“I hope not.”

“Ah, but this is indeed terrible; I know not how to act.”

“Let me go!”

“I cannot do that. Do you think you will be able to prove your innocence when the magisterial inquiry takes place?”

“You ask me a plain question?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And require a plain answer?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, then, Mr. Kensett, I don’t think I shall be able to prove my innocence, and therefore it is advisable that you aid me to escape.”

“I will save you if possible,” said the magistate, in a low voice. “But how is it to be effected? That’s the question.”

“How!” cried Sutherland. “It is easy enough, I fancy.”

“Not without compromising myself; I am quite powerless in this case, and yet――――”

“You have no wish to see your grandson cast into a cell?”

The magistrate shuddered.

“Suppose you let me overpower you――tie you to a chair, and then get clear off.”

“Impossible!”

“Ah, it’s possible enough if you will only oblige me by taking off these handcuffs.”

“I dare not do it. No, we will devise some better scheme.”

“I am at your mercy――it is not for me to dictate. I leave the affair in your hands.”

Mr. Kensett considered for some little time and then said――

“I do not approve of your scheme――it is not practicable; but I shall save you, Alfred Purvis――save you for my poor dear boy’s sake. Listen――you will have to submit to a short term of imprisonment――you must be locked up for the night. In the morning you will be brought before the police-court, and evidence will be offered to justify me in remanding the case――this I shall do.”

“And what then?”

“Apply for bail, which I will grant. If the case does not assume a very serious aspect, possibly I may feel justified in letting you out on your own recogniances. The rest is an easy matter. Go abroad; get out of the way till the offence is blown over. You can do this, I suppose.”

“I shall not trouble myself to come up for a second hearing――you may depend upon that,” said Sutherland, with a mocking laugh.

“And if I do this you will promise to lead a new life, and strive as best you can to make atonement for your past errors. Will you promise?”

“Oh! certainly. I pass my word――that is sufficient,” replied the prisoner carelessly.

“You are not sincere, and do not mean what you say.”

“I declare most positively I do, sir,” was the prompt reply.

“I wish I could believe you. Oh! but this is a terrible trial to me. Even now I find it difficult to believe you are the boy who, years ago, worked at Stoke Ferry Farm.”

I will give you proofs, sir――incontrovertible proofs, if you need them, before many days are over our heads.”

“Peace! silence! Let it pass on. I believe your story, and so that’s enough. I see the likeness to my dead son when I gaze on your features. Yes, I believe all you have said. I took no notice of you when a child; now I would risk anything to save you from ignominy and disgrace. Leave it to me.”

The magistrate went to the door, and called out in a loud tone for Mr. Todd, who at once made his appearance in answer to the summons.

“The prisoner is persistent in his declaration of innocence, Mr. Todd,” said the magistrate, in his habitual official tone of voice.

“Is he, sir?” said the officer. “We know what that is worth.”

“Yes――oh, dear, yes――of course, Todd. Still, I do hope the young man, who is evidently well educated, may not be so bad as we think. However, you must take charge of him, and bring what witnesses you have to the court to-morrow morning. By the way, there is, I think, hardly any necessity now for the handcuffs. They can be removed.”

“Ah, certainly, your worship, if you wish it.”

Mr. Todd, with marvellous dexterity, removed the objectionable ruffles from the wrists of Mr. Sutherland, who was deeply sensible of this little favour. He was then marched off to gaol.

When he and his captor had gone, the magistrate fell into a chair, covered his face with his hands and sobbed like a child.

He had hardly recovered himself from his first paroxysm of grief when the voice of Ashbrook was heard in the outer hall, inquiring of the servant for Mr. Kensett.

The magistrate pulled himself together as best he could, and assumed an air of official sternness.

“Oh, your sarvint, sir,” cried Ashbrook, entering the parlour. “I be a little late――leastways later than I had intended. Beg pardon, squire, but I hope I aint intruding.”

“Not at all, my friend, so pray be seated,” exclaimed Kensett. “I am glad to see you.”

“Thanks. I ought to ha’ been a little earlier, but it can’t be helped, I’ve been detained. I wanted to say summut about Mr. Todd. He’s done his duty, and I am glad I coom up just in time to render him timely service. However, what I wanted to make known to your worship is this, Mr. Todd did his duty and fought like a brick.”

“Ah, I have no doubt. Todd is a most efficient officer.”

“He brought in the prisoner, I s’pose,” said Ashbrook.

“Yes, the young rascal is locked up, and will be brought before me to-morrow morning for examination.”

“Ah, just so. Well, Mr. Kensett, I know summat of the varmint; he be a bad lot.”

“You know him, Ashbrook――do you?”

“Yes, sir; he passed himself off as a gentleman, and was my guest at Stoke Ferry Farm for some time.”

“Indeed, and does your wife know him?”

“My wife!” exclaimed the farmer, wiping his forehead with his bandanna. “Well, sir, she does know him――knows him to be a deceptive, circumwenting, young scoundrel.”

“I am glad you have called upon me,” observed the magistrate, “because I desire to know as much as possible about the prisoner. As far as I can see at present the charge is not substantiated, but it is not possible to say what evidence is forthcoming.”

“He is a bad lot anyway,” returned the farmer.

“Appearances are against him, I admit.”

“Appearances be hanged! I tell ee that he’s a wretched impostor.”

“May be so, Ashbrook. Possibly he is so.”

“There is no possibility in the matter――he is. I tell ee, Mr. Kensett, that he is a false, deceitful fellow. I shouldn’t say this unless I had good reason for it. He’s a varmint.”

The magistrate smiled.

The farmer was so energetic and impressive that it would have been difficult for any one to have refrained from smiling.

“You are right enough, I dare say,” observed the magistrate, “but assertions are one thing and evidence is another. If this young man is guilty we shall know how to deal with him.”

“Oh, mek no doubt o’ that, not a morsel o’ doubt. It aint loikely that he will be able to throw dust in the eyes of an experienced and far-seeing gentleman loike yourself. I will be at the court to-morrow morning, and just tell what I know about him.”

“I don’t know that there will be any occasion for that, Ashbrook,” observed the magistrate.

“Oh, but it ’ud be just as well, your worship. I know summat about the young vagabond, and I be willing enough to do my best to send him to quod.”

“Just so; you are actuated by the best motives without doubt, but at the same time we have to consider many things before rashly entering into matters which are after all but pendents on the main issue.”

“I do not quite understand you,” said the farmer.

“Possibly not; but we will consider this over. Take a glass of wine, Mr. Ashbrook; we do not often meet,” said the magistrate, passing the decanter to his agricultural companion.

“Certainly, sir. Here’s your very good health, and I may say I am happy and proud to see you,” cried Ashbrook, raising the glass to his lips.

“The feeling is reciprocal, I am sure,” returned the magistrate. “Your very good health, Mr. Ashbrook. By the way, you observed just now that you knew the prisoner. Will you be kind enough to tell me under what circumstances you made his acquaintance?”

“Sartinly,” said the farmer, “I med his acquaintance by the merest chance.”

He then proceeded to give his companion a succinct account of all those events which the reader is already acquainted with――the meeting of the young man at the “Old Carved Lion,” his taking him to his own house, and the base ingratitude of his guest.

The magistrate was surprised at the narrative, as he well might be. It was a history he was quite unprepared for.

“So you will see, sir,” observed the farmer, when he brought his narrative to a conclusion, “that it aint at all likely I bear him any good will; on the contrary I should loike te see him behind the bars of one of her Majesty’s prisons.”

“Of course, that is but natural, since he served you so badly.”

“An audacious, impudent, lying, circumwenting, young jackanapes,” exclaimed the farmer. “A wretched impostor, who passed himself off as a gentleman, and sent a challenge to me by a sham captain, who was no better than himself.”

“It was a piece of impertinence, I admit.”

“That beant the proper term; it was oudacious, beyond all bounds.”

“It was so.”

“I lose all patience when I think on it.”

“No doubt. That is in no way surprising.”

“I tell ee, Mr. Kensett, that he’s a viper――a serpent as would ha’ destroyed my happiness and peace of mind for ever had I ha’ given un the chance.”

“His conduct was bad in every way.”

“It was infamous. But I’ll be at the court in the morning, never fear.”

“I do not think there will be any occasion for you to attend.”

“You think not?”

“Hardly so.”

“But I caught the fellow and handed him over to Todd.”

“Certainly so. He informed me had it not been for you, Ashbrook, the officer would have been very badly used indeed.”

“I’m sure on it, sir; this young feller’s accomplice was a desperate ruffian――there aint no mistake about that. My belief is he would not care about committing murder.”

“I dare say not. Todd said he was a desperate ruffian.”

[Sidenote: No. 73.]

“He was all that, sir.”

“The case is a most remarkable one――remarkable and singular in many ways; but I think we shall not need your evidence upon the first examination.”

“Not need it!” cried Ashbrook, in a tone of surprise.

“Well, no, I fancy not. It will be my duty to remand the prisoner, and you can give your evidence at the second examination.”

“Why not to-morrow? I took an active part in the scrimmage,” observed Ashbrook.

“No doubt about that, but we shall have enough to do to hear the evidence connected with the charge.”

“As you please, sir――you ought to know best; but I should have thought my evidence would have been needed.”

“Most certainly it will. The timely assistance you have rendered redounds greatly to your credit, Ashbrook. Everybody will acknowledge that, but there are other considerations. The prisoner has made me acquainted with other facts which have greatly astonished me. Indeed, I may say, have caused, me much anxiety. It would surprise you, I dare say, to learn who he is.”

“I know who he is, Mr. Kensett, a circumwenting, worthless young scoundrel――I know perfectly well who and what he is, sir. Don’t ee make any mistake about that.”

“You know something of his history, but not all.”

“Not all――eh? Well I ’spose not, but I know enough.”

“I say not all advisedly, Ashbrook. You must not repeat what I am about to tell you.”

“Anything told in confidence I am not likely to repeat.”

“Very well. Perhaps you have heard of a lad who was many years ago placed in the care of the late Mr. Jamblin, your father-in-law?”

“Well, what o’ that? Old Jamblin was as good a fellow as ever stepped into shoe leather, or crossed a furrowed field.”

“Nobody will attempt to gainsay that. He was a most worthy man――but to my story. This young man who is charged with fraud――this fellow who calls himself Sutherland now, and also passed as a Mr. Fortescue when he was a guest at your house, is the farmer’s boy who, years and years ago, ran away from Stoke Ferry.”

“Run away!” cried Ashbrook, in a state of bewilderment. “Look ’ee here, Muster Kensett, I dunno as I rightly understood ee.”

“You will do so after a while. You know, I suppose, that the late Mr. Jamblin had placed under his care a lad who was said to be an orphan? The youngster’s name was Alfred Purvis, and from what I can gather he was a sore trouble to your father-in-law.”

“Well, I have heard so,” ejaculated Ashbrook. “I do remember a lad of that name being at the farm, but he ran away years ago, and has never been heard of since.”

“That’s right enough, Ashbrook; all traces of the scapegrace were lost. But, nevertheless, I have good reason for saying that the young man who was arrested to-day is none other than he.”

“What! Alf Purvis? Oh, that be impossible. I wunno b’lieve it.”

“I wish I could not believe, but that I find impossible.”

“Never, Mr. Kensett――it beant loikely.”

“It is so, Ashbrook. I am afraid it is true.”

“Well, I am knocked silly if that be the case. Why, he aint a mo’sel loike the boy.”

“He is altered in every way――that I admit; but he is Purvis, I tell you, nevertheless.”

The farmer’s breath seemed to be taken away at this announcement.

“You be mistaken, I’m thinkin’,” said he.

“No, I am not――I am correct in my surmise.”

