From the Mill

Northland Age, Volume 3, Issue 22, 8 January 1907, Page 5

From the Mill

* * * TO * * * the Mansion, The Moorland Mystery. —►**_ — By HEDLEY RICHARDS. Author cf “The Fatal Blue Diamonds,” “Time, the Avenger,” &c., &c. PART 8. CHAPTER XV. A LATE VISITOR. ' “Bar. Fletcher !” exclaimed Parry, fie scarcely knew what he had expccied to hear, but most certainly it had not been the name of the man who had given evidence against Rachel. “Yes. It seems to floor you a bit. Who did you think had done it ?” said the boy, smartly. The detective recovered himself. “Never you mind what I thought. You’ve got to tell me why you did not speak up at the inquest ?” "Well, you see, Grannie knew Dan Fletcher’s mother in the long ago, afore he was born, an’ she’d have skinned mo if I'd told of him. Now, she'll see as how I couldn’t*.help myself.” he said, with a resigned air. “And what became of Rachel ?” asked Parry. “Well, now you'll open your eyes n bit wider when 1 tell you she just climbed that wally at the Stone House like a cat. I guess she found the places where I put my feet. Then when she was on top of the wall she catched hold of the branches of the tree, and I fancy she swung herself down into the garden ; an’ that’s the last I saw of her, as I’ll take my oath.” This answer tallied with the detective’s belief that Raohel had been an inmate of the Stone House, and inclined him to place more credence in the boy’s story, so after a moment's reflection, he said : “Now, Jim, I intend giving you some dinner. Then you’re going with me to the vicar’s, and you’ll have to tell him what you’ve told me, and 1 shall get a warrant for Dan’s arrest So take a seat there—that’s a comfortable easy-chair—and I shall stand between you and the door, while Mrs. Banks brings in the dinner, and T advise you not to try to escape,” said Parry. “Cracky ! do- you think I’m fool enough to try to run away from a dinner that smells prime ?” he answered, as the detective opened the door, and told Mrs. Banks to bring the dinner in. . In less than ten mimites Jim was seated at a small table enjoying his dinner of roast beef, greens, and potatoes, followed by a jam rolqy pudding. “My, » you’re not a bad sort to jive a fellow such a feed,” he said, .as he laid down his spoon. “All right. Show your gratitude by telling me everything you know about the murder,” said Parry. “That’s just it. I know nothing but what you’ve got out of me. I’m ns empty as an egg-shell,’’ said the boy. * “All right. Then you can look at that paper, it’s full of pictures, while i read my 'Daily News.' I'm not going out until dusk, and just remember the door is locked,” said the de-tc-tivr. ' You must think me mighty fly,” answered the boy, as he umfolded the paper ; but while apparently enjoying it he was in reality keeping a keen eye on the detective, who was quite aware of the fact. About four o’clock Parry told him to put his paper down, and get his cap on ; then, holding him firmly by the hand, the detective and Jim set off to walk to Bromley. It was q, foggy afternoon, and long before they reached the Stone House, the darkness had gathered, so that there was little danger of any one recognising ■ the incongruous couple. The vicarage stood at the outside of the village, nearer the moor, and as Parry turned in at the gate, Jim showed the first signs of being restive. “I say, couldn’t you tell the parson yourself ?” he said, holding back. “No, you’ll have to tell him ; and unless you want to go to prison you had better make a clean breast of it” said Tarry as he hurried him up the path. Ringing the bell at the front hall, he asked to see Mr. Moore, and a servant showed him into the study, where they were presently joined by the vicar, who was rather a Jovial man ; but on hearing that Parry was a detective, and the object of his visit, his face became grave, and he listened attentively to all the boy had to say. “You are certain that you are not making any mistake ? You know this man Fletcher ?” he said, when he had heard all. “Cracky, I should think I do, your riverence.” Without further delay the vicar drew up a warrant and gave it to the detective. “I shall give it to the inspector at o? :■<•. But I don’t want to take this boy with me ; still, I want to see and warn his grandmother that he will have to appear when Fletcher is brought before the magistrates, in Loughton, to-morrow morning.” The vicar looked at his watch. “I can spare half an hour. If you can do what you have to do in that ti , the boy can stay with me,” he “ihank you,” and Parry left the vicarage, cautioning the vicar who went with him to the door, not 1 o lose sight of Jim. Doing his busiii ns as expeditiously as possible, the < Vctivc returned to the vicarage, v Yre he found Jim sitting quietly . . ning to the vicar, who was expa! a ting on the advantages of absolute truthfulness. “I shouldn't wonder if the boy makc3 his way in the world ; he’s cute,” said the clergyman in a low tone.

