A GAME OF CHANCE.*

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXIV, Issue 8056, 17 September 1887, Page 3 (Supplement)

A GAME OF C HANCE. *

BY EtiL\ J. CURTIS ("SHIKLIEV smith"), Author of "Tho Favourite vl Fortune,' 1 "All for lloraeM," "Ills Last Stake," Ac., &c. CHAPTER LXIX. SOMETHING KTTEH THAN " MOTOAL AC CO.MMOUA.TION." Surprise, and a not altogether unreasonable sense of alarm, struck Letty dumb. Now that she was awake again, was her brain affected—was it a phantom and not Otway in the flesh ? How came ho in her room when she had seen him step into tho train that was by that time forty or fifty miles from London? Was it all a dream? The appointment she heard made the night before —the miserable hours she had spent that day waitiug for his return—the scene p.t Charing Cross—thedrife back to Rutland Gate—wan it all a bad, horrible dream, or was she dreaming now ?

She got up, pushed back her hair, and passed her hand across her eyes, as if to dispel the sense of unreality ; but Otway did not vanish a3 a phantom is bound to do ; he simply said in the most matter of fact voice, " You look surprised to seo me. Perhaps i ought not to intrude upon you in this room without permission ; we stand on such ceremonious terms, that an apology seems necessary. But if I may stay for a few minutes—''

" You are very welcome," she answered, in a voice that sounded strange even in her own ears. "I—l did not know you were at home."

" Yes ; I know. I left word that I was not coming back to dinner ; 1 was due at Gravesend an hour ago, and 1 meant to run down from Charing Cross; 1 went thereto see Mrs. Ogiivey off, to join some friends in the Engadiue (she sleeps at Dover to-night, and crosses in the morning), but I changed my mind and sent a telegram instead." As he was speaking, he struck a match and lighted the candles on the chimney piece ; then he watched Letty closely, and saw the look of relief that gradually overspread her sweet haggard face, and she gave a deep sigh. " I was at Charing Cross," she said, so low that he scarcely caught the word?. " And I saw you there with Mrs. Ogiivey." " You were at Charing Cress he repeated. " Why did you go there?" Siie did not answer.

" Letty ! I insist upon knowing,"hesaid, in a tone of command. " Remember, lam your husband and I have a right to be obeyed." J-ho flushed deeply as she went a step or two closer to him. " You forget, do you not," she said, "the terin3 upon which we agreed to live together ? Besides," she added, •' if you got a letter I left for you, you can guess why I went."

He smiled ay he looked into her troubled face. "And did you really think that Mrs. Ogilvey and I were going co run away together? I should like to know how such an absurd idea came into your head." " I orerheard part of yoar conversation with hor on the balcony last night," answered Letty. boldly. " I was not eavesdropping !" she addod, quickly. " I was closa behind you at the open wiudow ; if you had turned your head the least bit in the world you must have seen me—'

"I saw you as it was, 1 ' replied Otway, quietly, " but I did not think you could hear what wo said. Indeed, lam sure now you did not hear all, or you would not have made such a mistake. However—all's well that ends well, you know. Mrs. Ogilvey is on her way to tho high Alps ; 1 am hero at home. Have you nothing to say to me ?" She hesitated a moment before she replied ; then she said, " My letter explained everything."

"Oh! there are letters and—letters," ho answered. "What letter are you alluding to now

"I know of but one," she returned, surprised at the question. "Wo are not in the habit of writing to one another, 1 think." " No ; but X fancy you can write a very charming letter if you tried, and the one you loft for me to-day was not amiss in some respects, although you were under a delusion when you wrote it; but there is one passage in it that requires explanation, or it may be that I am too stupid to under stand it."

" I tried to make it very plain," said poor Lctty. She did not understand the tone Otway was taking ; ho had seated himself in an cacy chair, and looked as if he meant to stay for some time ; she stood ->y her writing table facing him, and idly fingering every« thing within her reach.

"Icame up hero this afternoon to write you a note," he said, and I am afraid I tumbled the things about a little. 1 must apologise." " I saw no note," Latfcy begau, "No ; it was not written. I found something very interesting, at least to me ; aud, by the time I had examined it, it was too late to write; I had to bo off to Mrs. Ogilvey." " Was it my new pen holder that interested you?'' Lstty asked, as she looked about, wondering what he had found. * Otway laughed. "No; something better than that. Do you know, child," he went on, aftor a pause, "I cannot help being amused at your idea that I was going to olope with Caroline Ogilvey ! Do you mean to tell me seriously that yon think I am in love with her ?■'

Lctfcy made no answer, and her eyes were not raised.

