DACOBRA OR, The White Priests of Ahriman.

Auckland Star, Volume XXXIII, Issue 92, 19 April 1902, Page 3 (Supplement)

DACOBRA OR, The White Priests of Ahriman.

SYNOPSIS OF PRECEDING

CHAPTERS,

Lionel Maxwell, a sculptor ana ardent student of Biology, has just returned from a holiday in Persia, where he has been investigating the truth of a legend of the "White Priests of Ahriman. These priests were said to have the gift of eternal life, and, the power of transferring life from the living to the dead. He finds no confirmation of the story, and settles down at Ardrachan, in Scotland v to carve out an important piece of sculpture.

He meets no one for six months, but then makes the acquaintance of Elaine Rawlins and Dr. Rawlins, her father, the owner of Balath Castle, and a remarkable man in many ways. The latter offers him £20,000 for his work if he will take his daughter as a model for the woman in the group, and complete it by the 13th January. He consents, and proceeds to execute the work.

During all these months there have been several traces of some strange animal, small and white, both in the house and country-side, and the appearance of the mysterious creature seems to have caused Dr Rawlins a good deal of uneasines3. Fox Faversham, a painter, who has been studying art in Spain, comes to stay with his friend, Lionel Maxwell, and the par have a strange adventure in a ■wood during- which a white monkey is shot and brought back to the house. CHAPTER VIII. FOX FAVERSAM RECOGNISES A FACE. That evening1, after dinner, Fox Faversham turned the conversation to mv work, and asked me why I "was so unwilling to show it to him. "I believe it is all a, fraud," he said, while we were drinking our coffee. "You leave your honest business of perpetuating- dowagers in marble, and give out that you have gone to execute your life work, but, as a matter of fact, I believe you have come here to be lazy and enjoy yourself." "It seems a good place for amusement, doesn't it?" I answered sarcastically. "I am not quite sure about Miss Rawlins," he replied with a meaning look. I rose from the table, and handing him a cigar, told him to come upstairs with me at once and see the statue. He rose to his feet with a smile. "The workers of darkness fear the light," he said, "and I suppose you think that this is a suitable hour of the day to show it to me. Will you take the lamp with you, or do you think that a match will show it off ■to the best advantage?" "I am not ashamed of it," I replied; "but I absolutely insist upon your seeing it now. I do not wish to be asked any more questions about it, and I should like to get it »ff my mind." I took the lamp from the table and Jed the way to the studio, Fox Faversham stumbling- up the stairs after me and muttering something about the advantages of the electric light. 1 opened the door and pointed to the ghostly figure that glimmered out of the"darkness. The sheet was over it, and it appeared as shapeless as a cloud.

"It looks like a white elephant," he said, as we walked towards it.

"I will take off the cloth m a minute,'' I replied. "I>o you mind holding the light'?"

He took the lamp from my hands. I carefully gathered up the bottom of the sheet from the floor, and with a dexterous sweep of my arm flung it off the statue.

"There it is," I said, looking1 at him anxiously, for he was known to lie a very fine judge of sculpture. But it was only for a second of two that I saw his face. His eyes travelled quickly from the figure of Ahriman to that of the girl, and making- a step forward he looked closely into her marble face. Then lie gave a

cry of surprise and horror, and the lamp fell from his nervous fingers with a crash. We were in darkness.

"Hang j-ou, Faversham!" I said, "What is it!" and I fumbled in my pockets for a match. But he made no reply, and when at last I had found the box and struck a light I saw that he was pale as death.

"Are you ill, old chap?" I said, gently, for he looked ghastly in the flickering flame of the match.

"Yes," he replied hoarsely., "I am ill—for God's sake tell me what that is?"

I struck another match, amd going to the table lit two candles. The floor was strewn with oil and broken glass. It was fortunate that the apparatus of the safety lamp had forked successfully.

"What is the matter, Faversham?" I said, quietly, " what have you seen?"

