TRACKED BY FATE OR THE FANSHAWES OF HAVILLANDS.

Cromwell Argus, Volume XLI, Issue 2209, 22 August 1910, Page 2

TRACKED BY FATE OR THE FANSHAWES OF HAVILLANDS.

I All Kignts tteaervea..

BY MAURICE SCOTT,

Author </ **The Pride of the Moraya," "The Mark of the Broad Arrow," "Broken Bonds," etc. etc. FO URTEENTH IN ST ALMENT. CHAPTER XXV. MR. FANSHAWE OFFERS " AN ALTERNATIVE." " Murder is an ugly word," he returned grimly. "If you mean that I intend to actively deprive you of your life, you are in error." " And I know that you are quibbling—begging the question," cried Dorothy. "Mr. Fanshawe, I am beginning to think you would scarcely take all this trouble over a nameless girl. Your persecution inspires me with the belief that you have deceived me—that I am the legitimate daughter of Gilbert Fanshawe, and that my life stands between you and the unlawful possession of his estates." " Does it, indeed ?" he sneered. " Assuming your belief to be well grounded do I strike you as a man likely to allow a weak, puling girl to stand in my way ? You are silent, but your threats prove to me you are dangerous, Ma'm'selle Dorothee. I would have married you to my son now I see that might not have been a conclusive solution to the troublesome problem created by your existence. You have chosen to pit your puny strength against mine. You cannot complain if you are worsted in the fray."

" What do you intend to do to me!" asked Dorothy, bravely.

"To you? Nothing— absolutely nothing. I am going to leave you here to think matters over. In a week, perhaps less, you may have learned much by reflection. Solitude will do more to impress on you the futility of opposition." " You are not intending to leave me here alone in this enormous house ?" gasped Dorothy.

" You were alone in your very inartistic and decidedly gloomy garret in Soho when I gave myself the pleasure of visiting you there." " But there were people in the house—within call," she urged.

" Yet you did not avail yourself of their proximity on the occasion of which I speak," he said derisively. " And here you will be absolutely •free from molestation by any one, unless the spirits of the departed Panshawes disturb your meditations."

" You mean to leave me here to starve to death," she said. " I mean to leave you here."

"You withdraw the alternative, then. You no longer give me the option of "

" No, Ma'm'selle Dorothee ; you know the old adage, 'He who will not when he may,' do you not ? By running away from Havillands you have raised a hornets' nest about your ears ; you are dangerous to my interests, and your associates are troublesome. But I have the whip hand. One word from your streetsinging vaerants, and I immediately prosecute the woman Andrews for being in unlawful possession of my property. And your interfering doctor will ask no further questions when once jou are —removed."

She looked at him in dumb misery, but spoke no word. " I will show you your one and only alternative," he said, suddenly. He went out of the room, and still Dorothy sat there almost as if turned to stone. Was it possible this man could be of her own blood —her father's brother ? What could be the difference in the two mothers to create such opposite natures ? And what a power must exist in wealth when, to preserve it, a man could so deliberately encompass the death of his brother's child !

And now ~ah even more terrible fear suggested itself to her. Her father's mysterious disappearance ; his seeming desertion of his wife and daughter whom he loved so well. Was it —surely it could not be. Had he come to England to find his stepbrother in possession of the estates which should have been justly his own ? And—and —the thought were terrible, but had he been murdered ? For a man sufficiently fiendish to doom his brother's child to death in cold blood would have been capable of killing £he brother whose birthright he had stolen. Nothing else accounted for his silence ; nothing else could account for it.

But would an all-seeing and allmerciful Providence permit a human being to pile crime upon crime for the mere sake of self-aggrandisement? Such a wretch were capable of murdering his own wife—even his own son I ,

No longer did Dorothy wonder at the blood-curdling atrocities among the lower and less enlightened orders the accounts of which she had been privileged to read to Ju out of the daily during her ministrations in Brick-street. ( Mr. Fanshawe returned to the room after a short interval, a carafe of water in his hand. And into the clear water he poured a few drops of colourless liquid from a small bottle in his breast pocket.