" Look at me," he said, " and tell me the truth. When you heard ua talking on the balcony last night, did you think I was in love with her ?"

"Yea." was the answer, very low. Then more confidently, as the beautiful eyes full of wistful sadness were raised to his face. "I did not think it unnatural. Do not suppose I blamed you ; but I was very sorry you did not tell me you wanted to be free. The delay would not have been vory long, and I—I—" her voice broke suddenly. " What do you mean by thoae words in the letter you left for me?'■ he asked, abruptly, and ho rose as he spoke, and stood before her. "You said, 'I think only of your happiness.' What do you mean by my happiness? Did you think of it on our wedding day when you thrust me from you with loathing and. contempt In your face? My only crime was to love you so well that I was your humble, devoted slave! You little knew the pain, the cruel, bitter anguish you inflicted upon me that day, and yet you talk of my happiness ! The wound you made has never healed, for only the hand that inflicted it can make it whole ! But the day you loft me at Richmond, I swore that you should kneel at my feet and ask for my love before I took you back to my heart again, and a hundred times at least I have been on the verge of breaking my oath ! My love for you would not—will not die! It is thrust into the background of my life because I dare not give it expression. I

The Proprietors to the Nbw Zkalamd Herald have purchased the Hole right to publish this i«tory In the Worth Inland of New Zealand.

could not risk a second repulse like the first. Bat Caroline Ogilvey found out my secret, and she implored me last night not to let pride stand in tho way of my happiness, but lam a coward; I am afraid to say, Letty, 1 love you !" He never took his eyes from her face as he poured out these mingled reproaches and protestations, and as she listened, she turned from pale to red—her hps parted, and her heart was beating so wildly that.she could scarcely breathe; gradually her eyes, in which the sadness had given place, first to surprise, and then to joy unspeakable, were lifted again to his face. They met his, which were speaking a language she never hoped to hear, and glowing with a light she never hoped to see again, and, with a faint cry, she threw herself on her knees before him, covered her face with her hands, and in a voice husky with fast coming tears, oricd out, "Oh Herbert, forgive me; with all my heart I love you ; and if you do not care for me, I should like to die !"

To such an appeal bub one answer was possible from him. The words themselves ; the tone in which they were uttered, rang so true that they thrilled him like martial music ! Ho took her hands in his in a close, imperative clasp, and, raising her to her feet, he clasped her ,to his heart in a long, silent embrace. Truly, the thoughts oil both were too deep for words !

"Lctty, is it true?" he whispered at last, as with one baud he pushed the disordered hair off her forehead, and looked earnestly into her beautiful, shy eyes. " Does my wife love me at last ? Is my life to be at last worth living, or am I dreaming one of those happy dreams from which I have so often wakened to find myself a lonely and disappointed man ? My darling ! My own precious one! Mine at last! Oh, say, with those sweet eyes looking into mine, that you love uie."

" I say it with all my heart, Herbert, Oh, do not doubt me any more." "Do you know, my Letty," ho said, presently. "1 think I have been a great fool-"

" L know I have," she interrupted. "It was noo your fault; you had but too good reason to be angry with me." " And when did you find out that you did not dislike me, my darling "Oh, a long time ago! The day you scolded me so dreadfully in Halkin-strcet! Don't you remember ?" He nodded aud laughed. "You looked so—so handsome and so angry, and you made so little of me ! You were so masterful and scornful, and I longed to rush into your arms aud ask you to forgivo my folly, and love me again. I was your wife, you know ; there would have been no harm in it."

" Harm ! The harm was in not doing it! Why did you not? Oh, you foolish Letty !" "Because you said so positively you were learning to despise mo. I was afraid you would not like it."

" My darling ! It was what children call a big story ! Despise you ! I may have tried, but I did not succeed. I used to long, to pine for you ! i was weary for the sight of you ! Oh, if you knew what I felt the day I found you at Miss Masham's ! But I was in such mortal dread of a second rebuff that 1 tried to be cold and proud ! ' "And so you were! You did not seem afraid of anything I You were satirical and contemptuous and—"

" Desperately in love !" ho interrupted, kissing her. " And now I want to know why, when you wrote this letter, you did not send it?" and ho took from his pocket the note he found in her blotting-book, and held it before her. "I found it to-day, and it was heart-breaking to know that nearly a year ago you signed yourself ' my loving wife!' Why did you not send it, you cruel girl 1"

She nestled her head upon his breast while his arm encircled her in a close embrace. " You known now," she whispered. There was silence for some minutes her face was half-hidden from him, and be felt, rather than kuew, that tears were stealing down her flunhed cheeks.