“Well, ye ought to know a deal better than what I do, seeing as how you have had so much experience; but I’m floored, and that’s the honest truth, and completely by the heels! Can it be possible that this young man, who was a guest at my house and was so friendly and intimate with Patty, can be the boy who years and years ago was driven from Stoke Ferry by old Mr. Jamblin, with a hare tied round his neck? It appears to be perfectly incredible.”

“It is a fact, Ashbrook; at least, such is my impression.”

“Well, I be wonder-struck――that’s all I ha’ to say ’bout it, and as to Patty, she’d be regularly done over when she hears this piece of news.”

“There won’t be any occasion for you to make her acquainted with it,” quietly observed the magistrate.

“I dunno so much about that――ye see, Mr. Kensett, I ha’ no secrets from my wife, and I don’t b’lieve she has any secrets as she keeps from me. I’d better tell her all about this business, for she’s sartin to hear on it sooner or later.”

“You are the best judge as to that, Ashbrook. Tell her if you think it advisable to do so.”

“Oh, aye, I’ll tell her,” returned the farmer; “but you see, Mr. Kensett, after what you’ve bin a sayin’, I dunno as how I shall go to the court to-morrow. The lad was a bit hardly dealt by when at Stoke Ferry――so I’ve bin given to understand, and maybe it ’ud be just as well for me to keep away, and not mix myself up in the business any more than I can help. I’ll consult Patty. She’s got a lot more common sense than falls to the share o’ most wimmen. I’ll ask her what she thinks about it.”

“Certainly, it would be your best course, and act in accordance with her wishes.”

“Aye, may be it would. Well, I never! It’s altogether a most extraordinary affair――most extraordinary.”

“Not more extraordinary than true, Ashbrook.”

“No, sir, I aint a sayin’ as it be; but it gets over me, and no mistake.”

After some further conversation, the worthy agriculturist bade the magistrate good-bye, and took his departure.

Alf Purvis, whose rather chequered career we have already sketched up to the period of his arrest, was about as unprincipled a young scoundrel as it is well possible to conceive. The earlier years of his life were in a measure enshrouded in mystery. He was supposed to be the illegitimate offspring of some gentleman, but this was only surmise. When an infant he had been left on the doorstep of a house in the immediate neighbourhood of Saltwich. He was picked up by a farmer’s man and taken to the workhouse. His mother, who had abandoned him, was tracked by a village constable, arrested, and brought before Mr. Kensett.

She told her tale to him, said that the father of the child was his (Mr. Kensett’s) son, who had gone to sea. The magistrate, who had every reason for believing that the story the woman told was a true one, connived at her escape, extracting from her before she left his presence a promise that she would never trouble him again. He gave her a sum of money and heard no more of her, had never seen her from that time up to the present hour. Such are the leading particulars connected with the life and parentage of the accomplished London thief.

When the hour arrived for the prisoner’s examination Mr. Sutherland was brought into court by Todd, the detective. His genteel appearance, good looks, and winning manners made him more an object of pity than execration. The women who were present in the court were unanimous in their opinion that he was an innocent person, or, if not quite innocent that he had been the dupe of more designing persons, for it was not possible to believe that so genteel and well-conducted a young fellow could be a callous offender against the laws of his country.

Mr. Todd and the other members of the police force were, however, of a different opinion. The London detective gave him a bad character, not that he had ever been in trouble before, but he was said to have been a suspected person for a considerable period while residing in the metropolis. It is needless to observe that they were not very far out in their reckoning.

Mr. Todd when put in the box gave a full detail of the prisoner’s capture, and the attempted rescue of him by the Cracksman, who was a well-known thief. These circumstances were made manifest enough, and could not by any possibility be contravened. The fact of his having in his possession the full amount he had received for the cheque cashed at the Saltwich bank was also deposed to, and the bank clerk was also in attendance who declared that the cheque had been altered.

This, however, could not be proved positively without the attendance of the drawer of the cheque, and he, it appeared, was at this time in Paris, and the gentleman engaged for the prosecution thereupon asked for a remand.

At the advice of Mr. Kensett the prisoner was represented by a badgering lawyer, who availed himself of every quibble to set aside the evidence offered for the prosecution.

He had not much difficulty in turning the tide in favour of his client, for, to speak the truth, the case for the prosecution was a regular bungle, and Mr. Sharpthorne, Sutherland’s legal adviser, damaged it materially.

“I respectfully submit, sir,” said Sharpthorne, looking triumphantly round the court and addressing himself to the magistrate, “that there is in reality no kind of proof offered on behalf of the prosecution that this young man has committed any fraud whatever. A cheque has been presented by him and paid by one of the cashiers of the Saltwich Bank. I am instructed by my client to inform the court that he received the cheque in the ordinary course of business――that he was, in point of fact, a perfectly honest holder of the cheque in question, and he presented it in the full faith of its genuineness. I must say I think the bankers have acted in a most indiscreet and, I may observe, a very harsh way, towards a respectable and honestly-disposed young man.”

“Respectable and honest――eh?” sneeringly observed the attorney for the prosecution.

“Certainly,” replied Sharpthorne, thumping the table before him. “I say advisedly and emphatically, both respectable and honest. The inference is a rational and reasonable one. Every man is honest until he is found guilty.”

“The prisoner made a determined attempt to escape. You seem to forget that,” observed Mr. Kensett, addressing: himself to the blatant lawyer.

“Well, sir,” observed the latter, “I should be very sorry――indeed, it would be imprudent for me to contradict you; but permit me to observe that even this has not been clearly established. It is true a ruffian attacked Mr. Todd and endeavoured to overpower him――indeed, he partially succeeded in doing so; but it does not necessarily follow that this was done at the instigation of the prisoner. It is just possible the man in question was a perfect stranger to my client. I believe he was.”

“Ah, Sharpthorne, that is going too far,” observed the opposing solicitor.

“You may think so, if you please; but I do not think I am exceeding my duty in making such a suggestion. But it is hardly worth while discussing that question; even assuming such were the case, it does not prove anything after all. It does not incriminate this young man, against whom there is positively no proof of fraud or dishonesty.”

“The circumstances surrounding the case are suspicious,” quietly observed the magistrate. “If proofs are wanting now, possibly they may be brought forward in the due course of time.”

“But is this young man to be degraded in the eyes of the world by lying under the stigma of dishonesty merely because a country banker chooses to assume a position which is not supported by evidence? It is a most trumpery charge.”

“I object to the word trumpery!” exclaimed the lawyer on the other side.

“You may object as much as you please. Substitute contemptible in place of it if that pleases you better,” returned Sharpthorne.

This last observation evoked a peal of laughter from those in the body of the court.

“Order! silence!” cried the usher.

“If there is any more of this unseemly merriment,” said the magistrate, “I will commit those persons who indulge in it.”

This had the desired effect――the audience abstained from any further laughter.

“I have to express my regret that an unguarded expression made by myself should have given rise to this breach of etiquette,” said Sharpthorne.

“Let the subject drop, I pray,” observed Mr. Kensett.

“By all means, sir. I am, I hope, the last man to court a legal wrangle. We have to deal with the evidence, and I submit that this is of a nature that, regarding it from a legal point of view, does not in any way bear against the prisoner, who, I maintain, is entitled to be discharged.”

“I should not be justified in dismissing the case after the evidence offered,” said Mr. Kensett.

“Evidence, sir,” cried Sharpthorne, “there is positively none.”

“I am not accustomed to allow gentlemen to direct me in the course I am to pursue,” observed the magistrate. “I admit the evidence is very weak at present, but there is no telling what may be forthcoming, provided the legal advisers for the prosecution have time afforded them for that purpose; and at the same time, Mr. Sharpthorne, I should be sorry indeed to prejudice the case, or to press badly on the prisoner who to all appearances is a quiet gentlemanly young man. Still at the same time I have a duty to perform. If the prisoner is innocent I hope and trust it will be proved on the next examination. Certainly, as far as I can see at present, there is not a great deal against him. Certainly not enough to send the case for a jury to decide. I think, therefore, under all the circumstances, I should be justified in remanding the case to this day week, and in the meantime I will let the prisoner out upon his own recognisances.”

“I hope you will require him to find good and substantial bail, sir,” said the solicitor for the prosecution.

The magistrate hesitated, whereupon Mr. Sharpthorne came to the rescue.

“The young man knows nobody in this neighbourhood, and it would be unjust to acceed to Hashby’s suggestion. I therefore beg of you to bind him over in his own recognisances.”

“Yes, that, I think, will be all that the exigency of the case requires, said Kensett.” The case is adjourned to this day week, and in the meantime our friend Hashby will have ample time afforded him to obtain whatever evidence he can to complete his case.”

“His own recognisances!” murmured the bank clerk. “What does that mean?”

“Why, it means that his worship don’t think much of the evidence offered to-day,” whispered Sharpthorne. “And to say the truth, it would be strange if he did.”

“We are going to fight it, Sharpthorne; and we are, I hope, going to pot our man,” said Hashby.

“Are you?”

“Well, yes, I think so.”

“We shall see, my friend. Better luck next time, as the butcher said when the rope broke with which he had attempted to hang himself. You haven’t scored much to-day.”

“That I admit, but it isn’t my fault. Was only instructed half an hour before entering the court.”

“Oh, by the way, Mr. Hashby,” observed the magistrate, “you had better leave the cheque in my hands, and I shall then have time to make a careful examination of the same.”

The cheque was handed to the magistrate, who looked at it for some little time.

“I must confess, as far as I can see at present, it seems to be genuine enough. Do you happen to know whether this is the drawer’s signature or not?”

“The bank clerks do not appear to have any doubt about that,” said Hashby. “But the writing in the body of the cheque and the figures have been altered.”

“How could that have been done?”

“Well, sir, it has been done on more than one occasion, for the purposes of fraud, and it is managed in this way: The original writing is taken out by chemicals, then the manipulator imitates the handwriting of the drawer, and places a much larger amount in than the cheque was originally drawn for.”

“It is a very extraordinary proceeding. I do not remember, in the whole course of my experience, meeting with a similar case.”

“I deny most positively that the cheque has been tampered with. If it has, it has not been done with my knowledge,” exclaimed the prisoner. “The charge is a false and malicious one.”

“That is my opinion,” cried Sharpthorne, “and if this be the case the matter will not rest here. The bank directors have laid themselves open to an action for damages and false imprisonment. I say, again, it is not at all likely the matter will be allowed to be hushed up.”

“Hushed up, Mr. Sharpthone! What can you be thinking of to make so unjust an observation?” cried the bank clerk. “Do you suppose that we have any vindictive feeling towards this young man?”

“I purposely avoid replying to your query,” returned the lawyer. “I have my own opinion of the matter, which, for cogent reasons, I choose to keep to myself.”

“But you have cast a slur upon the bank directors, and I say it is not just or proper for you to do so. We have good reasons for acting in the way we have.”

“Oh, I dare say,” sneeringly observed Sharpthorne. “No doubt you think yourself on the safe side.”

“Let there be no squabbling,” said the magistrate, interposing. “The bank think themselves justified in the course they have adopted, and it is but fair to assume that they have good reasons for their line of action. It is not at all likely that a respectable and old-established firm would be rash or indiscreet enough to institute these proceedings without due consideration.”

“I should hope not,” returned Sharpthorne; “but at the same time, sir, we must all admit that people are sometimes mistaken, and I think it will be found that such is the case in this injudicious and uncalled-for prosecution.”

“I really do not see that you are mending matters by casting aspersions upon a respectable body of gentlemen, who, from the position they hold in the commercial world, are incapable of acting in an improper or harsh manner.”

“I have done, sir. We’ll say no more about the matter at present,” observed Sharpthorne, with a shrug, as he gathered up his papers and transferred the same into his official blue bag.

The prisoner was bound over in his own recognisances to appear that day week, and there was an end of the case as far as the first hearing was concerned.

Mr. Sutherland had had a narrow escape. He was by far too cunning and dexterous a thief to present himself on the following week.