" There," he said, " is your alternative, Ma'm'sene Dorothee. You will naturally be thirsty ; meditation is dry work. One draught of this and all your troubles will be over. You can rejoin your mother in the theological heaven, if that prospect appeals most to your intelligence, or, as I prefer to believe, subside painlessly, unconsciously, into oblivion — a state of nothingness, free from all future care ; so that you need not suffer one moment longer than is your wish. Believe me, for the drug is absolutely certain and instantaneous in effect. But I merely leave it at your disposal after informing you of its presence. You take it, or otherwise of your own free will ; so that in no case can I be said to mur-

der you. Comprenez, ma chere Ma'm'Belle Dorothee ?"

" Are you human, I wonder ?" she said, half to herself. " So much so that I am doing my utmost to protect my own interests. You threw down the gauntlet—et voila !"

" Go, please," said Dorothy, quietlj. "I would rather be alone." " Do not imagine you can get out. I do not do things by halves, and Havillands can keep its secrets." "Even that of my father's murder ?" hazarded the girl, trembling as she saw how the dark face turned a greeny hue. t " Even that. My young lady, you are daring, and had I entertained a scruple, those words would have signed your death warrant. You know, or suspect too much, and must be silenced. You can relate jour theories and suspicions to the Havillands ghost if you like ; but if you are wise you'll fly to the alternative." And with a muttered curse he left her. She heard the key rasping in the lock, heard the loud banging of the door, which awakened slumbering echoes throughout the house, and then—silence.

Such utter silence as she hardly deemed possible. In Rutland Gate, also at Havillands. when the family was in residence, there was always some movement about the corridors, some sign of life, and in Brick-street her ears had grown acclimatized to the ceaseless rumble arising out of the stream of traffic along Shaftes-bury-avenue. But to feel herself alone—alone in that great house, with no human creature to aid her should she lose her reason and beat out her brains against the walls ! Wait—she must not« encourage such thoughts ; that was not the way to preserve sanity ! And there was that deadly carafe of clear water staring at her, at the very sight of which her throat seemed on fire. The roof of her mouth parched as if her tongue clave to it. Oh, the temptation to pour out a tumblerful and drink it to the dregs ! Had not her persecutor relied on that temptation as a certainty which should put her out of existence ! She must disappoint him, must go away from that room into some other where the carafe would be no longer visible ; must also reconnoitre and endeavour to find some way of escape.

She went out into the corridor, and her heart fell as she realized herself to be entirely cut off from that part of the mansion ordinarily in use. Strong doors of communication barred her passage into the rooms she had known during her residence beneath its roof. She was trapped amid a network of passages and apartments, all the windows of which were very high up and strongly shuttered, the heavy iron bars across the shutters secured firmly by padlocks. She must do something—something —or her brain must inevitably give way ! Again her throat was on fire. The temptation to end her anguish drew her, in thought, back to the room where stood that carafe of cool, sparkling water.

With what diabolical calculation had not Lemuel Panshawe relied on her inability to resist the impulse to drink under her maddened, fevered state of panic ! Fervently she prayed for patience, for strength, for help in bearing the affliction which pressed on her so sorely. Would not the shades of her departed ancestors, should they be permitted to return to mortal spheres be more disposed to assist their young descendant, on whom such evil times had fallen, rather than conspire with Lemuel to drive her reason from its seat, or condemn her to all the horrors of a living death ? Yes, yes ; that must be so. She need not fear the dead ; the living only were her enemies. She wandered up and down, in and out the grey, half-lighted rooms, and then half-way up a flight of stairs she suddenly found herself attracted to a small trap-door in the ceiling. She wondered why it seemed to compel ' her attention, being far above her reach, and so small it hardly appeared possible she could force her slight frame through it, even could she lift it upwards. " Try, try !" She started. That was pure imagination, of course ; but a voice seemed to whisper the words distinctly in her ear : " Try, try, try !" A third time the voices whispered, and then her eyes came down to the actualities around her.