He pointed to the statue. "I do not understand," I said, " that is only the work I spoke of. I think T told you the subject. You had better have a cigar and soothe your nerves. " 1 can't have you seeing- things." He took a cigar from tty case and lit it with trembling fingers.

"Who is it?" he repeated. "You needn't look at me like that. lam quite myself; but who is the woman in the group? " "Miss Eawlins, of course," I answered. " You have a very bad memory, Faversham. I told' you all about it."

"Oh yes, of course," he replied, speaking as if in a dream; "it is Miss Eawlins. It is very cold in here; let us go downstairs," and his teeth chattered.

I replaced the cloth on the statue and we settled ourselves by the library fire. I poured him out a stiff glass of brandy and water, and he drank it greedily- I noticed that his hand still trembled. Then he leant back in his chair and puffed silently at his cigar. I did not speak to him, for I thought it best *or him to open the conversation; and for quite five minutes neither <>f us spoke. In my own mind I discovered the probable cause of his agitation, and decided that he had met Mies Rawlins before, and that lie had

By HAB&IS BUELAND

[copyright.]

He was silent

perhaps been in love with her. At last the silence began to get foolish; Faversham had closed his eyes and was pretending to be asleep. " Well? " I said, sharply, " what do you think of my work?" He half opened his eyes and looked at me. sleepily.

"Eh! What did you say? I'm sorry Maxwell, but I was dosing."

" What did you think of my work?" I repeated.

." It is magnificent," he said; " it is' a masterpiece. The likeness—the resemblance is extraordinary." An expression of pain crossed his face and I thought I saw his lip quiver. " You have met Miss Rawlins before? "I queried, looking away from him into the fire.

" I am an old friend, Faversham," I continued, " and I have no wish to touch on anything- that is painful to you, but we shall, of course, see Miss .Rawlins at Balath when we go to their dance, and if .you would rather rjpt go. please tell me."

" I shall certainly go," he replied, pulling himself together with effort. " I have never met Miss Eawlins before."

" Oh, I thought you recognised the face perhaps."

"Is it a good likeness?" he asked

"It is considered so. I am not satisfied with it mj^self; but at any rate Dr. Eawlins considers it worth twenty thousand pounds."

" A fabulous price for any work of art," he replied. " But you are sure the likeness is good?"

" You will see Miss Bawlins in a few days; then you can. judge for yourself."

" Then I shall see the living image of someone I once knew in Spain."

My mind went back to the night before, and the question he had turned away with a jest. I saw that the subject was very painful to him. His fingers w7ere nervously gripped together, and there was a curious look in his eyes. I tried to turn the conversation by asking- him what he would like to do in the morning, but he took no notice of my question.

"Yes," he continued, slowly, as if speaking to himself! " someone I once knew very well in Spain, and someone I once cared for a good bit."

" Perhaps it is the same," I said. "People change their names; but then of course you would have recognised her father when you saw him in the woods."