He contrived to become possessed of sufficient funds to take a trip, and repaired to the Continent, where he proposed remaining till the little affair of the Saltwich bank forgery had blown over.

The bankers were very indignant when they found the bird had flown, and Mr. Todd was, of course, greatly mortified at the issue, but there was no help for it. The police had instructions to make every effort to trace the fugitive, but as too frequently happens in such cases their efforts proved ineffectual, and in the course of time the affair was forgotten, and “the storm in a teapot,” as Mr. Sharpthorne designated it, subsided.

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CXXXVIII. THE FASHIONABLE GATHERING AT LADY MARVLYNN’S

Aveline Gatliffe, now Lady Batershall, wife of Sir Eric Batershall, Bart., had long since forgotten that such a person as Tom Gatliffe had existence.

In her new sphere of action, and the two ties in the shape of a boy and a girl by her husband, the baronet, she had little time to think of her earlier career, which appeared to have been blotted out of her recollection.

She loved to be a reigning beauty in the fashionable world, and although time had in some measure robbed her of the freshness of youth, she was still a beautiful and loveable woman, whose society was courted.

She had at times misgivings in respect to her son Reginald, who did not give her much of his society.

There were reasons for this. In the first place, the young earl did not care a great deal about his father-in-law, who, albeit, a good, honest, bluff, English gentleman, was a little brusque in his manner towards his son-in-law.

This was not intentional, but resulted from a habit of plain speaking which he had acquired down in his ancestral home in the west of England.

To Aveline he was uniformly kind and considerate. Indeed, with him her word was law. He knew she had been indulged by her grandfather.

“Spoilt,” he would sometimes say, “if it were possible to spoil such a gentle, tender-hearted creature. But there,” the baronet would say, “he did his best to spoil her, but she was too much for him, and he couldn’t succeed. Hang me, if I think any man alive could spoil my Aveline. No man breathing, sir,” and when he gave utterance to this speech the baronet would glare around at the persons he was addressing, and looked as if they had done him some sort of an injury; and so it was pretty generally acknowledged that Lady Batershall was a star in the fashionable firmament.

She did not lose sight of her old friend and instructress, Lady Marvlynn, whom she regarded in the light of her nearest and dearest associate.

The latter had always on hand one or two protégees whom she was preparing to “bring out,” as she termed it. It was not possible for her ladyship to remain long idle, some sort of employment was a necessity to her.

She had at this time a young lady under her charge, a Miss Arabella Lovejoyce.

She had become greatly attached to this young girl, who was possessed of a more than ordinary amount of beauty, and could also boast of many accomplishments. She was a “blonde,” whom some wicked persons who take a delight in detracting called insipid.

She was, however, by no means deficient in sense.

Miss Lovejoyce had been for some months on the Continent, in charge of a severe vinegar-visaged old maiden aunt, and upon her return to this country Lady Marvlynn gave a grand party in honour of her arrival.

Of course a number of notabilities were invited.

The army and navy were both represented on this occasion, likewise the Church. People of almost every denomination were included in the list of invitations, and amongst them were the Lady Aveline and her husband.

The preparations were on a grand scale.

Lady Marvlynn resided at Upper Charlton. The locality was not altogether so fashionable a quarter as she could have wished, but her house, which stood in its own grounds, was most elegantly furnished. It was a model bijou residence, and contained a suite of reception rooms sufficiently commodious to admit of a tolerably extensive gathering. Besides all this, her ladyship was the very best of hostesses, and strove on these occasions, as indeed she did at all times, to make those around her as much at home and as happy as possible.

Lady Marvlynn was not only appreciated by hosts of persons, but was generally esteemed by all who came within her influence.

It is true she was not what one might say positively rich, and hence it was perhaps that these gatherings were few and far between, but when she did give a party it was done in a proper manner, and it was the fault of those present if they did not enjoy themselves.

When Aveline and her husband presented themselves they found the house full of people.

Many of those present were known to the baronet and his wife, but there were some who were strangers to them.

Introductions as usual took place――the requisite bowing and courtesies followed.

On the lawn were one or two croquet parties, and seated around were groups of persons, who did not play themselves, but elected to be passive spectators.

These had before them iced drinks of every possible description. Aveline took a stroll in the grounds with her friend Lady Marvlynn, who was as lively and loquacious as usual. An opportunity was thus afforded of taking stock of the guests.

“There are many here to day,” said Aveline, “who are to me strangers.”

“Oh, yes, of course, my dear. That is but natural, you know, but I am sure you’ll like them; at least, I hope so. You see that elderly gentleman sitting next to the lady in pink?”

“Yes. I don’t know him――do I?”

“I think not. He is a most wonderful man, has been in every part of the world.”

“He’s in the army I should imagine.”

“Yes.”

“And his name?”

“Is Major Smithers Smythe. Got no end of medals. Was wounded at Agra in the Sepoy rebellion. Oh, he has a whole fund of anecdote, and tells such amusing stories. I’ll trot him out, dear, before the day is over. You’ll be quite charmed with him.”

“Oh, I dare say, and the other gentleman further on――”

“In a black coat and a white tie?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the Rev. Mr. Downbent. He’s taken three degrees at Oxford, and is a most eloquent preacher. Oh, you’ll like him, I am sure. The slender gentleman on the other side of the grass plot is Sir William Leathbridge, he is conversing with Lord Chetwynd――a very old family the Chetwynds――came in with the Conqueror. His lordship is a quiet, thoughtful man, who, as a rule, does not say much, but he thinks a good deal more, and, entrez nous, he is reputed to be a little gay. Keeps an opera dancer so I’ve been told, a beautiful Spanish woman, I believe; but one never knows what to believe nowadays――it may be all scandal. All I know is, that he is very charming, and as to a ‘gentleman’s private amours, that’s no business of yours, my dear,’ as poor dear Sir Eric used to say when such topics were broached.”

“Who is the one playing now?” inquired Aveline, glancing towards the party in question.

“That’s Captain Crasher. Oh, he’s another of the right sort; will sit and tell you stories till the small hours of the morning――that is, if you are disposed to listen to him.”

“And the gentleman with the long hair and dark moustache?”

“What――the one talking to Arabella?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, dear me――don’t you know him? That’s Signor Marowski, the celebrated basso profondo. You’ll have an opportunity of judging of his ability, for he is set down in the programme for two of his favourite scenas.”

“Ah――you are going to have some music, then?”

“Dear me――yes. A little bit of a concert, you know. And about an hour, or perhaps more, I think you’ll find we’ve got several crack singers and instrumentalists. We are all lovers of music.”

At this point of the conversation a lady met the two speakers in the side walk.

She was dressed in the height of fashion, and evidently strove to assume a juvenile appearance; but she was not young――neither was she stout; scraggy would, perhaps, be the better term.”

“Oh, glad to have met you,” said Lady Marvlynn, “as it affords me an opportunity of introducing you to my friend, Miss Fagg――Lady Aveline Batershall.”

“I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting you before,” said the faded spinster, for such she was, “but have often heard your name mentioned by my friend, Lady Marvlynn.”

“Oh, I dare say,” returned Aveline; “her ladyship is one of my oldest friends.”

“Yes, so I have been given to understand. Most delighted to make your acquaintance.”

Lady Aveline bowed somewhat stiffly.

“I am much pleased,” said she.

The conversation was continued, but there was no further discourse as to the persons present, and Aveline would have been greatly relieved by Miss Fagg taking herself off.

This, however, she did not seem disposed to do, for she continued to walk by the side of Lady Aveline, apparently oblivious to the fact that she was not wanted.

“I wish, dear,” said Lady Marvlynn to Miss Fagg, “you would give a glance at the dining-room, and see if my people are making any preparations for the banquet.”

“Oh, if you wish it, certainly,” returned the spinster, stepping off like a lapwing.

“Ah, we’ve got rid of her,” cried Lady Marvlynn, with a merry laugh. “I thought you were beginning to get a little fidgetty. You know, dear, I was constrained to invite her. She is one of your dear Sir Eric’s distant relatives, and it is not often she gets the chance of a treat like this, for, although I say it myself, I know it is a great treat to her, and the chances are that she’ll talk about it for the next three months when she returns to her friends in the village which has the honour of counting her among its inhabitants.”

“She’s a good sort of person, I should say, “observed Aveline, apologetically.

“Ah, dear me, yes, very good, unsophisticated, and all that sort of thing, but she is perhaps a little out of place here.”

“Ah, yonder is Lord Fitzbogleton,” cried Lady Marvlynn.

“Where? I don’t see him.”

“Look, through the shrubbery. He is talking to Arabella. How he does follow that girl about to be sure! He is spoony on her――poor man.”

“And does she like him?”

“Bah! who can tell? Perhaps she doesn’t know herself. She endures him, that is quite certain. But let us return into the house; they don’t want our company, I fancy. In cases of this sort It is my maxim ‘to let the young people alone;’” and here the widow indulged in another merry laugh.

They went into the house, where they were joined by a throng of persons. In less than half an hour after this dinner was served.

The Rev. Mr. Downbent said grace in an impressive manner, and all present proceeded to partake of the various dishes placed before them.

The conversation soon after this became lively and animated. A few stale jokes were uttered, which elicited as much laughter――perhaps more――than new ones. Healths were drunk, but, as it was a private affair, no speechmaking was attempted.

It was, in fact, a social party, and not a public banquet, and oratorical flourishes would therefore be out of place.

The meal occupied a considerable time――much more than was necessary; but this may be said of all such entertainments. A dessert of a most costly and elaborate description was laid in an adjoining apartment, and to this the greater portion of the guests repaired.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Lady Marvlynn, “I must beg of you to do just as you like. Those who wish to smoke are requested to do so, because I believe most of the ladies present will not offer any objection to the aroma of the fragrant weed. I like to see gentlemen smoke――it looks sociable; but I am not everybody, you will perhaps say. Well, that is true enough――so we will effect a compromise, if you please. A room is prepared for the reception of those ladies who object to smoke.”

“My dear Lady Marvlynn,” cried one of the gentlemen, “this is really too bad. In the first place, we do not care to dispense with the company of the ladies; and in the next, we are, I hope, not such slaves to habit as to persist in smoking in the company of ladies.”

“I shall not be satisfied if you do not enjoy yourselves in your own way.”

“This is not a barrack-room,” said Smythe, deprecatingly.

“Now, major, although I have every respect for your opinion,” said Lady Marvlynn, banteringly, “you are not in command here.”

“And if I were, I should give way to your ladyship,” returned the major.

“The best thing you can do is to keep the party alive by telling us one or two of your adventures,” said Lady Marvlynn. “Now don’t be disagreeable, major. Let me have my way this once.”

“Don’t I always let you have your way? Ah, dear me, I only wish I was a younger man.”

“I should like to be a little younger myself,” returned her ladyship.

Cigars were lighted, the wine was passed round, and the whole party were soon in social and animated conversation.

“Let me see, major,” observed Colonel Snappe, who was one of the guests; “were you not present at the execution of the ill-fated Maximilian?”

“I am glad to say I was not,” returned Smythe. “But I was in Mexico a short time before that untoward event. You know, I suppose, that the scoundrel Juarez, after Maximilian’s death, had the body of his victim embalmed. In the holes made by the executioners’ bullets pieces of red velvet were placed, a pair of glass eyes were inserted in the orbits of the dead man, whose body was decked out with most costly garments, and then it was sent on to his relatives.”

“How very horrible!” exclaimed Aveline. “I never heard of anything more sickening.”

“Very horrible, I admit,” said the Colonel; “but such was the fact.”

“While I was in Mexico,” said Major Smithers Smythe, “facts came to my knowledge which, with your permission, I will relate.”

“Oh, by all means, we shall all of us be delighted. Pray proceed, major,” cried several.

“The little story I have to tell,” said Smythe, “I call a game for life or death. It is as follows”:――

“It was night in the camp of Maxmilian’s army, and sounds of merriment were heard upon all sides, for soldiers are ever wont to indulge in pleasure, regardless of what morrow would bring forth.