She would trj. Had not the good padres taught her that inspirations were often sent for our use and benefit which, out of our ignorance and incredulity, we thrust away ? At any rate, it would be a distraction, and would keep her from thinking of that alluring carafe. Now how to reach the trap-door. There was only one way—to drag out some furniture, and pile it as high as she could—high enough to climb up on and ascertain if the door were accessible.

Taking off the hat and new coat, Dorothy turned to with a will. It proved hard work for one with her slight physique, but the desperation of her case lent a fictitious strength to the fragile form which under other conditions would have appeared impossible.

Mounting one table on top of another, and dragging up antique chairs and footstools, Dorothy at last erected a pyramid that looked within three feet of the trap. Once more, while resting a moment, breathless after her efforts, her nerve seemed just on the point of giving way, and again came the voices whispering in her e a rs : "Courage ! Courage ! Persevere to the end. An ordeal lies before you ; you must not shirk it. The honour of your father, of your mother, lies above that trap-door. Will you falter and turn back after having once put your hand to the plough ?" Assuredly her mind was going. Why else should these strange imaginings seethe and riot through her brain ? She would climb up ; only by action, effort of some kind, could she hope to retain command of her faculties.

Cautiously she mounted her "Jacob's ladder," and by dint of perseverance established herself safely on its summit, underneath the trapdoor. And then—joy ! the trap was unfastened, and yielded as she pushed it back, admitting a flood of daylight from, seemingly, some upper and unshuttered apartment.. Dorothy was not sufficiently high to look into the room, but any place where existed the light of day were preferable to semi-darkness ; and so, with an upward prayer for help, she caught hold of the woodwork, and after several failures eventually scrambled through the trap on the floor above. Breathless, she lay still for a moment, her eyes dazzled by the strong glare from a- window in a slanting roof overhead. An attic, apparently. Then that spelt hope, for could she not climb out on to the roof—No, that were a vain project, for the skylight was covered by a thick iron grating, and the room very nearly destitute of furniture. She could not see much with which to construct another pyramid, except— She had raised herself to her feet, and now gave utterance to a bloodcurdling cry of horror. For there, seated in a big, cavernous chair—which with a table and a small iron-bound chest, constituted the only furniture in the room, sat a ghastly, grinning skeleton, the bony jaws gleaming as the sun's rays shone down obliquely, the awful fingers clutching the arms of the chair, almost as if in an effort to rise and question this intrusion on its privacy.

And this horrible sight proved, indeed, more than already overstrung nerves could bear ; and with a second wild shriek of agonized terror poor little Dorothy fell senseless on the floor, as destitute, to all appearanees of life as the grim spectre of what once was human, - which now, in the flickering sunlight, appeared to gibe and gibber at the reflection that to such a pass even this fair young girl must one day come. CHAPTER XXVI. WITHIN THE WALLS. Ernest Trevedyn had arrived at Exeter in the early hours of a dull, dark morning, and elected to walk out to Havillands as the best possible means of escaping attention. For he wanted to reconnitre unobserved—to judge for himself the position of affairs.

While inquiry in the village would inform him if Mr. Fanshawe or any of his family had been seen in the neighbourhood, it might equally warn the master of Havillands and enable him to frustrate any attempts at investigation. He meant to climb the park railings and look round the house first ; time enough to inquire in the village when personal endeavour failed.

Certainly, to all appearances the mansion was uninhabited —closed it was beyond the shadow of a doubt. Every blind was closely drawn ; every lower window barred and shuttered.