the detective, as he and Jim turned out of the vicarage grounds. “Well, I s’pose we parts here,” Jim said, when they came in sight of Mrs. Bank’s cottage. “No ; I’m going home with you.” “What's that for ?” and Parry detected a ring of apprehension in the lad’s voi<ic. “I want to have a few words with your grandmother, and impress upon her the necessity of your being ready to catch the morning train to Loughton. No, I’m not going to let you go on ahead. So stop wriggling.” “I’m not wanting to go on afore you, but you needn’t hold so awful tight,” he answered, then relapsed into silence, which was not broken until they saw a faint light ahead of them. “That’s Grannie’s Palace,” said the boy, and before the detective realized his intention, he had freed himself, and flying steps could be faintly heard. Parry took to his heels and followed, hut as the lad was ever so much more fleet of foot ho reached the cottage fully three minutes before the detective, who found him waiting by the empty door. “What did you do that for ?” asked Part*}’' sharply. “I thought I’d tell Grannie to put the kettle on. Come in, an’ warm yourself. Ugh ! What a walk it was in the fog. Grannie, here’s Mr. Spot-’em-an’-lock-up,” he said, as the detective entered. “What’s the lad talking about?” asked an old dame, who was seated near the lire knitting. She had a crafty face, and Parry was not favourably impressed by her. “I suppose he means that I am a detective, and it’s true. T’ve come to tell mou that l shall be here at half-past eight in the morning. Your grandson has to go with me into Loughton in the morning.” “What for?” she asked, fixing her crafty eyes on him. "To give evidence when Dan Fletcher is brought before the magistrates. Jim saw him kill Mr. Noeriham.” “What is it. you’re saying ? Jim must be dreaming; it’s not Dan as would do it. Didn't I go to school with his own mother, and didn’t she bury her first two, an’ ye tollin’ me that Dan would be spared to do murder ? Sorra a bit of it. Do ye think that Dan’s mother, who was an Irish colleen like myself, would have a murthering son ? Not a bit of it !” “Look here, my good woman, whether you believe it or not, rcmcmhi'r that Jim must be ready to go with me in the morning, or it’ll be the worse for the pair of you. The law isn’t to lie trifled with,” said Parry sharply. “An’ I’m not. after trifling with it; but it’s real sorry for Dan I am. All the same, the boy will bo ready, because I’m afraid of getting into trouble.” “Very well; then remember, halfpast eight;” and with these words the detective departed. Meanwhile the inspector had waited until Dan had returned from the mill ; then, accompanied by a constable. he went to the cottage whore Dan lived. Gently tapping .pn the door it was opened by Dan, who surveyed them with surprise, and it was also evident he was alarmed. “What do you want ?” he said, blocking the entrance. “I’ll tell you what I want when I get inside,” replied the inspector, at the same time giving the door a push which enabled him to enter, followed by a constable. “You might be a policeman but that don’t give you the right to enter a man’s house,” said Dan, who had washed, and changed his clothes, and had evidently been having his tea when the interruption came. “We have come in tho execution of our duty. Daniel Fletcher, I arrest you on the charge of having murdered Thomas Needham, and before I read tha warrant I must warn you that anything you say may be used against you,” said the inspector. “Good Lord !” ejaculated Dan, who seemed both relieved and surprised. He had feared that he was arrested for giving false evidence with regard to Rachel, and if the truth was known he knew that ho could not clea~ himself, but the charge of murder he believed he could disprove. “I don’t mind waiting till you’ve finished your tea.” said the inspector. “I’d pretty nigh done, and your little job don't make one's appetite keen, though you’ve made a mistake, inspector. Becauso Rachel has turned out a great lady it don’t prove her innocence.” “We won't waste time talking about it ; so if you don’t want any more tea we'll just have time to catch the train to Loughton.” “All right;” and Dan took his overcoat off the nail ; then they stepped into the street, and as the inspector locked the door and put the key in his pocket, Dan said : T 'lt won’t be long before I’m back home.” Then he walked quietly up the street between the two policemen. A quarter of an hour later every one in the village knew that Dan Fletcher had been arrested for the murder of Mr. Tom Needham, and it was generally believed that he was guilty. Just about the time that the prison doors closed after Dan Fletcher, a part y of guests filed into the dining room at Hillside. It was the first dinner-party that Hargreaves had given since the tragic death of Tom Needham, as Edith had been in too great trouble to permit of such a thing; but Mrs. Hargreaves considered it was time she tried to rouse herself, particularly considering what had come out at the inquest. It was only a small dinner party, consisting of the vioar, who was an old bachelor, and Gertie Needham, who had, for the first time since her brother's death gone into society. Mr. Arkwright was also among the guests, besides the doctor and his wife. “I'm sorry your mother and father are not here, Gertie,” remarked Mr. Hargreaves, to her as she sat at his right hand. He was very fond of Gertie, and it was one of his dreams that Charley and she should marry; but he had been rudely awakened from it. Then the news came that Rachel was great and rich, and his desire that Gertie should be his son's wife had faded. Still, he liked her. “Mother says it will be some time before she eaa do any visiting,-- replied Gertie.