“In a tent in the inner circle of the camp sat two officers at a rude table, upon which was marked with lead pencil a chess, or checquer board, while black and white buttons served for the ‘men.’

“Around the tent were stationed guards, and both of the officers were unarmed, while not a weapon of any description was visible in their canvas room.

“They were prisoners: soldiers in the service of Juarez, captured the day before; but their appearance indicated that they were not Mexicans.

“Both men were of tall commanding forms, and of easy, graceful address; but, whereas one had dark blue eyes, and light hair and moustache, the other had eyes that were large and black, with brown hair and moustache.

“Both men were exceedingly handsome, and upon their faces bore the impress of noble souls and hearts that knew no fear.

“A love of adventure had caused them to leave their homes in the north, after the close of the civil war, in which both had fought bravely, and cast their swords with Juarez, to aid in driving from Mexican soil a German emperor.

“Capoul Monteith, the blonde officer, was a young man of wealth and good family, a New Yorker, and a pet in society.

“Garnet Weston, the brunette, was a poor man, a young lawyer in New York, of good, though poor parentage. He was possessed of superior intelligence, and was fast winning a name, when he crossed the path of Mabel Monteith, the sister of Capoul, and a beauty and an heiress.

“So deeply did Garnet love Mabel that he was miserable when not in her presence, and he believed she cared for him; but his pride was great, and he would not offer a pauper hand to a belle and an heiress, and so struggled hard to win fortune and fa… in his profession.

“One day, an evil day for Garnet, a pretended friend told him that Mabel was his promised wife, but that their engagement had not yet been made public.

“Like one in a dream Garnet Weston listened, and then in despair determined to seek some more stirring field, where the image of his lost love would not be ever before him.

“A month later found him a cavalry captain in the army of Benito Juarez, where, a few weeks later, he was surprised to be joined by Capoul Monteith, who had also offered his services to the Mexican President.

“In an engagement, two days before they are presented to the reader in their tent, they had been captured and carried into the lines of Maximilian.

“That night in camp they were playing a game of checquers, pour passer le temps, and Capoul who was an expert player, was surprised to see how readily he was beaten by Garnet.

“Suddenly a heavy tread resounded without, the sentinel challenged, there was a response, and the next instant three of Maximilian’s officers entered the tent, one of whom was an American, a Republican fighting for Imperial Mexico, against the Republic; another was a flashy-looking Frenchman; the third was a Mexican colonel.

“‘Gentleman, I am sorry to disturb you; but news has come to-night that Benito Juarez has executed a captain of our army, and I have orders to select one of you, and march you forth to die in retaliation,’ and the American Imperialist looked sad over the duty he had to perform.

“‘You cannot mean that one of us must die for an offence against Maximilian by Juarez?’ said Capoul Monteith, rising.

“‘Even so are my orders, sir; but I know not which to select, for my duty is most painful.’

“‘Let the gentlemen play a game for the choice――the loser to die,’ suggested the young Frenchman.

“‘A good idea, monsieur. Gentlemen, I observe you were playing a game of checquers when we entered――so set to work and play three games――the one who wins two of them to escape, the other to die.’

“‘When is this execution to be?’ asked Garnet Weston.

“‘Within the hour, sir.’

“‘Very well, Capoul, I am ready for the game of life and death.’

“Capoul Monteith paced to and fro the tent with quick, nervous strides; he was young, handsome, possessed of vast wealth, and fond of life, and he cared not to be thus shot down like dog; but he was a brave man, and thought of Garnet Weston, whom he had always admired, and half wished to be the loser rather than see his friend die.

“‘I am ready,’ he at length said, and the two friends, strangers in a strange land, sat down to play the game of life or death.

“Capoul Monteith played with the utmost caution, for, ‘if one must die, I have as good a right to struggle for life as has Garnet,’ he thought.

“Garnet Weston played with indifference, a quiet, sad smile upon his face, and around them stood the three officers, and the platoon that were to be the executioners of the losing one.

“Ten minutes passed, twenty, and the game was won by Capoul Monteith, whose face flushed crimson, and then paled again.

“Garnet Weston’s face never changed an expression, for the same smile rested there.

“The second game passed quickly, Garnet making his moves the instant Capoul had raised his hand, and surprising all by his reckless indifference, but cool manner.

“Five minutes passed, and the second game was won by Capoul Monteith.

“‘My God! Garnet, old fellow, I feel for you from my heart,’ cried the winner, the tears starting to his eyes.

“Garnet pressed his friend’s hand, the same smile upon his face as he said, quietly――

“‘I was ever a poor unlucky dog, Capoul; but, my friend, when I am dead look in my saddle-roll, hanging there, and the papers you find please deliver to the proper address, and――and――Capoul, say to――to Miss Mabel I left a farewell for her.’

“‘Gentlemen, I am ready.’

“‘Curses on your Imperial humanity! Will you slay a man as though he were a hound?’ cried Capoul, angrily turning towards the officer, for it cut him to the heart to thus part with his friend.

“‘I yield to the fortunes of war, Capoul, and these gentlemen but do their duty.’

“‘Come, let it be over,’ replied Garnet, and shaking the hand of his friend warmly he was marched away.

“Half distracted with grief, Capoul Monteith paced his tent, his thoughts whirling, and his brain on fire, as he gazed at the stool where a short while before poor Garnet had sat.

“An hour passed, and the American officer of the Imperial army stood before him.

“‘Well?’ said Capoul, hardly daring to ask the question.

“‘He is dead.’

“‘God have mercy upon him,’ groaned the sorrowing friend.

“‘Yes, Captain Monteith, he is dead, and though I have seen many men die I never saw one face death with such perfectly calm indifference as did your friend.’

“‘He gave the order to the platoon to fire, and fell instantly; but, ere he died, he wrote this note to you,’ and the American Imperialist handed a slip of paper to Capoul, and, turning, left the tent.

“In Garnet’s bold hand was written――

“‘Capoul,――I gave my life away to save you, for I loved Mabel too dearly ever to let her brother die where I could be sacrificed instead. I dare tell you this now, for I stand on the brink of my open grave. Farewell!――GARNET.’

“A bitter night of sorrow passed Capoul Monteith in that lonely tent, for well he knew his friend had spoken the truth, and when months after the star of Maximilian’s crown had set in gloom, and he resigned from the army of the successful Juarez, he wended his way homeward with a heavy heart, for he could not forget that Mexican soil covered the noble man who had fallen a sacrifice to save his life.

“Three years passed away after the game for life or death, and one pleasant evening, toward the sunset-hour, a horseman was riding slowly along a highway, traversing a fertile valley of a South-western State.

“Three years had added more dignity to the face, and perhaps saddened it; but otherwise no change had ever come over Capoul Monteith’s fine features.

“Upon his right hand, setting back from the road, was a pretty little farmhouse, surrounded by fertile fields, and the sight promising well for a night’s lodging for man and beast,’ Capoul turned in at the white gateway, and rode up to the front door, and dismounted.

“The owner of the mansion descended the steps to greet him, and Capoul Monteith stood face to face with Garnet Weston!

“‘My God! has the grave given up its dead?’ cried Capoul, in dismay.

“‘No, old fellow; you find me flesh and blood, ready and willing to give you a hearty welcome to this my home, left me by an old bachelor uncle a few months since. But, come in; I will tell you all.’

“The surprised and delighted Capoul willingly accepted, and around a well-spread tea-table that evening he heard how Garnet had been carried forth to be most bunglingly executed; but a squadron of Juarez cavalry had appeared and frightened off his executioners, ere the first platoon had retired, and that a watchful ranchero had seized him and borne him to his ranche, where through months of suffering, he recovered, and was able to depart from the house of his good friend.

“But it was long ere he could gain strength enough to reach Galveston, Texas, and there he met an old uncle, who had carried him to his comfortable home with him.

“The kind old bachelor was one day thrown from his horse, and night and day Garnet had watched by his bedside, until death relieved him of his sufferings, and the young man found that his uncle had left him all his wealth.

“‘But, old fellow, why did you not write to let me know, for you know not how I have mourned for you?’ asked Capoul.

“‘I did write to my old law partner in New York, and he said you had moved away, none knew whither.’

“‘True; poor Mabel failed in health, and I carried her to Europe, but we soon returned; and to effect a change in scene and air I purchased a fine farm, about two days’ journey from here, and there we now live. Mabel is contented, if not happy.”

“‘She married――――”

“‘She married? Fiddlesticks! No, she never had any idea of marrying any man excepting yourself, and you went off to Mexico and nearly broke her heart.”

“‘God, I thank Thee,’ cried Garnet, and he buried his face in his hands and wept like a very child.

“Three months passed, and the bachelor home of Garnet Weston had a mistress to preside over it――a queenly-looking woman of twenty-two, perhaps, with dreamy, sad eyes, and a face of wondrous beauty.

“That woman was once the heiress and belle of New York――Mabel Monteith――who had, after long years, married her first and only love, through that game of life and death, in the gulf-washed land of Mexico.”

“Well,” said Colonel Snappe, “it’s a moving narrative, and I expect our friends here, as well as myself, are under the impression that Garnet Weston was done to death. How he managed to escape is the most surprising part of the business.”

“Ah, but I am so glad he did escape, poor, dear fellow,” cried Arabella; “but it is a most touching story. I wouldn’t have missed hearing it on any account.”

“By Jove, but it’s a splendid narrative――never heard a better,” said Lord Fitzbogleton. “I know a fellow, who knows another fellow, you know, who is a capital hand at telling stories, but he isn’t up to the major――not by an immeasurable distance.”

“Ah, that was a most unfortunate piece of business. It was the first serious mistake the late Emperor made,” said the colonel.

“It was not so great as going to war with united Prussia,” observed Sir William Leathbridge. “That was his downfall.”

“Without doubt, Sir William. Nobody will dispute that for a moment; but he was forced into it; and, after all, much as Napoleon III. has been maligned, he was not so ambitious or remorseless a man as many people have been led to suppose. On the contrary, he was a much more kindly monarch than I at one time gave him credit for. We in this country look at foreign potentates and foreign politics from our own point of view.”

“That is but natural, sir,” observed Mr. Downbent. “It is in the nature and order of things that it should be so.”

“And, in addition to all this,” observed Sir William, “I have always maintained that as a nation we are greatly prejudiced, and think we are nearer perfection than any other country.”

“Oh, that, I think, there can be no doubt about, Crasher. One thing, however, is quite certain. We appear to be miserably behind hand as far as our detective department goes. Murder is rife in the land, crimes of the greatest possible amount of ferocity are committed, and the perpetrators, for some reason or other, are permitted to escape.”

“You have broached a subject, sir,” said Sir William Leathbridge, “which is an all important one――I mean the protection of human life――and I don’t believe that under the existing state of things the Government is competent to deal with this question. Why, it is a scandal to this nation.”

“You mean the number of murderers who escape detection.”

“I do.”

“Well, we shall do no good till a different class of men are employed and the whole system is reformed.”

“I’ve got a little bit of a story to tell about a New York detective,” said Sir William. “It happened when I paid a visit to the United States.”

Everybody, of course, hoped that Sir William would give the narrative, which he did after the following fashion――the details of which we reserve for the succeeding chapter.

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CXXXIX. SIR WILLIAM’S TALE――A MUSICAL MELANGE

“There was at the time I paid a visit to our American cousins,” said Sir William, “a sharp, clever fellow named Dixon. He had gained a considerable amount of reputation as a detective, and I believe he well deserved the encomiums passed upon him. Any way, as far as I could judge, he was a remarkably acute man, and he was in addition to this a civil and obliging officer.

[Sidenote: No. 74.]

“The case which I am about to present to you does not, perhaps, possess what I may term the romantic interest of my friend Smythe’s story; but it has, nevertheless, something to recommend it, since it serves to show how quickly retribution followed the commission of a horrible crime.