" It is impossible for it to be the same," he replied, in a low voice, "for the girl I cared for is dead," and he bowed his head in his hands for a second, and then sat up sharpty. as if ashamed of his emotion. " " I am awfully sorry, old chap," I said. I did not in the least know what to say to him. Men so rarely confide their deepest emotions to each other, that they have no supply of words to express their sympathy. Fox Faversham was, as a rule," a man who never talked about anything serious, and certainly not of his emotions, except as a subject of jest. This fact made the scene doubly painful to me, and I knew that the shock of seeing- what was apparently a marvellous likeness to the dead o-irl he had loved must have unnerved him, terribly, or he would never have coßfided no much to me. As it was, the emotion was only momentary. Directly I mumbled a word of sympathy, he pulled himself together, and commenced tb relight his cigar. "1 must apologise, Maxwell," he said. "It was rather sudden, 3 rou know, and one can't always control oneself." " No, indeed," I replied. "If you asked me to pick out a striking example of iron will and indomitable purpose, I should select Dr. Rawlins. Yet you saw his face this morning, and how he positively clung to my arm in terror." "I have been thinking- of that old chap's face," he said, " and of all you have told me about him. In my opinion there is something wrong. Does anyone know anything of his past life?" " No one in this part of the world, though of course there are all sorts of rumours in the village, -where his brutal conduct has made the entire population his enemy. I believe the most favourable tale of him reports that he is a pirate from the Indian Ocean." " What do you think yourself? " "He is a gentleman," I replied, " and a man of great wealth, devoted to his daughter, and absolutely heartless to others; a man of great intellect, but entirely wrapped up in a single scientific subject." "Is that all?" "No; I think there is something else —something that is perhaps the main key-note of his life, but I cannot discover what it is. It is not science, nor yet love of his daughter, though to all outward appearances these two things monopolise his thoughts. It may be some circumstance in the pasi connected with both, but the idea does not seem to be a very probable one." " It is a very extraordinary idea."

" He is a very extraordinary man." I replied, " and the undefined idea is strong in my mind. I cannot tell you why. I suppose it is an impression. lam vei*y sensitive to im-

pressions. . "I should say that thp key-not* of his life is Fear," Tox Faversham replied

" Yon Lave only seen him once- 7

" But T saw the hunted look in his eyes. He is, as the villagers say, probably a criminal living under an assumed name."

"Do criminals snriek with terror at a few harmless monkeys "

" Yet I have seen a man with a 2-un frightened at them," he replied, with a meaning smile.

"Yes. fris-htflned; but not absolutely wild with terror. Wtiv. Vavo.rsham, the man was off Md hpnrl with frig-ht. I should say that th*»rfl Is something in his this*. Hf* connected with these animals, and the sight of

them brings back some terrible memory." "It might be merely an instinctive antipathy," Faversham said. I smiled, though. Dr. Rawlins had stated this to be the case. 1 knew that his will was sufficiently strong to conquer any outward expression of such an aversion.

"It might be," I replied; "but it is verj unlikely. What is it, Hags?" The dog had risen fi'om his basket and was over by the window, sniffing at the bottom of the waiuscottingThen he scratched aud whined and looked back at us for approval.

"I suppose there are plenty of rats iv this house?" said Faversham,

"I have never seen one. What on earth is the matter with the dog?"

He had got his paws up on the window sill, and seemed to be trying to poke his nose through the glass. I rose from my chair and pulled up the blind. There was nothing to be seen but the white snow and the dark masses of shrubbery outside. I threw open the window and a draught of cold air swept through the room. Eags jumped on to the window sill and barked. Then he sprang out and made across the snow into the bushes, where we heard him rustling about, as if he were hunting for something Faversham came to my side, and looking out pointed to some marks in the snow about ten yards away from the house. In spite of my remonstrances he insisted on getting out of the window and tramped through the snowin his thin shoes to examine them. "One of those confounded monkeys," he said, and whistled to the dog. Eags came trotting out of the shrubbery and looked up at him, wagging his tail. "Come in, Faversham," I said. "You will catch an awful cold." He did not answer, but looked down the drive, and seemed to be listening for something. The dog barked furiously, but he laid one hand on his collar. Then I listened too, and heard the soft tread of something walking through the snow. "A caller," said Faversham, turning his head towards me. Then suddenly there was the noise of a scuffle, a man's cry of anger, and an awful screech, as of something in pain; then a moment's silence, and a crash of something being thrown into the shrubbery. I saw the dog pulling violently at his collar, and Faversham began to walk quickly down the drive. Then I heard the sound of voices, and in a few minutes he came back into the light again, accompanied by another man. "Here is Dr. Eawlins," Faversham cried. "Go round and open the door, Maxwell; he is hurt." I opened the door and they both came inside. The dog- slunk along behind them, and, running past us, went back to the library. Dr. Eawlins was pressing one of his hands to his lips and sucking it hard. "What is the matter?" I asked. "Nothing," he replied, raising- a smiling face to me; "a mere scratch — the bite of a monkey. I killed him and flung him into your shrubbery. 1 hope you will pardon me." "Come into the library," I said, rather curtly. I could not think what the man was doing in niy grounds at this time of night. He came in, and as he sat down by the lire, I was astonished to see the change that had taken place in his appearance since the morning. He was certainly a trifle untidy and disordered, for there was snow on his coat and on the knees of his trousers, and his hand was bleeding, but he looked at least twenty years younger, and his eyesflashedwith an expression of trmmph that I had never seen in them before. I offered him a cigar, and when he had lighted it he leant forward in his*chair and looked me steadily in the face.