dered at,” replied Mr. Hargreaves. Just then the vicar who was a little way rrom ‘Shem raised hi 9 voice and addressing his host, he said : “Something straflge happened this afternoon. I had Detective Parry in. He wanted me to grant him a warrant, for the arrest of Dan Fletcher. It seems they believe that he, not Rachel, is guilty.” “Did you grant the warrant ? I wouldn’t. That man’s got a bee in his bonnet,” replied Mr. Hargreaves. “He’s a very clever fellow ; and if he’s asked for a warrant for Fletcher’s arrest he's good grounds to go on,” said Charley. “So I thought. In fact, he had with him a boy who had seen the deed done, but was afraid to speak because his grandmother had known Fletcher's people for a long-time.” “Who was the boy ?” asked Arkwright quietly ; but something in his tone made Gertie Needham, who had become very pale, steal a look at him, and she saw that, in spite of his quiet tone, he was really, very much disturbed. “James Nixon.' He lives with his grandmother near the Three Tuns—a sharp little fellow. Of course I told him he might have got into trouble for not speaking, but he’ll be let oil’ in consideration of the value of his evidence ; and this proves that Rachel, Lady Glynne, is innocent,” said the vicar, beaming on Charley. “Yes ; but it only makes her disappearance the more distressing. What can have become of the poor girl ?” said Mrs. Hargreaves, while Charley’s fa'ce showed that this news had rather added to his fears for the girl he loved.

‘"phis boy, Jim, says she climbed the wall near the door that leads into your garden at the Stone House, Mr. Arkwright, and let hersell down by the help of the branches of the trees.”

“Then the button was hers,” exclaimed Charley. Middleton Arkwright looked at the vicar as he said : “My dear sir, I don’t believe the young lady ever did anything of the kind. In the first place it would be a very difficult thing to do ; and in tho second she would have been seen by either Glue or his son, who at* that time of the year were constantly in the garden. And I am sure that neither they nor Mrs. Clue would receivo anyone into my house without, my consent, and they never asked for it.”

“Of course, a great deal will come out at. the examination. Anyhow, Fletcher is arrested, and will be brought before the magistrates tomorrow,” said the vicar.

That dinner and tho ‘couple of hours after were the longest that Middleton had ever known. Would Fletcher tell what he had seen ? And if he did would the magistrates believe him ?” were the questions he asked himself. At last the guests began to depart, and ho was glad to find himself on the way home, though he regretted that he had said tho carriage not be sent, as every moment was of importance. He must see the boy Jim that night and get him out of the way before morning if possible.