“My story is that of a dead traveller found in a train.

“The train stopped at Dexham’s bleak depot long enough to permit a man to spring from the drizzling gloom upon the platform of the through coach, whose doors were locked. The conductor, ensconced from the rain in the express car, did not see the new acquisition to his list of passengers, and the man standing on the platform seemed to be congratulating himself on the success of what he wished to call secrecy.

“When the train moved from the station, whose night-clerk slept in his dimly-lighted office, the unknown passenger quietly drew a brass key from his pocket, and unlocked the door of the coach. When he closed it again, himself inside, it was locked as before.

“He found the car lighted by three lamps, and seemingly deserted. Not a head protruded above the seats, and the air of desolation filled the place. He heard the rain now falling in earnest, beating against the windows, beyond whose panes the blackness of darkness reigned.

“Not far from the fireless stove the new passenger seated himself, and began to brush his hat with a handkerchief. He was in the midst of his work when something like a groan startled him, and he stopped. Leaning forward, he listened keenly, and at length rose and walked down the aisle.

“He seemed satisfied that he had heard a human groan, for he looked into and between the seats, and it was near the forward door that he suddenly came to a halt.

“He stood over a man whose head rested on the crimson cushions of the seat, but whose body lay on the floor.

“From the white lips beneath the silent spectator had proceeded the startling groan, and the eyes moved once when they caught sight of him.

“The unknown passenger regarded the scene for a moment before he stirred a limb. Then he bent over the recumbent man, and with no little difficulty assisted him to the seat.

“‘I say it’s no use after your murderous blows,’ said the stricken one, seeming to regard the new passenger as his mortal enemy. ‘You need not strike me again.’

“‘I never struck you,’ replied the passenger, with a faint smile. ‘My kind sir, you have mistaken the person. Will you not tell me how all this came about?’

“It was quite evident that the wounded traveller was near unto death. One quiver after another passed over his frame, and once or twice after speaking he gasped for breath. The single spectator saw this and put his hand on his shoulder.

“‘I will avenge you!’ he said, stooping over the dying traveller. ‘Tell me who did it; I am a detective.’

“The deathly eyes fixed their stare upon him, and when he saw the white lips move he put his ear down to them.

“‘Tell Natalie――Natalie――tell her that――God pity me!’

“With the last word the traveller’s head fell back upon the detective’s hand, and the gurgle of death ran up his throat. Then he turned his face from the light, and the rain-drops that came through a hole in the pane fell upon a dead man’s brow.

“‘Curse the stupid luck!’ said the detective, standing erect. ‘He would have told me, I am sure, and my case would not have been difficult. But let me see what I can find upon him by which to work, for I swear I will hunt to the death the man who killed the traveller.’

“An examination of the dead man’s pockets revealed nothing concerning his identity, and the detective looked puzzled.

“He found an empty pocket-book and a watch; but they did him no good.

“The man had probably reached his thirtieth year; his hair and well-dressed beard were light, and his lifeless eyes a beautiful blue.

“He was well dressed, but there was no show of ostentation about his garments.

“After the search the detective unlocked the front door of the coach, and with another key which he drew from his pocket unlocked the express car.

“Stepping boldly into it, he startled the messenger, whose hands flew to an inner pocket when he beheld the unsummoned intruder, but no pistol was drawn.

“‘No shooting, Tobey,’ said the detective, and the messenger, recognising the voice, came forward with extended hands.

“‘You take a fellow by surprise, Dixon. I might have shot you.’

“‘Oh! I guess not,’ laughed the detective. ‘Where’s Golden?’

“‘Asleep in yon corner.’

“Dixon stepped forward, and waked a good-looking man, who had fallen asleep on several bales of gunny-cloth.

“‘You’ve got a dead man on the train,’ Dixon said to the conductor, when he opened his eyes.

“‘A dead man!’ cried the express messenger, before the conductor, recovering from his sleep, could utter a single ejaculation.

“‘A man as dead as Chelsea! Come and see him.’

“The messenger picked up a lantern, and the two left the car.

“‘I recollect him,” said the conductor Golden, looking at the dead traveller. ‘He boarded the train at Monterey, and was my only through passenger. There’s two stabs in his left breast! You’ve noticed them, I suppose?’

“‘Oh, yes――nothing ever escapes me,’ replied the detective, with a smile. ‘Do not either of you gentlemen know aught about him?’

“The messenger shook his head without replying, and the conductor said――

“‘I’ve met him once or twice before. I think his name is Hardesty. Concerning his home or his people, I know nothing.’

“A few minutes later, on some sacks stretched on the floor of the express-car, lay the dead traveller. The lamplight fell over his pale face and rendered it ghastly, like the faces of corpses.

“Conductor Golden said that the mystery of the passenger’s death puzzled him. He was sure that no other person tenanted the fatal coach when he locked it, after taking up the only through ticket, and giving the proper check.

“The theory of suicide was discussed, but abandoned, as no weapons were found on the passenger’s person. The messenger recollected a certain robbery of the company’s car works several years prior to the fatal night, and stated that a number of coach keys were then taken.

“In all probability some person in possession of one of those keys had entered the coach at some station, murdered the unknown passenger while the train was in motion, and made good his escape.

“This theory satisfied messenger and conductor, but not the detective.

“‘Gentlemen,’ he said, calmly, ‘this man was killed by an old enemy. His watch, worth at least two hundred dollars, remains on his person, but everything else has been removed. The murderer has carefully removed all traces of his identity, but his shrewdness shall avail him naught. For I tell you,’ the speaker’s cold but piercing eyes were fixed on Golden, ‘I tell you,’ he repeated, ‘that I will hunt him down and make him pay dearly for his terrible work.’

“‘Your hand on that,’ said the conductor, putting forth his hand, and the men clasped.

“‘Why, there’s blood on your hand!’ suddenly said Dixon, noting a crimson spot on Golden’s member. ‘I’ve a mind to arrest you,’ he added, with a smile.

“‘Do so, and hunt no further for your man,’ returned the conductor. ‘I had my hand in the dead man’s bosom, hence the gore on my skin. But do you think you’ll ever catch the perpetrator of the deed?’

“‘Catch him!” cried Dixon. ‘In my detective life I have never followed a man in vain. John Golden, you have heard of me in the capacity of a man-hunter, and I promise that you shall be present at the death of your passenger’s assassin.’

“‘Good! I accept the invitation implied in your words; and Tobey――is he included?’

“‘Certainly,’ answered Dixon, with a faint smile; and then the conversation was interrupted by the whistle of the engine.

“‘We’re running into Dayton,’ said the messenger, taking up his book. ‘I put off a parcel here that is not entered on the books,’ and he glanced from the detective to the corpse.

“The coroner’s inquest elicited no new facts concerning the dead passenger. The usual verdict that ‘the deceased had come to his death at the hands of some person or persons unknown to the jury’ appeared in the morning papers. During the day many people viewed the corpse in the coroner’s office, but it was not recognised.

“Dixon, the detective, kept about the office the entire day. He scrutinised the face of each viewer of the corpse, and assisted to put the dead into the coffin after office hours. Many people wondered who that strange and commonplace man in the office was, never dreaming that he one was one of the keenest detectives in the United States.

“He left the office at eleven o’clock and passed under the gaslight towards the Merchants’ Hotel. This resort was in a distant part of the city, and to gain it the detective would be obliged to traverse a portion of the metropolis infested with thieves, gamblers, debauchees, and wicked people generally. He had traversed it before, unarmed, and did not fear its denizens.

“He set forth alone, and had gained the nearest and best portion of the infested district, when a hand was laid on his arm. He stopped and beheld a young girl looking up into his face.

“‘Well, miss?’ he said, in a tone that reassured the person, for she came nearer.

“‘I saw you in the coroner’s office; but I was afraid to come in,’ she said. ‘I looked in from the curb, and ran off when I thought you were looking at me. Sir, I would like to see him before they give him an unknown grave. He was my brother.’

“Dixon started and turned full upon the pale, sorrowful girl.

“‘Your brother?’ he cried. ‘What is your name?’

“‘Natalie Green.’

“‘Natalie!’

“It was the last name pronounced by the murdered traveller; and the detective was startled at finding its possessor so soon.

“‘Where do you live?’ he asked.

“‘In a house two blocks down this street. Oh! sir, do not think me one of the sinning. I am not. He drew me from home, and I had not the hardihood to return. I could not face father, though I have not fallen, and brother George, the dead, has been hunting me ever since.’

“‘Natalie, this is no place for conversation,’ said the detective. ‘In your home you must tell me the whole story. You know what I am, girl?’

“‘Yes, a detective,’ she replied. ‘They don’t like such as you in these parts.’

“‘I reckon not,’ he said, with a smile, and together they walked down the street.

“What followed I need not detail here; the denouement of my story will tell you.

“One autumn night, three months later, a man boarded a train as it was leaving a country station.

“The night was the counterpart of the one that witnessed the finding of the dying passenger in the coach, and the person who had nimbly leaped upon the platform unlocked the car with the sang froid of a privileged person.

“He passed through the well-filled coach, and presently faced the messenger, who was at cards with the conductor. Both men started when they beheld the new-comer; but they soon recognised him and gave him a friendly hand.

“‘No man yet,’ said Conductor Golden, with a light laugh, as he looked up into their visitor’s face. ‘The trail is long, and will in time, no doubt, grow tiresome.’

“‘But I have reached the end of it!’ said the detective, seriously, and the conductor rose to his feet.

“‘Good!’ he exclaimed. “Tobey, we will drink to Dixon’s success.’

“‘You must drink soon, then,’ was the reply, and a revolver quietly slipped from the detective’s pocket.

“‘John Golden,’ he continued, ‘I arrest you for the murder of George Green. You allured his sister, Natalie, from her home, and swore to kill him because he followed you. That vow you have kept: you met him in your through coach, the night was dark, and he your sole passenger. Then and there you imbrued your hands with blood, and removed from his person traces of his identity. Deny not the charges, for I am prepared to prove each and every one! Tobey, there are a brace of handcuffs in my pocket.’

“The astonished messenger moved towards the detective, when with a cry of horror the conductor leaped to the half-open express door.

“Dixon sprang forward to arrest him, but was too late.

“The train struck a bridge as the form of the conductor disappeared, and messenger and detective gazed blankly into each other’s faces.

“‘Dead?’ asked Dixon.

“‘Dead!’ responded Tobey. ‘If he missed the beams he fell into the river eighty feet below us.’

“‘Well, let him go!’ said the detective. ‘He is the assassin of the man from whose home he allured a sister.’

“The body of John Golden was never found. Among his papers at his boarding-house in the city was found a memorandum book belonging to George Green, and other articles that Natalie identified.

“Thus was the mystery that hung over the dead traveller cleared, and I have but to add that Natalie returned home, and after the lapse of two years, became the wife of no less a person than Jerome Dixon.”

“It is very much to be regretted,” said the Rev. Mr. Downbent, “that the detectives of this country are not able to unravel the many mysteries which of late have been presented to us in the metropolis. Indeed, to say the truth, they appear to be grossly at fault in this respect.”

“We shall never do any good, sir,” observed Sir William, “till a better class of men are employed, and, I may add, prompter and more stringent measures are taken to check crimes of this nature. I have come to that conclusion years ago, and recent events have strengthened me in the opinion I have formed.”

“It is a most melancholy state of affairs,” said Lady Marvlynn. “I don’t pretend to be a competent judge of such matters, but everyone must admit that it reflects no credit on a country which is perhaps the most opulent and civilised community in the whole world.”

“You are right, my dear lady Marvlynn,” returned Sir William. “The number of murders committed of late in this country that we know of is bad enough, seeing that the perpetrators of these crimes are never discovered, even to say nothing about their being convicted; and then how many are there perpetrated which are never brought to light in any shape whatever?”