"The 'work of my life is over, Mr Maxwell," he said quietly. "I have attained success."

"I congratulate you heartily," I said, holding out my hand. He took it and his clasp was warm and firm as that of a man of thirty.

"May I congratulate you, too?" said Faversham. '

"I thank you both," the old man replied, quietly. "The discovery came this afternoon about five o'clock; I have been near it for a long time. Once I worked for twenty-four hours on end, and all the time was so near it that I seemed to touch it with my hand; but it has always evaded me until to-day, and now, after forty minutes' work in my laboratory, the one link required ■ came clearly into my mind. I tested it again, and yet again, and found no fiaAv in it. In the world of science there will no longer be .am r distinction between living and dead matter. The formula that life can only spring from life will be cast away into the scientific dust heap. The battle of the scientists is over, and the victory 1 have gained for, the upholders of Abiogenesis is such, that Huxley never dreamed of."

He rose to his feet and knitted his fingers together. If I had not known him well, I should have thought he was uttering a prayer of thanks. His eyes flashed, and his body seemed more erect and full of vigour than I had ever seen it befire. Yet he was a very old man.

'•por sixty years!" he exclaimed. "For sixty years! Neither of you can know what success means after sixty years of failure. I could not keep the news to myself and my daughter, so I came round here. Mr Maxwell will sympathize with me."

"My success ha.s not come yet," I said, erravely, and Fox Faversham looked at me, wondering what I was talking about.

"But it shall," Dr. Rawlins answered, as if"to himself; "it shall."

"How did you get here ?" Fox Faversham asked abruptly.

"My carriage is in the village," he replied, "at the Thistle Inn; I thought I would spare the horses this last hill."

I did not believe him, I had never known him to spare anything, nor did I believe he had come over from Balath simply to tell me of his discovery, however important it might be. 1 thought it quite likely that he had left his carriage in the village because he lxad been somewhere else and did not wish the coachman to know his movements. Fox Faversham glanced meaningly at me, and I fancied he was thinking- much the same thing. "Yoti are sure of your success," I said —"quite sure that you are not mistaken?"

'For answer he pulled something

out of his pocket and handed it to me. It was a small piece of rock about the size of a walnut. I turned it over and there did not seem to be anything remarkable about it.

"What is this?" I asked

•'An ordinary piece of granite," he replied, "such.as you may chip off the cliffs any day of the week. Will you do me the honour to place that piece of stone in a glass jar, seal the lid very carefully, so that it may be airtight, and keep it for a few days?" "Certainly; but what will happen to it?"

You will sec. It is a sound piece of stone, is it not?"

I examined it carefully and tried to break a bit off the edge, but unsuccessful Iv.

"It is perfectly sound," I replied. "I will carry out your instructions."