The boy had threatened him ; but after all, he had laid the blame on. some one elsc’s shoulders. What did it mean ? ho asked himself as he entered the Stone House ; and after a brief consultation with Mrs. Glue, ho went out again, unknown to the other servants, and going through the garden, he was soon on the moor and going quickly, but cautiously, to the Nixons’ cottage. There was a light in the room and he felt rqlieved. All the way there he had dreaded finding the house in darkness and the old woman and boy in bed. Mrs. Glue had told him that the woman was a widow. Tapping gently on the door, he waited impatiently until the bolt was withdrawn, and the door opened"; but before he could speak, a voice said; “Come in, sir, I expected you, or P should have gone to bed long ago.” Arkwright entered, then shut and bolted the door, and wont to the fire by which the old dame had seated herself ; then, standing on the worn, old rug, he looked at her as he said*, “Where’s the boy ?” “Jim’s gone to bed. It’s me as you'll have to deal with, sir. I knows all about it, an’ I told the lad when he came in that Apr-il night that he’d have to hold his tongue, seeing as Sarah Glue is my second cousin. I wasn’t going to get her into trouble, an’ I knew you’d make it up handsome to me in tho long run sooner than let your dear lady know ; but she died, so I waited, as I thought I’d like to be sure what had become of the girl, knowing as she was a great lady thero’d be a hunt for her, an’ I told Jim we’d hold our tongues. I knew he wanted to go for that reward ; but I frightened him, saying as he’d be imprisoned as 'cessory after tho deed was done. But I’d my own notions, and it was to wait ; then, if the girl did not turn up, I was going to drive a bargain with you. But sorra a bit of dealing with you would I have had while there was danger of the girl turning up. But the lad was caught by that detective chap, who heard what he said to you. Still, the lad had the wit to throw it on Dan Fletcher ; but he’s mortal afraid of facing the magistrates to-morrow” said the old woman. “He shall not do it. He must be far away before that timel” said the man. CHAPTER XVI, THE MASTER HAND. “He must go at once—this very night,” repeated Arkwright, emphatically. “That’s fine talking, but where’s the boy to go ?” said the old woman “He must go to London. I'll take a note to a woman who takes care of some warehouses of mine. He must stay there for a time, then afterwards I'll help him on in the world.” “You'll not be trying to get him out of the world ?” she said, leaning forward, and looking keenly at him. “Why should I? You know as much as he does, and ail I want is to get him away from here. You may trust me. A man doesn't go out of his way to commit a crime if he can make himself safe without, and the gold I can give you will silence you and the boy,” he said. She nodded. - “I don’t hold With what vouiv*

world won't bring the gentleman back, so sorra a bit will I tell any one.”

“Very well, it’s twelye o'clock now so it’s time the boy was awake ”

Without a word the old dame entered a room that joined the kitchen. In it were two beds, one for the woman and in the smaller one the boy lay, apparently asleep. A curtain divided the room, and, lifting it, she said ;