“This reflection is a most painful one. Looking at the matter with an unprejudiced eye, we must confess that this country has not so much to boast of after all. It is true we put down the traffic in human flesh. We abolished slavery――that is something to our credit.”

“Yes, but at what cost, Sir William?” cried Captain Crasher.

“Never mind the cost. It was done――and effectually done.”

“After much cost both in money and men,” said Crasher. “As we are all of us in what I may call an anecdotal or story-telling vein to-day, I will, if you please, tell you a story of the African slave trade.”

“Oh, do; there’s a good, dear soul!” cried Lady Marvlynn.

“By all means, madam, if our friends are agreeable.”

Everybody declared that they would esteem it a favour if the captain would go ahead; so he at once rushed into the following narrative:――

“Now I am going to tell you a story about ‘The Right of Search,’” said Crasher.

“The events I am about to describe,” said he, “date back to a period twenty years ago, at which time I was but a newly-appointed midshipman――the youngster of the larboard steerage-mess of the ship of war ‘Excellent,’ Captain David Hodge.

“As they relate to the right of search as applied to slavers, those of you who are familiar with the subject will pardon a word of explanation for the benefit of those who are not.

“Slaving not being reckoned as piracy by the law of nations at the time to which I allude, no ship was permitted to search another, even though the latter were positively known to be loaded with negroes, unless the two vessels carried the same flag.

“Consequently, any slaver when pursued, if aware of her pursuer’s nationality, might run up a foreign flag, and sail coolly away under its protection, her enemy being entirely powerless in the matter.

“This was the state of affairs from the treaty for the mutual suppression of the African slave trade between Great Britain and the United States, in 1842, down to the treaty of 1862, which to some slight extent mended the matter.

“The ‘Excellent’ had been cruising off the Guinean coast, particularly about the region between Cape Three Points and the Bight of Benin, for upwards of four months now, and nothing to speak of had come of it.

“To be sure, we had all been ashore once or twice to call on the King of Dahomey, the best misrepresentative of royalty to be found on the western coast at that time, and he had dined us deliciously on shelled peanuts, and pledged our professional health in deep draughts of his villainous sego.

“But of our legitimate business in that part of the world we had done little or nothing.

“Nor was this exactly for lack of opportunity. We knew very well that the rascally old potentate was trading off his subjects at the rate of a thousand or so every two or three weeks.

“We would even lie there sometimes and see a slaver go to sea, knowing that her decks below were crowded with miserable negroes. But if we made a movement to pursue, up would go a Spanish or French flag, and all we could do was to let her severely alone.

“Once, indeed, we did circumvent one of them most beautifully.

“We had followed her up when she put out of the river until she showed the stars and stripes, and then, as the breeze was light and the night a promising one, the old man ordered out the barge and sent an officer up to Elmina, ten miles above us, to inform a Yankee sloop of war which we knew to be there. We hung to the slaver all night with the ship, and just at day break, sure enough, there was the American making for her with all sail spread.

When the fellow saw her, he thought to get out of it by running up a French flag, but at this――since change of flag is presumably evidence of fraud――we both pounced upon him, and in half an hour had his crew in irons.

“But that wasn’t the story I started to tell. As I say, we were not always as fortunate as that, and after weeks and weeks of hot weather and no prizes, the whole ship’s company began to grow desperate.

“One evening, just before twilight came on――or what would be twilight if they had such a thing in those latitudes――we were standing idly along up towards Coast Castle, when a sail was reported as seen over the land, the vessel being just about to emerge from a small bay that makes in just there. Captain Hodge was on deck at the time, and himself addressed the masthead.

“‘Do you know her?’ was his first inquiry.

“‘Can’t make her out just yet, sir, on account of the hill,’ answered the look-out. ‘I should judge, from the size of them tops’ils and the rake of her masts, that it is the big schooner we overhauled last week.’

“A moment after, and the captain hailed again.

“‘How is she now, my man?’

“‘’Tis the schooner, sir.’

“‘All right. Keep an eye on her,’ and the captain went below a moment.

“Fifteen minutes after we were in full sight of the slaver――for slaver we knew her to be. That low black hull and rakish build could belong to no respectable craft, even if the presence of such could be accounted for just there and then.

“‘Now,’ cries the old man, again making his appearance on deck, and as much interested in the affair as was I, the most inexperienced youngster in the ship, ‘we’ll make her show her colours. If she don’t recognise us she may show a different flag from what she did before. If so, she is ours.’

“But the stranger was not to be caught in any such way as that.

“She did remember us perfectly well, probably had known precisely where we were every day for the last week, and when a gun was fired she ran up the French flag as innocently as could be.

“Shortly after the sudden darkness of the tropics came on, the faltering sea-breeze died out entirely, and night set in with the two vessels within half a mile of each other, and hardly likely to change their relative positions before morning.

“At daylight, quite contrary to his custom, the old man was on deck again and inquiring for the slaver. She was still in sight; but a slight land breeze had sprung up shortly before day broke, and she was cautiously edging off to the westward.

“Although she might be perfectly safe according to the law’s letter, she did not feel easy in our vicinity any more than a thief does in the company of a policeman. And so the captain remarked to the officer of the watch.

“‘Mr. Bright,’ said he, ‘the nigger doesn’t mean to stay by us long, even if we can’t touch him.’

“The captain always called all slavers ‘niggers’ without discrimination or difference.

“Mr. Bright was the second lieutenant, young for his rank, and a man who had won rapid promotion by his decision and intrepidity. His answer was characteristic.

“‘And why can’t we touch him?’ he asked, in a meaning sort of way.

The captain seemed to understand him perfectly well; but he shook his head gravely.

“‘It wouldn’t do, Mr. Bright――it wouldn’t do.’

“‘But nothing would ever come of it, sir. Suppose we should take the fellow with the French colours flying, do you really think any complaint would ever reach the French government?’

“The captain still shook his head.

“‘I don’t know about that, Mr. Bright,’ he said; ‘but I don’t like to do it. The thing would be unprecedented. It’s too bad, too, with the nigger right here in our hands, and we are not at liberty to take hold of him,’ and he strode off towards his cabin.

“Yet the lieutenant’s idea seemed still to be working in his mind, for just as he was about to disappear he called out again, ‘Mr. Bright, you may as well shake out an extra rag or two and keep the scoundrel in sight.’ Then he vanished down the stairs muttering something about his extreme curiosity to behold a cursed ‘nigger’ who could get away from the ‘Excellent’ when her blood was up.

“So we loitered along after the schooner with what little wind there was, and after breakfast we were surprised by an order coming into the steerage, summoning all the commissioned officers, even of lowest rank, to the captain’s cabin.

“We went aft in a hurry and found all assembled around the cabin table, except Mr. Bright, who was still in charge of the deck. Captain Hodge stood at the head of the table. We waited for him to speak.

“‘Gentlemen,’ he began, ‘please fill your glasses. And now here’s to the honour and success of the old “Excellent.”’

“We drank the toast with great enthusiasm. Then he went on: ‘Gentlemen, it is too bad, it is outrageous, the way things are at present. Here have we been cruising up and down here all summer long and hardly a prize to show for it.

“‘And now, here is another blamed nigger right before our face and eyes――we know his hold is full of slaves――we can almost see ’em, and if the wind would haul to west’rd a bit hang me if I don’t believe we could smell ’em――and yet, because the fellow has run up a French flag, we’ve got to lose him. Gentlemen, I repeat, it is outrageous!’

“We all asserted clamorously that it was monstrous.

“‘And something ought to be done about it,’ continued the old man, waxing warmer and more indignant. ‘Ordinarily, I can somehow manage to stand it, but this fellow has been dodging here for a week with a rascally lie at his peak, and this time I’m not going to stand it.’

“The captain paused and wiped his brow with his silk handkerchief.

“‘Now, gentlemen,’ he again went on, ‘you all know it was rather duskish last night when we made the fellow show his colours. Are you all perfectly certain what flag it was he hoisted?’

“We all kept silent with a puzzled air.

“‘That is to say,’ he continued, ‘are you all perfectly certain it was the French flag? There was blue in it and red in it. Now, may there not have been white in it, too? In short, may it not have been the British Jack?’

“The captain said this with a queer kind of smile that suddenly betrayed to us his meaning.

“Probably he himself was the most scrupulous officer present――indeed, upon him must the whole responsibility rest.

“If he chose to run the risk it was hardly probable that any of us would hesitate, especially at what we considered a perfectly justifiable piece of deception.

“We had suffered enough already in consequence of this punctiliousness of the home Government about the right of search.

“Up spoke little Bradford, of Southampton――

“‘I was in the maintop at the time, sir, and my eyesight is very good indeed. I could almost swear it was British colours she showed.’

“Several others of us made similar remarks in a jocular kind of way; but the captain interrupted us.

“‘This is no joking matter, gentlemen. If we seize that schooner while she is under a foreign flag, we deliberately violate the law of nations, and without doubt run the risk of a national dispute. Yet I intend to seize her――on one condition.’

“Here he paused, and looked around the circle of eager faces.

“‘Please name it, sir,’ said the first lieutenant, seriously.

“‘That each of you pledge me his honour that he will everywhere and under all circumstances, unless under oath, insist upon it that she showed the British flag last night.’

“Every man of us immediately declared his willingness to promise this.

“‘Mr. Hazleton,’ said the captain to me, ‘will you ask Mr. Bright to step to the companion-way?’

“I went on deck and communicated to the second luff the captain’s request. As soon as he appeared, Captain Hodge called out to him――

“‘Mr. Bright, are you sure the schooner showed the British flag last night?’

“‘The British flag? Why, she――oh! yes, I am quite sure.’

“‘Could you swear to it?’

“‘I could do anything almost but swear to it.’

“‘Very well, sir. Can you come down a moment? Gentlemen, let us once more drink to the honour of the old ship――and remember that that honour should be as dear to us as our own. And now, Mr. Bright, let us overhaul the nigger as soon as possible, for, by the Great Horn Spoon, we’ll have her now if she flies the flag of every nation in Christendom!’

“All sail was immediately made on board the ‘Excellent,’ and the slaver, seeing that something was up, and that we evidently meant to overtake her, did her very best to prevent it. But, as the captain had said there were few slavers that could get away from the ‘Excellent’ when she was doing her best, and a light breeze abeam was her best point.

“Slowly but surely we overhauled her, and at noon were almost within hailing distance.

“The old man was on deck in person, and chose to assume the trumpet and negotiate the whole business himself. He had a powerful voice, and he used it as soon as there was the slightest possibility of its being heard.

“‘Come into the wind,’ he cried, ‘or I’ll blow you out of the water.’

“‘The stranger held straight on. He either did not or would not understand. But a round shot across his bow brought him to. As we drew nearer he called out in the best of English:

“‘By what right do you stop a French vessel?’

“‘Go to the pit with your French vessel. You were a British vessel last night. Stand by till we send a boat on board.’

“‘Two cutters were manned, and under charge of Lieutenant Bright, dispatched to the schooner. Her papers were examined and her character as a British vessel by an American firm was positively established.

“The slaver’s crew were put in irons, but left on board their own vessel. An unusually large prize crew was told off, and, to our surprise, Lieutenant Bright was put in charge of it. He was a favourite with the captain, and we had expected the third or fourth luff would go.

“But the truth was, the captain was a trifle nervous about the affair after it was over with, and he was particular about the prize. The schooner’s captain had made a good deal of talk about the matter, swearing that the vessel was not English, and that his government would right the matter for him.

“Before Mr. Bright left us for the last time to go on board his new command the captain took him below and had a long talk with him. Then the two came up together, shook hands affectionately, and Mr. Bright went over the side with a farewell nod to us all. Before night the schooner was out of sight to windward.