It was a square, unromantic building, a greater part of which, for lack of interest on the part of several mistresses in succession, had been suffered to fall into decay. The present owner and his wife chiefly preferred to live in London and with a view to render Havillands more snug as he expressed it, when he came down for the shooting, Mr. Fanshawe had built up strong doors cutting off the disused portions of the house, lessening the work of the servants by retaining * only such rooms as were likely to be wanted, and stifling the fears of nervous visitors who might dread ghostly manifestations as likely to proceed from the unoccupied apartments.

Something of all this Trevedyn remembered to have heard, also that the master of Havillands himself kept the keys of the communicating doors, and that no person, under any circumstances whatever, had ever been known to cross their threshold.

But evidently the report that all the servants had travelled up with the family was correct, for not a chimney gave the faintest indication of smoke ; the kitchens and outbuildings were closed and silent. Then he must have taken his journey for nothing. Dorothy must still be at Rutland Gate, or —or — But it was impossible that Mr. Fanshawe could have brought her to Havillands. The huge isolated house bore the aspect of an immense mausoleum —a living tomb. A living tomb ! What a horrible suggestion ! —an absurd one in the face of it, fit only for the most sensational melodrama. Ah, but what of his own startling experiences as a medical man in the clinical ward of a great London hosr pital ? Had not strange dramas and many veritable tragedies been enacted daily before his eyes, events that related to him as fiction would have appeared preposterous and unheard of ? And —did the adage respecting truth being stranger than fiction need confirmation ?—what about i the stories furnished by the daily papers? Crime ! His heart stood still.

Was there a man living who could incarcerate a lovely, innocent young girl in this wilderness of a house, and leave her there to perish alone ? Maddened with the thought he pulled the front hoor bell and knocked loudly, but, save the reverberations echoing along and around the vast hall within the portals, no response greeted his efforts. Dorothy could not possibly be inside the house ; to think so were the wildest imagintion. No man could be such a fiend incarnate. What of the rear of the mansion ? He proceeded through the flower gardens and round by the outbuildings, to find the same silence, the same absence of living evidence. Wait ! Surely that was a footstep. Dorothy herself perhaps, for it lacked the firmness of tread associated with a man. He must stand aside not to startle or alarm her. It would be most es-

sential she should be gently reassured. Maggie ? Were his ej ea deceiving him ? He left tjje partners in Brick-street and was certain she did not travel down

by the same train, vet hers sne was—wan, weary, dishevelled, but still Maggie ! The recognition was mutual, though the woman showed no astonishment. " I've been hopin' you'd turn up, sir," she said, hoarsely. " We've got to get inside that house, and so far it beats me." -"' " Inside ! Why, is there any one " " Dorothy, sir." " Impossible !"

"He brought her through the wood and came back without her," persisted Maggie. And rendered hoarse, almost voiceless by her long sleep in the damp night air, she related the incidents connected with -the departure of the motor-car from Rutland Gate, and ride down, and how she had slept while on guard.

" I c'uld ha' killed myself when I woke up," she said. " I'd slep' my senses away it seemed ; for at first I didn't know where I was or remember what had happened. An' then, like a shot everything came back to me, an' I jumped upright to find the front seat o' the car was empty, an' on'y by the merest stroke o' luck I saw him takin' Dorothy into the wood, an' in a second had lost sight o' 'em between the trees." -

" You saw—you are positive it was Dorothy ?" " I didn't see her face, but it was her rign.t enough."

" And then ?" " An' then I followed, but at a distance. I durs'n't go too near, for if he'd seen me, t'would ha' been all up with my chance o' helpin' her. The wood was thick, an' 'tweren't easy to keep to the path, all crampy an' stiff as I was lyin' huddled up in a heap all night. Then I lost sound on 'em an' seemed as I'd lost myself, too ; an' then, after a long time, I heard steps comin' an' had just time to hide in among the bushes when he come back by himself." " Alone ?"