"And now, to turn to another matter," he continued, "and one probably of more interest to yourself. You will excuse me talking business for a minute, Mr Faversham." Faversham nodded and Dr. Rawlins drew an envelope from his pocket and handed it to me. "A small Christmas present, Mr Maxwell," he said. 1 opened the envelope and drew out a. cheque for twenty thousand pounds. "Thank you. Dr. Rawlins," I said, quietly, as if the receipt of such sums of money was of every day occurrence; "I will write you out a receipt. I suppose by this you consider the statue finished." '"Yes," he replied; "I do not think you can improve it." 1 flushed, for he had perhaps thrown a slight accent on the word "you." "I have not received any assistance," 1 replied, going to the writing table. Faversham rose at the same time; he was annoyed at being cut out of the conversation, and. announced his intention of going upstairs to change his wet socks and slippers. When he had gone I ha.nded the receipt to Dr. Rawlins, who folded it up and put it away in his pocket. ""No," he said, "you have received no assistance; but I shall not take the statue away for a fortnight-" I smiled sarcastically. "If you are satisfied, it is all right," I said. "I have my life before me; my battles are yet to come, and I may win success. "All my life is behind me," he replied, grimly, "and my battles are over." I looked at the strong, handsome, old fac« ; bright with its triumph. But even success had not softened a line of the cruel mouth. I wondered what his battles had been like, and how long was the list of the slain. I wondered, too, if he had really found his peace at last. "Call no man happy tiil he is dead," I quoted. He looked keenly at me and a shadow came over his face. There was a moment's silence; the clock ticked loudly, and Rags gave a funny little whine; he was chasing rats in his sleep. Then I heard Faversham come hurriedly downstairs and he burst into the room.

"A fire on the hill!" he cried "Come and look at it!"

We hurriedly put on our hats and coats, and going out of the hall door, walked about a hundred yards down the drive until we came in sight of the mountains behind the house. From there we could see the white mass of Ben Ardracban towering in the moonlight. From the dark patch of wood upon its slopes leaped half-a-dozen thin tongues of flame, and the black smoke poured along the mountain side.

"It burns well for wet wood," said Faversham.

"There is five thousand pounds worth of timber in it," exclaimed Dr. Eawlins. Then we heard the sound of wheels on the drive, and his carriage came up to us. 'Ton will excuse me," he said, "but I must go down to the village." The coachman turned the horses and he stepped into the carriage.

Can we help you at all?"' I said

He pointed to the wood. Some wind on the upper slope of the mountain had caught the flames and they were sweeping along six different parts with a fury that nothing could extinguish.

"I am afraid it is too late," he said with a smile. "Wo shall see you on Xew Year's Eve, ] hope. Good-night," and the carriage rolled off.

Favorsham looked at the wood thoughtfully.

"The servant told me that it had been burning for two hours," he said. "Dr. Kawlins has not been hero for more than halC-an-hour; how odd Jie should not have noticed it." CHAPTRR IX. A LINK Tv'ITH THE PAST. The grim darkness of Balath Castle was transformed into a fairy scene of splendour on the night of the brill. The dreary corridors and halls wencarpeted, and sparkled with hundreds of candles. The cold grey stone, which took the place of wall-paper in many of the apartments, -was concealed with rich tapestries; rare

flowers were in profusion, the grand staircase glowed like a conservatory, and every table and niche seemed to be bursting' forth in a summer glory of blossom. Where previously I had only seen dust and darkness, there was light and colour, and where I had only heard the dull beating of the waves at the foot of the cliffs, there was the sound of nrasic and laughter. Even the broken ruins had not been left to frown in protest ag-ainst the gaiety. They were hung with thousands of small lamps, aud far out at sea the sailors must have wondered what new landmark had appeared for their guidance on the coast.

The great banqueting hall, which I had never entered before, was set apart for dancing. It was fifty yards in length, and over thirty in width. The gallery ran all round it, and at one end this was wide enough to accommodate a band of about thirty musicians. The floor had been especially laid down for the occasion, and appeared to me to be perfect.

The drawing-rooms were thrown open for the use of those who wished to sit out the dancas. They neeeded no further decoration than their priceless works of art, but whereas they were usually in >a state of semidarkness, which rendered any just appreciation of their treasures impos-

sible, to-night they blazed with a thousand candles, which gave too much light, I should fancy, for some of the dancers who wanted to .sit there.