“A year after, the ‘Excellent’ having by that time been ordered home, I learned that Bright took the slaver in all right, but reported that her officers and entire crew had, by some ingenious plan, escaped in the long boat before he got away from the African coast.

“Very little had been said about the matter, however, at the navy department, and shortly afterwards Bright had received his promotion. I thought that altogether the thing looked rather strange and I straightway elaborated a theory of my own about the matter.

“By Captain Hodge’s orders Bright had probably put the schooner’s company on shore before going to sea. The captain thought, I suppose, that they would be less likely to give any trouble about our ‘violation of the British flag,’ if left in Africa.

“And, as I believe, Bright took home with him from the captain letters to the Secretary of the Admiralty (a personal friend of his) explaining the whole matter and recommending Bright for promotion. At any rate, he was promoted, and we never heard anything more from the captain of the slaver.”

“Ah, those were times, sir,” said Sir William Leathbridge. “Happily for the world they have long since passed away.”

“There are a few white slaves in this country, I believe,” said the captain, carelessly.

“That may be; but they are not slaves in the sense we allude to. Many men are slaves to habit; indeed, most of us are, but that is very different to being bought and sold like beasts of burthen.”

“Perhaps I have not duly considered the question,” returned the captain.

“I do not say that for a moment; on the contrary, no man has had better opportunities than yourself to thoroughly understand the subject, and I take it we are not likely to disagree on its general bearings.”

“I hope not, I am sure,” said Captain Crasher. “But the evil has passed away, and none of us here, I expect, would wish a return of the old times. Our American cousins have endorsed the opinion expressed by the people of this country, and it redounds to their credit that they have followed the excellent example set by the ‘Britishers,’ as they term them.”

A desultory conversation followed, in which many of the company took part, and soon after this it was announced by the hostess that the concert was about to commence.

Many of the guests had by this time betaken themselves to the apartment where the musical performances were to be given, and the remaining portion of the company rose from their seats and sauntered into the concert-room. They dispersed themselves in groups on the chairs and couches placed around for their reception.

A young lady was conducted to the piano by Signor Marouski, who was, in addition to being one of the chief performers, also master of the ceremonies, or musical director.

The young lady commenced with what might be termed a bombardment of the instrument. Then she ran over the keys with a rapidity which was perfectly electrifying.

It was a show piece she was playing――its name, however, did not transpire. It had the effect of creating astonishment, and that was all she looked for.

She was, of course, complimented, and then retired to give place to a young man with weak eyes and a pale face, who stepped forward to sing a tenor song.

His voice appeared to be weak as well as his eyes, but its tone was sympathetic, and he sang correctly, and with a certain amount of feeling which went to the hearts of his hearers.

A trio for the harp, violin, and piano followed. It was a little too long perhaps, but was very well executed――by artists who were, evidently, well up to their work.

Lady Marvlynn’s protégée, Miss Arabella Lovejoyce, was now brought forward by Lord Fitzbogleton. She took her place by the piano, and her master, Signor Marouski, sat down to the instrument for the purpose of playing the accompaniment.

He began by executing a prelude of a most difficult and elaborate nature, after which the vocalist commenced a bravura from one of the well-known operas.

This she attacked with force and vigour, and it was difficult for anyone to determine exactly which to admire most, the signor or his pupil, for they were both so terribly in earnest.

Lady Marvlynn was charmed. The fair Arabella, she afterwards declared, surpassed herself; anyway she did not let the grass grow under her feet, but poured forth roulade after roulade in a most energetic and earnest manner. Her voice was a little thin and sharp――censorious people might say even piercing――but that did not so much matter――she got through her piece creditably, and was, of course, highly complimented at its close.

“By Jove,” said Lord Fitzbogleton, “you are weally quite as accomplished a singer as the vewy best professional. My dear Miss Lovejoyce, I am quite enchanted.”

“Oh, pray don’t,” said the pretty pet; “how foolish you make me look, my lord!”

“Foolish! What a remarkable observation! Foolish, indeed! You ought to be pwoud. I know I should be if I had a tithe of your ability.”

“Oh, my lord, you are a flatterer, I do believe,” cried Lady Marvlynn, coming to the rescue; “but of course I know that anything my dear Arabella attempts to do is sure to please you.”

“Indeed you are mistaken, Lady Marvlynn,” said the young nobleman; “I am a most wigid cwitic, I assure you.”

The speaker conducted the fair Arabella to her seat, and Signor Marouski seated himself once more at the piano; he was about to favour the company with a long scena from a popular opera.

He began by playing a long monotonous prelude of a weird-like character; to judge from the sounds produced the inference would very naturally be that some one was in a state of deep dejection, or it might be despair or agony.

Presently he sang, in a sonorous voice, three prolonged notes. These were repeated several times, and were succeeded by a jerky, quick movement; this appeared to be a sort of recitative or prelude, for the notation was soon of a changed character――still, however, wailing and melancholy, or it might be said depressing.

That clever entertainer, Frederick Maccabe, says, when performing the rôle of a street minstrel――

“Why, lor bless you, there aint much occasion to hunderstand much about music wen you plays to a west-end audience; as long as you play somethink melancholy it’s sure to go down with the hupper classes.”

Perhaps Signor Marouski was of the same opinion. Anyway, he acted in accordance with Maccabe’s instructions.

It was a Wagnerian piece he was executing, and many present declared it to be grand and magnificent. Whether they were able to comprehend its precise meaning it would not be so easy to determine.

However, the Italian professor sang on.

He evidently threw his whole heart into his work. He was a sound musician and an admirable vocalist, but he was imbued with the notion that the “music of the future” was the right sort of thing.

When he came to a conclusion many gave a suppressed sigh of relief, and many expressed their satisfaction by exclaiming, “Grand! splendid! remarkably fine!”

“What think you, Sir Eric?” cried one, addressing himself to Aveline’s husband.

“Oh, if you ask me my opinion,” cried the baronet, “I must tell you plainly that I consider all this fuss about Wagner is quite out of place.”

“Oh, my dear Sir Eric,” said Lady Marvlynn, “you don’t know what you say, I’m sure.”

“Don’t I, though?” returned he. “I most certainly do. I consider it humbug. I don’t profess to be an accomplished musician and am perhaps not a competent judge. Why, Lord bless us, I’m old enough to remember the time when this man’s music was laughed at and scouted in this country.”

“That’s right enough,” observed Captain Smither Smythe. “What a thing is popularity――or becoming the fashion would perhaps be the better term! The English public are afflicted every now and then with a sort of mad infatuation for eccentricity, and are apt to applaud to the very echo things they do not understand. As a proof of this I have only to refer to the furore for the Italian actor, Salvini. They made a god of him for a season, and then left him to flicker out and return to his native country a sadder and a wiser man. Doubtless he was duly impressed with the fleeting nature of popularity. Now it is the fashion to have a craze for a composer whose works are incomprehensible to me, and whose beauties are effectually hidden, as far as I am individually concerned.”

“Really, gentlemen,” said Lady Marvlynn, “you are paying Signor Marouski but a poor compliment.”

“Pardon me,” said Sir William Leathbridge, “we owe and pay tribute to the talents of the professor. What we are discussing is the merits of Wagner.”

Marouski now endeavoured to explain to the company what Wagner had endeavoured to express in the piece he had just executed, and wound up by declaring that the German composer was a great genius.

“I admit my inability to appreciate his beauties,” said Sir Eric Batershall, “still I am not singular in the opinion I have formed. In an admirably-written article in a periodical a month or two ago the writer sets forth that, ‘Whereas Mozart’s opera music has been the delight of every concert goer since the day when it was first written――and this, irrespective of the scenes to which it belongs――Herr Wagner’s vocal phrases, detached from the pictures they illustrate, can only strike the ear as so much cacophonous jargon, in which every principle of nature and grace has been outraged, partly owing to poverty of invention and absence of all feeling for the beautiful――partly owing to the arrogant tyrany of a false and forced theory.”

“These are strong expressions, I admit,” said the baronet; “but not a bit too strong, excepting for the fanatics who have set up the Wagnerian idol, and would coerce the rest of the world into the worship of the fantastic creed they have adopted, just the same as the craze for the pre-Raphaelite school of painting, as it was termed, was endeavoured to be forced on the art-loving world many years ago.”

“That is true enough,” said Mr. Downbent; “it was a craze.”

“A sort of epidemic,” returned the baronet; “but hear me for a moment or so. Speaking of Herr Wagner’s profuse musical dialogue, and particularly in relation to ‘Das Rheingold,’ the writer says, ‘The recitative in which the scenes are conducted is throughout dry, unvocal, and uncouth, but Glück might never have written to show how truth in declamation may be combined with beauty of form, variety of instrumental support, and advantageous presentiment of the actors who have to tell a story.’”

“Ah, but you English cannot bear to listen to long descriptive recitative passages,” cried Marouski.

“I admit that as a rule they don’t care about them. Still a great many persons who listen to Wagner’s operas will feel the force of the observations I have just quoted. His interminable dialogues, his annihilation of pleasant comprehensible form of music, and his systematic crushing out of melody from his compositions, must eventually cure the musical public, or the small section of it who are with him, of their unhealthy craze. In the meantime, his operas, ‘dry’ as they usually are, will be revived in the course of the operatic season, and among them ‘Tannhäuser’ is of course excepted. In this work there are long dreary passages to wade through, with little else by way of compensation than the gorgeousness of the mise en scène. The professional march is truly an inspiration, and in the ‘Chant of the Pilgrims,’ Tannhäuser’s ‘Hymn to Venus,’ and the shepherds’ song, concessions are made to those who demand continuous understandable melody. For these indulgences we cannot be sufficiently grateful, and must congratulate ourselves that ‘Tannhäuser’ belongs to Wagner’s middle period, and not to his later style, from which tune is rigorously excluded.”

Signor Marouski smiled, and shrugged his shoulders.

“Ah,” said he, “it is always difficult for a grand original genius to make himself understood or to be fully appreciated by the public.”

“There are a number of musical geniuses whose works have been popular in this country,” observed Smythe, “but I don’t expect we shall agree upon this subject; and we have to apologise to our kind hostess for thus interrupting the concert.”

“I like to listen to discussions of this sort,” returned Marouski, “because I believe that the English people have a much greater love for good music than foreign nations give them credit for. However, as you don’t care about Wagner,” he added with a smile, “I will give you something from an opera by one of my own countrymen.”

Marouski sat down to the piano once more, and sang a recitative air from one of Rossini’s operas. He executed it in a manner which was beyond all praise, and the contrast it afforded to his first performance was so powerful that his audience found it difficult to believe that it was the same singer they were listening to. The Italian professor was applauded most vociferously and was evidently well pleased with his success.

“Now you must not tell me, signor, that the last piece is not a hundred per cent better than the first,” cried Sir Eric Batershall.

“It all depends upon taste. Each is good in its own particular way.”

Lady Batershall or Aveline, as we have been accustomed to call her, was now conducted to the piano.

She sang a simple ballad with such pathos and with so much feeling that the assembled guests were deeply moved.

After a few more pieces had been performed and songs sung, the musical entertainment was brought to a close.

The conversation became general, the topics discussed were various, and a vast amount of knowledge was displayed by the speakers in what might with truth be termed a most delightful convivial discussion.

Among the company was a learned professor――a great naturalist who had been in many parts of the world――he had been somewhat taciturn during the earlier portion of the day, but Captain Smithers Smythe, who had resided in India for some years, drew him out, and an animated conversation followed upon the great Indian Empire. Professor Mainwaring had a number of interesting anecdotes to tell, and finally concluded with the following narrative:――

“You see,” said he, “it is a good many years ago now since I was lost in the forest, but every minute incident, captain, is green in my recollection, aye, as if it occurred but yesterday.”

“I can readily understand that.”

“Well, it was an oppressively hot day, in the very height of summer, when Carter and myself pitched our tent in a secluded forest tract of land, near the head waters of the Chenaub. I dare say you know the river?”