" All alone. He looked a bit whiter than before, or else it seemed so to me. I waited till he'd got well away, and then' as 'twas growin' lighter, I managed to find my way along here. That was a while before daylight, an' I bin tryin' off an' on to get in ever since." " Merciful Heaven, Maggie ! What if he has "

He threw off his overcoat and gloves and carefully examined every door and window on that side of the house. Most of them were overgrown with ivy and various creepers, the thickly-rusted bars and bolts bearing evidence of long years of disuse. " It seems impossible an entry can have been effected from this side," said Ernest. " This part of the building has been closed and deserted."

" Ain't that all the more reason he'd bring her this way ?" cried Maggie. " For a time I was afraid he'd murder her in the wood —I was, doctor. If ever murder was in a man's face, 'twas in his when I looked out o' the bushes an' saw him pass by. But seein' no sign here, I went back an' hunted 'igh an' low, an' called an' even tried to sing 'Down on the Farm,' so's she would know Maggie was near an' tryin' to find her. An' every time I came back here again it grew on me stronger an' stronger as he'd took her inside, an' left her there whether dead or alive, God on'y knows." The singer stopped and they looked at each other in horror, as a wild scream as of some one in pain or deadly fright broke on the stillness of the fresh morning air. The sound emanated from the interior of the house ; or could it by any possibility be some cry of wild bird or beast deceiving them both ?" " We've got to get inside," repeated Maggie, sturdily. "Loot/ here, sir—look how this ivy's been pulled away, an' flakes o' rust knocked off this keyhole. The door's been open, an' not very long ago I reckon." "You're right, Maggie," cried Ernest applying his strong shoulders with a will ; but though the door appeared to yield slightly, the old lock held fast, and even his great strength appeared to produce but little effect. And then as he paused for breath a second bloodcurdling shriek rang out,

this time unmistakably from inside the walls of Havillands ; and as Maggie cried ' That's Dorothy ! They're killin' her !" Ernest hurled himself bodily against the door in an agonized desperation which appeared to endow him with powers beyond %he normal. Once, twice, thrice, then the rusty lock sullenly gave way ; and as he steadied himself by the doorposts, Maggie, with a cry of relief and thanksgiving, rushed past him and into the house.

Then together they went in and out of rooms, along galleries, up broad oaken staircases —innumerable, as it

seemed to Maggie—but all was silent; no sound fell on their ears but the creaking of the ancient woodwork and the echo of their own footsteps. But presently the piled-up furniture appeared to their anxious eyes, and in a moment Ernest's tall figure was on the top and his head through the small trap which was too narrow to admit the passage of his broad shoulders.

And it shook even his strong selfcontrol for a moment as his horrified gaze fell on that ghoulish, grinning figure, staring, as it would appear, with its awe-striking empty sockets at the senseless on the floor.

To reach out his long arms and draw her gently towards the trap was the work of a moment, then to remove part of Dorothy's " ladder " in order to allow a wider space through which to lift her down, and, with Maggie's aid from below to lower her gently to the floor of the landing. " Is she dead ?" asked Maggie, fearfully. " No, no. She has fainted ; nothing more. A little water will revive her." " I saw a bottleful in one o' the downstairs rooms," said Maggie. " We will go down and get it," replied Ernest, lifting the girl's light form and remembering the night he had pulled her out of the snow and carried her to this house, which, but for the fidelity of the street ■m«er.

might have proved indeed " a living tomb."

I Maggie appeared to remember the location of the room in which she had seen the water, and led the way while, held closely against the heart in which every pulsation spoke of loyal, unswerving love for her, DorI othy began to show returning signs j of life, and uttered a faint sigh as he I gently laid her on a broad couch. Maggie, anxious to be of service, i had poured out a tumblerful of water . from the carafe and gave it into his hand.