If 1 had any doubts about Dr, Kawlins' invitations being accepted, they were at once removed by the sight oE the string of carriages outside the entrance to the castle. I learnt afterwards that the invitations had been couched in such a form that the people were led to !believe that he had just recovered from a long illness, and that the festivities were a kind of thanksgiving. In any case, as Miss Rawlins suggested, curiosity would probably have, overcome any sense of pique. 1 had every reason to believe that of -all the residents in that part of the world, I was the only one who had ever entered the private, apartments of the castle. Everyone in the neighbourhood looked upon the place as a little uncanny, and many who were there to-night for the first time must have been grievously disappointed to find nothing- very gruesome or mysterious within its walls. It was certainly to-night merely the house of a rich man shown off to the best advantage.

Miss Rawlins looked more fair and radiant than ever. It was evidently one of the red-letter days of her life. She met us at the foot of the great oak staircase, looking like a fairy queen. >She was'; dressed in white, and her onlj' ornaments were a string of magnificent diamonds round her throat, and a "band of them sparkling in her dai-k hair. I was interested to see what kind of meeting there would be between her and Fox Faversham,and. I watched them closely as I introduced them. She showed absolutely no sign of recognition, but I saw the blood leave his face when he looked at her. However, he simply bo-wed and made a commonplace remark; then he booked a dance on his programme, and I being an old friend, managed to secure two for myself. She introduced us to some charming girls, and feeling that she had done her duty as hostess, left us.

I and Faversham were not alone together until quite an hour later in the evening; he looked very tired and pale as he crossed the room to where I was standing. He obviously had something to say to me.

"Come out into one of the corridors," he said; "it is too hot in here." We went oiltside and sat down on a lounge under a large palm.

"■Well?" I ■ .said interrogatively. He passed his hand across his forehead and then turned to me and gripped hold of my arm.

"Look closely at me, Maxwell," he said. "I am sane enough, am I not? All this evening I have had an idea that I am going mad."'

I looked at him. His face was pale, and there was a wild light in his eyes*. I was not prepared to say that he was quite himself, but I told him that, barring traces of temporary excitement, he spoke and acted like a sane person.

"I am under a temporary delusion," he said. "This Miss Rawlins —who is she? What do you know about her? I have been watching her all the evening. Do you know for a fact that she is this man's daughter?"

"She is believed to be so," I replied, "and 1 have no reason to believe she is anything else."

"Well, she is not;" he whispered hoarsely, "unless indeed I am a raving lunatic. Her name is Alice Borrodaile; she died three years ago in Spain, and I saw her laid in her grave."

I looked at him pitying-ly. It seemed indeed that his mind was imhingcd. Doubtless he had brooded so long over the death of the girl ho had loved that his disordered fancy had caught at a striking resemblance, and fashioned it into the form of the dead girl herself. l

"Nonsense,"' I said sharply; "this is not the age of miracles."

But, directly I had spoken, it occurred to me that the "words were opposed to all that I had been searching for in the fables of the past.

He looked at me contemptuously. "I am not a fool," he said quickly. "I tell you that the girl is Alice Borrodaile."

"She is probably very like her," I replied; "perhaps it is an extraordinary resemblance."

"She is more like her than you know," he said, "Alice Borrodaile had the STnall white mark of an old scar on her forehead. I have heard her tell me how it was done when she was a child. When you next pass Miss Rawlins, look at her closaly and you Vv'ill see that mark. An extraordinary resemblance indeed!"

I was silent. If this mark were actually there and not the creation oC his disordered brain, the resemblance presented a problem that could not •be solved by derision.

"Why docs she not recogTiise you?" I asked, "if it is the same girl."