“Oh, perfectly well,” returned Smythe. “You had some fellows with you, I suppose.”

“Dear me, yes. Our party consisted of three native servants, besides coolies, who had been engaged at the last village to carry the baggage.”

“And who would run away at the first approach of danger,” said Smythe.

“They were men you could not place implicit trust in, I must confess. Well, our route lay along a rugged pathway by the side of the river, through dense forests of pine and cedar which clothed its banks to the water’s edge, and spread their great branches across its bosom until they nearly met in mid stream.

“A more perfect solitude could scarcely be imagined; indeed, excepting a few birds and a solitary black bear I had slain, when busily engaged performing his toilette in a brook, not another large animal had been seen for several days since leaving the verdant mountain glades of Cashmere.

“Whilst my companion and servants were employed in pegging and stretching out the bear’s skin――an operation requiring to be performed when the hide is fresh, as otherwise it will shrivel up and become rotten――I took advantage of the delay, and seizing my gun, strolled through the forest in quest of novelties in the beast or bird line, being then engaged in making collections of the natural objects of the country.

“I had not proceeded far before the fresh run of musk deer indicated the proximity of that animal, which, like the hare, is partial to localities, and may be often discovered by following its footprints.

“I accordingly pushed further and further into the forest, in expectation of meeting a musk at any turn, and until it became evident that my hopes were not to be realised, when finally, getting tired of tracking, I gave up the pursuit, and set off in quest of rare birds.

“Here and there the harsh screams of the speckled nutcracker and yellow grosbeak drew me away in opposite directions, until, after devious swervings to the right and left, it suddenly dawned on me that my pocket compass had been forgotten. What was to be done? In what direction lay the river? It was useless attempting to retrace my footsteps, for, what between the hard nature of the ground, and my soft grass shoes, anything like an impression was impossible.

“I pulled out my watch to find it was four o’clock, thus leaving three hours of daylight. So now in which direction should I proceed? These and many anxious thoughts flashed across my mind, when, shouldering the gun, I stared about for a way more likely than another in the dismal gloom; but not one opening or indication seemed preferable to the rest.

“How often I had changed front since starting could not be surmised; however, a conviction arose in my mind that the way back to camp did not lie in front of the position in which I stood at that moment, accordingly I wheeled about, and set off at full speed in an exactly opposite direction.

“At first a straight ahead course seemed the proper one, but after a time it was apparent that I had been unconsciously bearing off too much to the left, and, as there was a gentle slope in that direction, a feeling kept constantly increasing that this was the watershed of the Chenaub, for the sound of whose troubled waters I stopped constantly to listen, but in vain.

“Uneasiness now grew apace, with the cravings of hunger, whilst the sun declined, and finally the glare on the tree tops vanished, leaving an obscurity which was soon doomed to blacken into night.”

[Sidenote: No. 75.]

“What a position to be in!” cried Smythe. “Indian forests, as a rule, are not the safest places in the world for a man to put up at, or bivouac in for the night. Beasts of prey, to say nothing of snakes or serpents, are to be found there in abundance.”

“Yes, that is true enough, but, luckily, I did not consider all these things. Still, I frankly confess, that the idea of being lost in a forest made my blood run cold. I could not discern any river, and the idea occurred to me that I might be walking away from it.”

“How dreadful!” exclaimed an old lady in a turban, who was listening to the narrative. “Most dreadful, indeed.”

“Yes, madam, it was not by any means agreeable, to say the least of it,” returned the professor. “Of course, I need not tell you that I did not know very well what to be at, or how to shape my course, since I was quite out of my reckoning. At length, being perplexed, and not knowing anything about the track I was following, I halted in front of a large cedar. This I determined to climb; my object in doing this was to see if I could, from the upper branches of the tree, discern any object in the distance which might serve as a guide to deliver me out of the labyrinth into which I had got entangled.”

“And did you ascend the tree?” inquired the captain.

“Most certainly I did; but I was no wiser; from its very highest branches I could only discern one unbroken forest, and so I descended with despair at my heart, and a foreboding of evil for the future, for by this time I must tell you, that I felt my physical strength giving way. What with fatigue, want of food, and the exertion of climbing the tree, I was pretty well done over.”

“A gone coon.”

“Precisely. Very much gone, and very despairing also.”

“My situation was melancholy and desperate to the last degree. If I had had any companion, anybody to share my troubles, matters would not have been so bad, but I had not a living creature, not even a dog, for my companion, and the solitude was well-nigh insupportable.”

“Oh, yes, the beauties of nature are all very well in their way,” said Smythe, “and I, for one, am a great admirer of them, but not alone. One wants company in cases of this sort. Enoch Arden felt that in his tropical island.”

“As darkness drew near,” said the professor, “while seated on a rugged piece of stone, I counted every percussion cap, bullet, and charge of powder. An idea flashed across my brain that by firing off a few shots at intervals and following each report by loud shoutings it might just happen that my companion and the native ‘shikari’ would discover my whereabouts. Indeed, a presentiment clung to me all along that the camp could not be at any very great distance. How anxiously I listened for a response after every report, whilst my throat ached again with shouting, and how I kept hoping against hope, until all hope seemed to have vanished with the daylight, and now not even the noise of an insect or the murmur of the tree-tops broke the dismal stillness. I had been on my feet for upwards of twelve hours, without intermission, and seeing it was nearly midnight I determined to give up the fruitless struggle, so stretching out my wearied limbs on the hard ground, and placing the gun by my side, I settled down, tired, hungry, and anxious, but still anticipating that the morrow would bring my deliverance.”

“My word, but it is a wonder you escaped with your life,” said Sir William.

“It does seem a wonder, I confess; but it does not necessarily follow that beasts of prey were lurking about, as our friend remarked; and, indeed, such could not have been the case, or I should not have been here to tell the story.

“Utterly exhausted, I fell into a sound sleep, which lasted several hours; when awaking I found day breaking, with the wind howling through the branches overhead.

“To repair the grass sandals and load with buckshot was the work of a few minutes, when I was once more on my feet and off on the anxious journey.

“Now pushing through underwood; now carefully treading over prostrate rotten stems; here getting foul of dependent branches; then brought to a standstill by a huge patriarch of the forest.

“At length, after wandering for some time, the spoor of a musk deer was visible, and in a few minutes the little creature jumped up before me and fell dead with the contents of my gun in its side.

“Soon a fire was made in the usual native way by see-sawing a slow match in a handful of dried grass or leaves, when, cutting steaks from, the haunch and stringing them together on a twig, I roasted and devoured my kabobs with avidity, for, considering that no food had crossed my lips since the previous morning, it would be doing small justice to my appetite to say that I felt other than ravenous.

“However, the savoury repast made me feel wonderfully refreshed, and with a haunch of venison on my shoulder, I proceeded once more through the wilderness of pine trunks, looking intently in every direction for the slightest indication of a stream or a water parting.

“The absence of animal life in the depths of the forest has been frequently observed, and may no doubt be owing to the want of subsistence for the majority of herbivorous quadrupeds.

“However, as I trudged along from the denser to the more sparsely wooded parts, in expectation that a clearing would suddenly open out the country, and show the way towards the river, a musk deer would now and then spring out of some bush, and, in the intervals between its fantastic mode of jumping, would stop and turn round and stare at me in bewilderment, as if it had never seen a human being before.”

“Well, I must confess,” observed Smythe, “that does appear to be most remarkable. I should have thought that ‘tree tigers,’ as we term them, would have been there in abundance.”

“I saw none, and if there were any they did not trouble me.”

“You were a most fortunate man.”

“Possibly so. No doubt I was.

“The time must now have been about mid-day, when I came to a gap in the forest, occasioned by the fall of several spruces. Here, whilst examining the spot, a horrible feeling came over me that I had passed the identical opening shortly before dark on the previous day, so that as I pushed along I could not help muttering to myself, ‘I am walking in a circle. This comes of always trending towards the left.’

“I consequently started in an opposite direction, and soon found myself on an incline, and before another hour had gained a small torrent, the bed of which was choked up by tall bracken and wild balsams, from whence numbers of the gorgeously attired Monal pheasants rose and fled down the glen, with the metallic sheen of their gorgeous plumage glistening in the sunshine.

“Here, virtually, my troubles seemed to have come to an end for ever. Since the stream was discovered, hopes grew stronger and stronger that if I could follow it up there would be an end to my anxieties.

“At length the narrow gorge gave way to an open valley, and, listening now and then, I fancied I could catch the murmur of distant waters, until the sound finally ended in a continuous roar, and I found myself on a footpath, with the Chenaub rolling rapidly along its rocky bed.

“One problem, however, remained unsolved, ‘Was my tent up or down stream?’ Now considering the sameness of the scenery, and very irregular, not to say eccentric, windings of mountain footpaths in general, and Himalayan foot-tracks in particular, it would have taken a greater experience of wilderness ways than I could then command to have recognised one object more than another, along the route I had trodden on the way from Cashmere.

“Nevertheless, expecting that footprints might turn up on softer parts of the path, I searched for such indications of man, but without success, and the forest on either side gave no token of commanding positions from whence a survey could be made; consequently, only one of two alternatives remained, either to push up or down the river bank.

“I selected the latter, and after devouring a portion of the venison and pitching the remainder into the river, I pushed down the pathway, in the belief that I must have struck the river above my camp, which might turn up at any minute.

“In this expectation I was sadly deceived, inasmuch as hour succeeded hour, and no trace of my little canvas home became apparent.

“The footpath, moreover, was not always safe; sometimes it ran across a beetling precipice, at others I had to wade streams; finally it led away from the river into the gloomy forest, where at dusk, after clambering up a ledge of rock, I found myself on the brink of a crag, with the river rushing furiously below.

“To have proceeded further that night seemed only to risk one’s life, as every minute increased the inability to pick my way in the darkness; so once more all the pangs of hunger and disappointment came back in terrible reality, alloyed, however, with a consolation that I was at all events on the right track.

“The venison I had thrown into the river now rose before my mind, as supperless and disappointed I lighted a fire and discharged my gun, following each report by prolonged outcries, such as the natives of these parts are wont to hail each other with from opposite sides of ravines.

“But it happened that a sudden bend of the river a short distance above the eminence on which I stood broke the sounds, and sent them back in clear echoes one after another.”

“And did no one come to your assistance, Mr. Mainwaring?” inquired Avaline, anxiously.

“Not at that time, my dear lady; but of course my gun was the only means that I had of giving an indication of my whereabouts. I concluded, naturally enough, that my friends would be on the alert and institute a search for me. Carter, I knew, would never rest till he had ascertained what had become of me, and I need not tell you that the report of a discharged weapon carries much further than the most powerful human voice, but I made use of both, and soon got quite hoarse from continually shouting.

“The shades of night had now gathered in, when, piling faggot upon faggot, I sat myself down by the blazing fire, and ruminated on what a new day might bring forth. At length, with blighted hopes, and fairly worn out, I once more hugged the gun, and, coiling myself up by the fireside, fell into a deep sleep.

“I was suddenly awoke by some one exclaiming, ‘Sahib, Sahib!’ and, starting up, found my native hunter, Eli Shah, standing by my side. He had been wandering through the forest all day, and was returning to the tent when my fire attracted him.

“‘O master,’ he exclaimed, ‘we all thought you were dead;’ and, untying his girdle, he handed me a parcel of sandwiches. ‘This all comes of your not taking your “magic watch” with you;’ the name by which he and my other hill servants designated the compass. When I came to reckon the distance between our encampment and the point where I had struck the river, it was found I had wandered upwards of five miles northwards of the former.

“Thus ended a foolish adventure, which none but a tyro in wilderness wandering would have committed; nevertheless, it was not the last of similar mishaps that subsequently occurred to me in other and far-distant regions, when carried away by the excitement of the chase, and that wild enthusiasm in which the student of nature is prone to indulge.”

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