He looked at it almost suspiciously and held it up to the rays of sunlight now streaming into the place above the heavy shutters securing the lower portions of the windows. Then he looked round the room, in which the preponderance of dust and cobwebs proved no preparation had been made for an expected guest. " Strange it should be here !" he said, as if reflectively. " I see no sign of food after so long a journey. Why neglect this and yet provide water ?"

He looked at it again, smelt it, and then raised it to his lips. Only for a second, though, for again a prolonged cry of fear rang in his ears and the next instant Dorothy had dashed the glass from his hand and was sobbing convulsively on his breast.

" You did not taste it, Ernest ?" she cried. " Tell me you did not taste it. It is poisoned—poisoned ! To save me you have endangered your life."

" I did not taste it, darling," he said, soothingly. " Fear nothing further, love. All your troubles are over : every barrier is removed. See here is Maggie—good, faithful Maggie—who has so nobly redeemed her promise." " Maggie !" Maggie indeed, kneeling at Dorothy's feet, kissing her hands, alternately crying and laughing hysterically, until raised by Ernest to be embraced with fervent gratitude by the girl who 'owed her so much, and to grow red and embarrassed under the even more emotional thanks of Dr. Trevedyn. " For had not Maggie tracked you in the motor-car," he said, " I might have gone back to London without forcing an entrance. It seemed incredible that a man could be such a fiend. No, no, dear, it is all over — forget it. I am going to take you to the village and telegraph to Ju to come down at once. And you will stay with Ju and Maggie until I can take you to my own home, Dorothy."

She could not realize her own coming happiness ; she could only cling to him as her one rock of safety, and shudder as she thought of the horrible sight which had so nearly scared away her reason. " Can you walk ?" he asked tenderly ; " or will you stay here with Maggie while I procure " " No, no, don't leave us," she whispered. " Pray don't leave us. Take us away from—from " " Come then, and fear nothing, love. You may trußt me to deal with Mr. Fanshawe ; he will never trouble you again."

CHAPTER XXVII. PARTNERS NO LONGER ? When Lemuel Panshawe, after leaving the Panhard at its customary resting place, returned in a hansom to Rutland Gate, it was to f»nd men engaged in laying down straw in the roadway, and to be informed by his manservant that the work was being executed under the orders of the doctor who was in attendance upon Mrs. Panshawe who was without doubt seriously ill. And then for the first time the iron nerve of the man suddenly quailed before the thought that the sacrifice of a third life seemingly lay between himself and the undisputed possession of all that he had sinned to retain.

For his wife's illness arose from no other cause than anxiety and fear —fear for himself, or for the daughter of the man she loved ? Not the former, he thought with a bitter, sardonic laugh. She had never cared for him and again he cursed the memory of his brother, and wondered why he need grieve, should she die

, through a mere sentimental weakness towards this girl, whom i>erhaps it had been safer to leave where he found her, singing in the streets. J Who could have anticipated such opposition ? Though doubtless only ; for that infernal Trevedyn there l would have been little difficulty in I marrying her to Clarence before any J one had time to raise aay theories | respecting her parentage.

Trevedyn ! Yes, he might give trouble yet. There was only one thing to do —to screw up his courage, return to Havillands, and remove all traces.

Dared he penetrate the attics ? He must. There was no help for it. Not until then would he be sase. For the rest Trevedjn had no proof. He had taken precautions that not one of his servants should see Dorothy's face during the few hours intervening between the return from Brick-street and the departure from Rutland Gate in the motor-car. Not even Clarence was in his confidence, and Florence's condition was brought about by pure conjecture and feminine apprehension of -a'hat might occur. Women were so eager to anticipate trouble. " A very grave case," was the pronouncement of the eminent physician whom he found at the bedside of his wife. " The poor lady has her conscious moments, and then has evinced great anxiety for your return, Mr. Fanshawe. It would be as well were you to remain within call lest she asks again to see you." Again Lemuel Fanshawe to3.d himself his wife had loved his brother. And then, she had at least been honest ; she had never professed fco love her husband. Why then, shoo'ld he feel troubled to hear her life hutig on a thread ? Was it her condition that, rested like a ton weight on his mimi, or was it the thought oil that lair, young girl whom he had so remorselessly doomed to so terrible ;i fate? " Pshaw ! the drug is pain! less—inrfnittmnw" faa wauttm.-md "ind