“Jim, you must get up;” but his slumber appeared so sound that she had to repeat his name several times then he sat up in bed rubbing his eyes and looking so sleepy that she would have been in spite of the knowledge of the lad, to hear that he had been listening with his ear to the keyhole, to what had passed between her and her visitor. “Get your clothes on, Jim. Mr. Arkwright’s here, an ’ he's something • pafticular to say—something as will keep you from facing the justices to-morrow,” she whispered. “All right, grannie. Go along ; I wort’t be a minute;” and true to his word, scarcely more than a minute elapsed before Jim entered the kitchen, and stood looking at Arkwright, who felt, that ho would have liked to crush the life out of the boy, but his face gave no indication of his feelings as he said : “Jim, you’ll have to go to London for your own good, and othens.” “I know, particular the good of the other party ; but how's I to get there? I've not got no wings;” and he shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll give you money, and I’ve written a note to an qld woman who takes care of some warehouses there—she and her granddaughter. You'll have to go from Deneford. There’s a train at six o’clock for the junction where you’ll catch the London train. I wish you could have got to Deneford in time to take tho •throe train. It’s attached lo the London express at the junction but t don’t see how you could manage tho twenty miles in three hours. It will take you all your time to do it by six in the morning.” “An' what am 1 to do when T gets to London *? 1 s'pose the King’s not going io. take me to live, with him, an’ make a.duke of mo ? M said Jim. “Look here, boy, you've got to lie low for a bit, then when the search for you is over, I’ll see to your future. I’m head of a great business in London, but all the world doesn’t know this, and I intend to give you a chance to make your fortune, Jim” “What if I say I won’t go ?” “Then, Jim, it will go hard with you. Dan might speak, I should say he would, and they might say you’d borne false witness,” said Arkwright “And what of you, mister ?” asked Jim. “Whatever you said would not injure me. Mrs. Glue and her husband and son can prove that at the very time young Needham was killed, my friend and I were playing cards in the library at the Stone House. Now, will you go ?” “You’re a clever 'un, you arc. I will go, but don’t you try no tricks on me, or I'll split.” “I’ve no intention of trying any tricks on you. Now, can you manage the twenty miles’ walk ?” “I don’t mean to try. There’s a fellow works at the Three Tuns as has a bicycle. He keeps it in a shed outside, and I'm going to borrow it” said Jim with a grin. “Can you ride?” asked Arkwright. “I should just think so. I asked this chap to lend it to me, but he wouldn’t, so I got a key as fitted the padlock on the shed door, an’ most nights this summer, while he’s been asleep in bed, I've had a spin down the lanes ; an’ I’m going t<? ride it into Deneford. I’ll leave it in a field aforo I come into the town ; but I’ll catch that three o’clock train.” “That’s good. Then you’ll be in London by soon after nine. Go out of the station, then ask your way. See, that's the place you’ll have to go to ; and when you get there give tho letter to the old caretaker,” he said, handing Jim a letter on which an address was written. The boy stuffed it into his trousers pocket. “All right, boss, and now I'm going to get the bicycle.” Ten minutes later Jim was at the cottage door with it, and Arkwright handed him thirty sovereigns which he deposited about his person then the former gave him thirty shillings in silver, telling him to pay for his ticket in silver. “All right. I'm off. Take care of yqurself, Gtannie ; you'll have to come and live in London afore long” he said, as he kissed the old woman ; then mounting the bicycle ho rode awaji, and the two stood at the door watching. The fog had lifted, and it was now a clear, star-lit night ; but the lad had his wits about him, and Arkwright believed he would reach London in safety. And so another danger was averted. The only fear was lest Dan Fletcher, in terror for his own neck, should tell the truth ; but as the master of the Stone House walked home, he told himself it wasn't likely. Nevertheless he resolved to attend the court the next morning. The next day was bright and sunny and Parry walked briskly towards the cottage where Jim lived with his grannie.

In spite of the fact that the boy’s statement had cleared Rachel, he had an uncomfortable feeling about it. Somehow he couldn’t help thinking that Middleton Arkwright was involved in the case, or what did the boy’s words to him mean ? Probably he had assisted Rachel to escape. Then where was she ? Parry shook his head. He had heard enough of the master of the Stone House to make him fear the girl would bitterly rue any help he had given her. By the time he had- come to this conclusion, Parry was standing at the door of the cottage, which was opened by the old woman. “Is Jim ready ?” le asked.

“I’d like to know where he is. Have you been here a ore I was up, and forced the boy to go off with you ?” she said. Parry pushed the door open and entered the cottage. “What do you mean ?” he aslked. “I mean that the boy's gone. When I got up this morning his bed was empty ; then when I came in here, there was no fire lighted, and I've never set eyes on him since he went .to bed last night.” Without « word Parry walked ipto

of Jim. “Now, then, tell me the truth !” he said, gripping the old dame's shoulder. . “Shure, an’ it’s the truth I've told you,” she said, without meeting his gaze.

At that moment the door of the cottage was flung roughly open, and a young man dashed in. “Where’s that Jim of yours? He’s stolen my bicycle,, and I’ll give him a thrashing as sure as he's born, even if ho’s done it no harm !” he shouted.