"1 do not know," he said pitifully. "I do not know. Maxwell. I cannot understand it all. It is hell to me. I think my brain is going." He rose slowly to his feet and looked wildly about him. I was concerned rjbout his 'health; his mind certainly appeared to bo giving- way.

"Look here, old chap," I said qiiietly, "if I were you I would not worry about it at all. Will you come home now and have a quiet smoke by the fire. 1 can easily make an excuse."

"Xot 'bill my dance," he murmured: "not till my dance with her. 1 would stay if it meant madness."

I tried to persuade him to leave. 1 foresaw no possible good to him from sueh1 an opportunity of conversation as the dance would give. But he was firm on this point, and'as I heard the band beginning- to play the music for the next waltz, I left him to find my partner. Miss Eawlins happened to be talking to lier as I came up, and I scanned her face with a keen glance. Faversham had spoken the. truth. Tire mark was so small that I had not noticed it before, for one can see a person every day and fail to note such things, and no one but an ardent lover photographs such trifles in his mind.

My partner was a charming little girl with fluffy golden hair and laughing blue eyes- If she referred to me afterwards in the confidences of her bedchamber as a "dull old stick," I should not blame her. She certainly deserved a more attentive partner for this dance; but we had scarcely started that solemn, procession round the room, which is irreverently styled "a waltz," when the question I had put to Fox Fay-

ersham, asking him if Miss Rawlins had recogised him, came back into my thoughts, and then like a flash came the recollection of Miss Eawlins' story of her life- She remembered nothing since her illness three years ago. It was quite possible for Fox Faversham, to have been her lover, and for his face to have passed completely from a mind that had apparently been wiped as clean as a slate. Yet her father did not recognise/ him, and her name was Rawlins, not Borrodaile.

1 began to have grave suspicions that there was something very wrong in the whole business, unless indeed Favershaui was really insane, and was weaving a tale out of his disordered imagination. It was possible, that he had met the girl before, and had loved her; that he had heard she was dead, and that perhaps he was intentionally deceived on this point by her parents. It. was quite possible that she had not died, but had recovered —that he had seen her laid in her grave was perhaps an exaggeration on his part, ior at any rate a delusion of his fevered brain. He must have been maddened with grief at the time, and in a state to have imagined anything. Then perhaps the girl's parents' died, and she was placed in the hands of a guardian, who adopted her, gave her his name, and spoke .of her as his own child. It was all 'possible, if not probable; at any rate, it was a conceivable solution, but it depended entirely on the assumption that Kox Faversham was mistaken as to her death. The whole thing was like a chess problem, and it was impossible, to solve it accurately in the middle of a dance. My meditations were interrupted by the plaintive expostulations of my partner, as I steered her with, some force into a middle-aged couple. I apologised, and turned my thoughts to the matter immediately in hand, which was to make myself agreeable to a charming little ladyWe subsequently turned our dance into a more or less dignified romp round the corridor, and ended it at the supper-table, to our mutual satisfaction. I danced steadily all the evening till about half-past twelve, and then came two blank spaces on my programme. I had left them open in-, tentionally, in case I wanted a quiet smoke away from the chatter of feminine frivolity. My next dance after this interval was with Miss Itawlin.s; and it was the second dance she had given me. I left the ballroom without attracting the attention of my host or hostess, who. at intervals prosecuted the customary search for idle young men, and found my way to the drawing-room. There were several couples in it, and passing through the room, I reached the suite of apartments that lay to the right of it- They were quite deserted; in fact, I do not suppose that any guests knew of their existence; they opened one into the other, and the one at the far end was generally used as a smoking room. The next room was i the library, and the two were only divided by a pair of heavy curtains. These weVe partly drawn back, and probably for this reason, or perhaps because guests were not supposed to wander into this part of the house, there were no lights in the. further room. I threw myself into a chair, and lighting a cigarette, closed my eyes and began to think 'about Fox Faversham. I must have felt very tired, for I had scarcely smoked for five minutes when I fell asleep.

(To be continued on Saturday.)