she forced my hand. I offered her fair conditions at first." Chafing at the enforced confinement though not daring to dispute the doctor's orders, he but ill endured the interval before the nurse came to say Mrs. Fanshawe had rallied slightly, and asked to see him. And something of the old feeling crept into his callous nature as she stretched out her hands and looked up at him with terror pictured in her eyes. " Why are you so anxious, dear ?" he asked, trying to speak sympathetically. " Doro —thy." The word came in so faint a whisper as to be almost unintelligible, and Lemuel Fanshawe, with the remembrance of his crime still red in his memory, tried hard to control himself as he bent his head lower to hide his features. " You have—found her ?" *' No, dear, no." " Are you sure ? Did you not look ?"

" No, dear. I have decided not to trouble any further, considering her unwillingness to remain with us." " Do you mean that ? Promise me —promise me jou will not"— " I will promise you anything you like, only you must not worry about unnecessary trifles. Think only of your own health Florence. Don't distress yourself about an ungrateful girl who should be here by your side returning the kind attention bestowed by you when she was ill." Yet as he spoke the words, their rank hypocrisy impressed even himself ; and while endeavouring to calm and soothe his wife, he ardently longed to get out of the room.

For was he growing feebler with the increasing years—deteriorating, losing determination and will power, becoming a prey to the womanish curse of nerves ? Any more than to avoid the attics and have the approaches to them securely fastened against intrusion, the thought of his wanton "taking oS" of his brother had never caused him an instant's remorse, a moment's disturbance ; but now the vision of Dorothy's fragile beauty standing there as he had left her in the dim, ghostly halflight, looking courageously at him out of her big, pathetic eyes, seemed a sight he could never erase from his memory ; and in spite of himself he could not keep away the reflection whether or not she had succumbed to the fiendish temptation of that carafe of cool, clear water, and if those grey-blue eyes reflecting Gilbert's were now glazed in death. The return of the nurse and entry of a maid bearing a telegram on a salver brought him the excuse he needed. " I have some business to attend to, Florence, dear," he said. " I hope to be allowed to see you again later."

" You— you are quite sure — Dorothy " " Quite sure, dear. Have no anxiety about her, I beg." He opened the envelope as he passed along the thickly-covered passages ; and as he did so every vestige of colour left his face. With great self-control he went on to his study, and then locked himself in, spreading the telegram open on his desk.

" Important that I should see you at once. Miss Eliot under my care at present. Should suggest your coming to Havillands if possible, as there are other matters to be gone into. "Trevedyn."

Lemuel Panshawe laughed hoarsely and all at once his eyes looked bloodshot, his face aged and haggard.

" Checkmate for you, doctor !" he cried. "By 'other matters ' you give me to understand you have elucidated the mystery of the attics ; and if only I dare cry ' Peccavi !' will afford me an opportunity to prove I am innocent. Pool—blundering fool that I am ! Had I left her in the front of the house he might have released her without penetrating further. Yet who could have imagined he would even have suspected her to be within the walls of Havillands ? WeU might Clarence tell me I didn't know Trevedyn ! Clarence ? Florence—should she live ? He would provide for them. They know nothing and by they shall never know ! At least the ' lawless blood' shall never turn to water, under fear of the justice it has defied. Nor will I live in subjection to the girl whelm I_ Well, it was her life or mine, and I have gone under. Kismet !"

Mrs. Panshawe rallied again late that night and asked for her husband. He had dined out, or so the servants supposed, to whom he had previously announced his intention of doing so ; but as the invalid's anxiets grew pronounced, some one thought he might have returned unnoticed and then it was found the study door was locked on the inside.