“Who told you he'd taken your bicycle ?” said the old woman. “On,e of the lasses saw him ride past the inn on it, and they say it’s not the first time they’ve had it out but they like the little imp, so they held their tongues. Now he’s got me to settle with, the thieving little beggar !” replied the young fellow. “I’m afraid you won't see your bicycle just now. Jim had to give evidence before the magistrates at Loughton in regard to the murder of Mr. Needham ; but he's shown a pair of clean heels. However, there’ll be a warrant out for his arrest, so you may learn what has become of your bicycle. And now I’m going into the village to catch the next train that stops there,” said Parry, as he went towards (he door. “You'll have a job to catch Will-o’-th'-wisp,” replied the fellow. “We’ll see;” and with these words the detective left the house. Two hours later Daniel Fletcher was brought before the magistrates at Loughton charged with the murder of Thomas Isherwood Needham. The little court-house was crowded and among those present were Charley Hargreaves and Middleton Arkwright. Fletcher, who appeared unconcerned and quite easy, pleaded not guilty. Then the name of James Nixon was called and after a minute had elapsed, the detective went into the witness-box, and informed the magistrates that the boy had decamped.

After this the justices consulted with each other, and finally the vicar read the statement the boy had made which had induced him to grant the warrant ; and after a little more discussion the prisoner was remanded, bail being refused. A warrant was also issue# for Jim’s apprehension, and the proceedings terminated.

On the way back to Bromley, Charley and the detective, who had secured a carriage to themselves discussed what had ’happened. “What do yoa make of the boy’s objection to gjhve evidence?” asked the former.

“I think the- boy's only told half the truth, and I wonder if he hasn’t Ibied it «2fi the wrong man. I cannon get it out of my head that Mrs. Glue, and her husband know more nbout the affair than they are willii/jg to tell. At any rate I'm inclined to think that someone has helped thw boy to get away. By the way, we re Mr. Arkwright and young Needhrtfn good friends ?” asked the detective. “Yes. That is to say, Needham liked him about as well as I do. I daresay they were even a little more friendly. Arkwright is not popular* here ; all the same he's no grudge against poor Tom, so you needn’t connect him with the crime, even if you think the Glues are implicated” said Charley. On arriving at Bromley, Parry got a trap and drove over the moor and finding that Jim had not returned home, he drove over to Deneford and keeping his eyes wide open, he discovered the bicycle a mile out of tho town in a deep ditch by tho roadside half hidden by some thorn trees. At the station he learned that a boy, such as he described, had left by, the three o’clock train, after taking a ticket for London. This latter item convinced Parry that the boy was in collusion with some one, and whoever that person was, he or she had provided the money for the journey.

“Well, I s'pose this is the place, and a rummy spot it looks,” muttered Jim Nixon, as he stepped on to the green shiny boards at the wharf.

He had arrived in London at nine o’clock in the morning, and it had taken him the whole day to rehch his destination. In fact he had been so interested by what he had seen in the great city, that he would not have troubled himself to discover the wharf, if he had not been afraid of being taken up by every policeman he saw. and conveyed back, ignominiously to his old home.

Ho had been sorry to leave his grandmother, Jjut it was something new and exciting to find himself in London with his pockets full of money ; and if he could only have felt sure the police would not bestow undue attention upon him, he would have lingered. But prudence forbade it, and now, about six o’clock in the evening he approached his new home.

It was a murky night, &nd the lad could only distinguish the outline of some big buildings ; but there was not a gleam of light until he had gone some little distance, then he saw a streak of light that seemed to come from an upper window, and below it a door. “I guess this must be' the place : anyhow, I’ll try,” he thought as he knocked loudly on the door. "It's a creepy sort of ylace to live in,” he reflected as he heard the lapping of the waters against the boards not many yards from him. Then, as no answer came, lie knocked louder, and in a minute ho heard a sound like a board being moved, then a light flashed in his face making Mm blink his eyes and call out. “Cracky ! What are you a-doing that for ?” he asked. “Who are you, and what do you want ?” asked a shrill, girlish voice. “I’ve been sent here by somebody who wants me away from Bromley just now,” he said, as he saw a pair of eyes looking at him through a grating. “Did you bring a letter or anything ?” she asked after a moment.

“Yes,” and he thrust it through the grating. The light was withdrawn, and he waited patiently outside while the girl read the letter, then he heard some bolts drawn back, a key turned and the door was opened. “Come in,” said the girl ; then she shut the grating in the door, and drew him to the other side of the room. which he saw was aMMHKs.

even floor. At one side a flight of stairs ran up, and at the other end was a door. “Cracky !• This is a rum place. Grannie’s cottage wasn’t exactly a palace, but this is a creepy sort of hole,” he said, looking round. The girl did not speak. She had flashed the light from the lantern full on his face, and was taking in every detail. “Well, now, miss, if you’ve done looking at me, I should like to see the old lady who’s to welcome me with open arms,” said Jim. “She’s out, and I think it’s lucky for you she is,” said the girl slowly. Then she added ; “He says you know what Rachel Holdsworth knows;” and she looked at Jim. “That’s true; an’ the detective got hold of me, but grannie made me vow I wouldn’t tell what I’d seen. She’d her own little game to play, so I told Mr. Spot’em, that’s the detective, that it was Dan Fletcher as did it, an’ they arrested the chap ; an’ 1 was to give evidence this morning, but Mr. Arkwright told me I must make myself scarce. And he gave me that note; but I cannot say as I’ve got a very fond greeting,” he said, with a grin.

“What did the man who sent you here say was to become of you?” she asked, ignoring his word*.

“He said, as he was the head of a big business, and would help me to be rich, and make my way in tile world,” replied Jim. She laughed a bitter, little laugh.

“Make your way out of the world, he meant,” she said, in a low tone ; then she turned the light of the lantern on her own face, saying : “Look at me, and see if you think you can trust me ?” Jim did look, and saw a thin face that looked very sad, and a pair of beautiful grey eyes, that made him feel he could trust their owner. “Yes, you look a good sort, one as wouldn’t cheat a chap.” “Good !” and there was bitter* scorn in her voice. “There ain’t no goodness at tho wharf. It’s the abomination of wickedness the Bible talks about. There’s awful things done here: Do you know what that letter says ? It’s written in cipher, so that if you’d opened it you’d have been no wiser, but it says : ‘The bearer knows about the affair on the moor. He must die, you know how, and let there be no delay. My safety demands it.’ ”

“You don’t mean to say as he wrote that ?” said Jim. “Yes ; and it would be better for you than living to do his work,” she said, pausing a moment ; then she continued : “I loved a lad. A \h. he was a fine lad. and that man got him in his clutches, and ho did his work till something dreadful happened and he was going to tell the police some things as would have stopped further harm, but ho was set on and nearly killed. They left him for dead outside the wharf, but I got him in shelter, and tended him for a few days, then he died.”

“And it was Arkwright as set ’em on him ?” said the boy in q, questioning tone. “Yes ; and for the sake of the lad I loved I’m going to get you away from here.' l

“But you live here, an’ they don't hurt you,” said the boy. ‘;No. I've been brought up here. My, Grannie knows all about them, and they daren’t. But she’d be hard as nails with you. My mother was her eldest child, and she married a good fellow ; but they’re both head, and Grannie took me. My father’s aunt—l call her Aunt Becky—wanted me. She’s a rare good one, and I’ll take you to her. You’ll be safe there. Grannie doesn't know that I even know where she lives. It all happened by chance.” Before Jim could reply, tho girl shut the lantern, and, whispering : “Hush ! She’s coming !” she pushed the boy into a cupboard under the stairs, and shut the door fast ; she then fled lightly up stairs, and at the same time he heard a single knock on the door which was repeated three times, an interval elapsing between each knock.

A minute elapsed, then Jim heard the girl descend the stairs and opeu the door, then a woman’s voice* said : “Has a boy come while I’ve been out “No ; did you expect any one ?” the girl answered, as she fastened the door.

“I didn’t when I went out, but I’ve seen. Mr. Railton. He was coming here. It seems that a boy over at Bromley got to know something that is dangerous to Harvey, so he’s sent him to London, promising- to make his fortune, and he had to bring a letter to me."