Repeated J nockings had no effect whatever ; but as night wore on all grew uneasy, and then, at Clarence's instructions, the door was forced open.

And when the lights were switched on they found Lemuel Fanshawe seated at his desk, his head bent down upon his arms, his face hidden from sight. For a moment the servants fell back, and Clarence went towards the silent figure, "a sensation of awe over all. " Dad ! Dad !"

And then the young man uttered a cry, for the arm on which he laid his hand was fixed and rigid ; and then in obedience to his gesture, the footmen came forward to raise the stooping form, it was seen that Lemuel Fanshawe had been dead some hours.

Away down on the coast of Cornwall, where the ozone from the stiff nor'-westers blowing in off the wild Atlantic mingles with the scent of roses and the fragrance of sweet wild flowers, Dorothy living in Mrs. Trevedyn's romantic old house, perched high on a cliff, dreams away the days until she shall be Ernest's wife, and tries to foreet the traeatbr from

the full realization of which she has been mercifully spared. For, summoned to London by the news of Mr. Fanshawe's sudden death —attributed by the medical man in attendance to " heart failure " Ernest took upon himself the entire adjustment of the deceased's affairs, assisted by his own family lawyer in whose hands the documents discovered in the attic were placed. These, contained in a leather case, which had defied the ravages of moths, rats and damp, and which was found at the feet of the skeleton among the debris of what were once his clothes, conclusively established Dorothy as Gilbert Fanshawe's legitimate heiress while papers and letters secreted in the iron-bound chest showed the means by which Lemuel had falsely represented his brother as dying in Australia, also his forgery of the letter shown to Dorothy. How that father met his death could only be conjectured. Lemuel had carried his secret to his grave, though Ernest shuddered to think his beloved might have met a similar fate only for Maggie's midnight ride in the motor.

Realizing she could never endure the sight of Havillands again, and wishing to spare her the pain of hearing the gossip so rife in the village consequent on the reverent burial of her father's bones, he carried her off to his mother, and speedily established Ju and Maggie in a cottage on his mother's land. They could return to " business " in the future, he said ; but until Dorothy was married she would be lonely without them, and they must rest and regain health in the meanwhile. And then a wonderful thing happened, for an industrious gardener fell in love with Maggie, and asked her to be his wife. But not for worlds would Maggie have deserted her partner, and the gardener was rejected, to retire crestfallen. But he returned to the attack, and then Ju, all her former authority coming back with increasing vigour insisted that Maggie should accept him.

" Yes, do, Maggie," chimed in Dorothy, "for I believe you love him, don't you ?" " I like him well enough," replied Maggie turning rather red. "Of course you do," retorted Ju. " It don't take half an eye to see it. Well, then, you've got to marry him. We're partners no longer, Mag, understand that. What are you cryin' for, stupid ?" "Why, Maggie, how can you cry when we are going to be married on the same day and in the same church ?" put in Dorothy. " Yes. You needn't look surprised ; but Ju and I have talked it over, and that's what we've decided. And Ju is coming to live with me in London until it is her turn to get married "

" And that'll never be," snapped Ju, whose heart was full, nevertheless. /

" Well, Ernest stfys you'll be invaluable to him to look after his surgery and all his nasty medicines, and—Oh, here is Ernest. We've settled it. The partners are partners no longer." " That may be superficially true, darling," he answered, looking at her with his soul in his eyes, " but nothing can ever separate our good friends in spirit. Am I not rignt, Ju ? Eh, Maggie ?" Tears stood in the eyes of both women ; their hearts were too full for words.

" You must hurry up with your trousseau, Maggie," be said, lightly. " Mrs. Panshawe is well enough to travel now, and is anxious to be present at our quiet wedding before going abroad with her son. Dorothy, are you happy in the prospect, dear one ?" *' So very, very happy." THE END.