T 'ls he going to become one of the boys ?” asked Nancy. “No ; Railton says he knows too much for that. He’s to go to Davy Jones's locker,” said the woman, and the boy in the cupboard heard a heavy step ascend the stairs. “Grannie, if I were you, I’d have nothing to do with him,” Nancy called out.

“Oh, I daresay ; and let Harvey get into trouble. Just you understand I’ll have no nonsense. When the boy comes bring him upstairs. And now, don't be all night fastening the door.” A minute later the door of his cupboard was opened, and Nancy whispered :

“Keep quiet. I’ll let you out as soon as she's-asleep, and take you to a safe place;” then she shut the door and ran upstairs, while poor little Jim—Will-o’-th’-Wisp—wished he was back in his grannie's cottage on the moor, and in his heart he vowed to be revenged on the man who had lured him to what would have been his death, but for the strange girl's kindness ; and as he sat crouehing in the dark cupboard two feelings took root in his heart—the one was gratitude to the girl, the other bitter hatred of the man who had cheated him. To be Continued.

Linotype machines are toeing installed at the Bank of England, and in future the addresses on the dividend notices sent out will be printed, instead of written by hand. The Ameer of Afghanistan has ordered three cavalry regiments to be recruited ftom the sons of loading khans. The respective troops will have horses of different colour <

The Khyber Pass is strategically one of the most important points in all Asia, and round it has raged many, a great battle, for with it under control an army has at its feet the great and fertile plains which have made the Peari of the East, tho peninsula of India, famous in song and story. The pass itself begins ten miles west of Peshawur, one of the most important of the military stations in India, and it extends .'l3 miles north-west to the plain of Jelalabad. It is the only route between the Punjab and Afghanistan available for a large army with heavy guns, though there are other passes which might be forced by an enterprising enemy travelling in light order. It is towards the Khyber that the ey<*s

envy the British the possession of India are always turned, and by it all tin* great invasions of India since the time of Alexander the Great have taken place. Alexander's Macedonian army marched between its cliffs which tower above tin* Pass to a height of

times, tho Pass was tho scene of the appalling disaster of 1842, when the Afghans almost annihilated a British

army endeavouring to retreat from Kabul to India. In the late seventh's our long negotiations with the Amir of Afghanistan largely centred round the control of the Pass, which ultimately was ceded to Great Britain! To most people, however, the Pass! is best known as the place where Lord Roberts accomplished some of the most daring deeds.in the history

of recent Indian frontier warfare, Roberts was in command of the British army at Jelalab&d which had forced the pass with little opposition. The Afghans signed a treaty of peace but there was no belief on Roberts' part of the bona fidos. Roberts was right. Sir Louis Cavagnari was murdered in Kabul, and tho fiery cross, or its equivalent routed the Amir’s hordes. The fighting *• as fierce, but Roberts, gallantly aid'd by a' band of heroes, which included tho 72nd and 92nd Highlanders won Charasia and other victories. It was

on that field that, Major White (now Sir William White of Ladysmith fame) and Hector Macdonald acted the parts of heroes. But to tell the story of the following events in detail would be a large task. The- Khyber again became a place of tragic importance in the period that followed the disaster to General Burrows at Mai wand, when half the British force fell, and the garrison at Kandahar was invested. With insufficient troops the Khyber had to be held, Kabul kept in occupation, and Kandahar relieved. Roberts was the man to do it. Handing over Kabul to stout old Sir Donald Stewart, Roberts formed his flying column. Cutting himself off from his base, he vanished from the ken of the civilized world. He and his devoted men had a trying ordeal among the moumains —an ordeal few* armies would have borne, until, appearing suddenly at Kandahar three weeks later, they relieved the town. Meanwhile Kabul and tho Khyber were held, and the situation was saved.

Since then there has been many an emeute in that region, but by the making of military roads and "ailways in the region the British facilities for concentrating an army quickly in the vicinity of the Khyber have been greatly enhanced. Under Lord Kitchener, a vigilant watch is kept on the Pass, for there lies the koy to India‘Dundee Telegraph. ”