" Letty," he said at last. She looked up. "Now that I am on the high road to happiness, 1 begin to fell hungry ! Do you think tiiero is any dinner to be had ?" "I never thought of dinner!" she cried. " Please let mo ring and order something."

And that was how the long estrangement ended, and a long honeymoon began.

CHAPTER LXX. IN THE GARDEN HOUSE.

"I have an extraordinary piece of news this morning," said Sir John about a week later. "Herbert writes to say that he and Letty are off to America in a day or two for a tour in the States, to wind up with Florida, to pay his brother and your sister, Amy, my dear, a visit. Otway writes in the wildest spirits : never was so happy in his life. 'My darling Letty sends her love and a thousand kisses.' Fancy a man writing that." "And I have a letter from Letiy herself." said Miss Lambton. "She writes in capital spirits, too. Says she is looking forward with great delight to the American trip." " Does she call him him her darling Herbert asked Sir John.

"No, but she speaks of hor dearest husband."

" That is all right," and Sir John laughed again. " 1 consider that all the credit of bringing those twotogf-ther belongs to me," said Mrs. Erskine. " Don't you think it does, dearest Sir John ?"

"I think you desire credit for everything that is kind and sensible, my love," he answered. " How do you feel to-day ? Had you better night ? You begin to look more like yourself again ; but you must go out more ; it is very bad for you to be shut up in this way."

She gave a little shudder that was not affected. 41 Oh, no 1" she said. "I cannot go out ! I am so afraid of seeing that madman again ! You do not know the half of what I went through that day." " My darling girl, I think you behaved in the most spirited and courageous manner ! and I shall never forgive myself for leaving you alone with him. Good heavens ! 1 often think if the fellow had been armed. One never knows (Summer told me that) when homicidal mania may be developed in a diseased brain."

" Are you quite sure he has not como back to the town ?"

" I think we may be quite sure. If he is hero he is keeping very quiet; but, then, he knows that if he breaks out again as he did here the other day, he must be shut up. There is one thing I want to say to you, my dear girl : I think now, as I thought when you know Pottiuger was coming to see you, that, if you have the slightest clue to Rossitur's address, you ought to give it to him. After all, she is his wife, you know." " But why should I deliver the poor woman over to the tender mercies of a mad husband? I believe he would kill her. I have no reason to show her much consideration, for she treated ma very badly, but I could not do her such an ill turn. Besides, Ido not know where she is now; she was certainly in Great Centre Bridge in the spring, for she went to the Hermitage, to see Walter ; forced herself upon him, he Hays." Ah ! he says, I should like to know what Rossitur has to 3ay about it." "My dearest Sir John, why are you so suspicious? Rossitur is not to be depended upon. She would tell one thing to you and another to me. And if lam satisfied, is it not enough ? She did force herself upon Walter, just because he admired her, and used to flirt with her a little when she was my maid, in Calcutta. But all the young men did the same, Roasitur has not the slightest hold upon Walter." " And you do not think he knows where she is, or that he goes to see her?" "I am perfectly certain that what he knows of Rossitur, I know also ; but I am not going to betray the unfortunate woman to her husband. Oh ! how weary I am of the whole thing. I wish I bad never come to England to be so worried. Aunt Louise says I ought to be able to tell whether that child at the Rectory is Rossitur'a or not. How can I tell ?"

"Never mind, my darling. Of course, you cannot tell. I must get you away to Scarborough and brace you up," " Walter thinks we might be married quietly, very quietly, while we are away," she said, in a slightly embarrassed manner, " and then he would take me abroad for the winter."

"My dearest girl. Must I lose you so soon again ? I think lie is very inconsiderate to hurry you so. You do not want to be married before next spring, do you, Amy ?" I think spring would be time enough," she answered. " But I cannot think of anything while that man is at liberty, to come and worry and frighten me. Oh! if he were but shut up again." " And he must be shut up, if he does anything outrageous," said Sir John. "Make your mind quite easy on that point, my dear. 1 am not going to have you worried and tormented while I have oower to prevent it."

But, at the very time this discussion took place, Pottinger was living, It might be said biding, at Little Centre Bridge. When he was tamed away from the Chase by Mrs. Erskine's orders, he exerted all his power of self-control and restraint to keep from violence, well knowing that any transport of rage or excitement would at once consign him to the asylum he had so lately quitted. And ha was certainly on the verge of insanity, when he found himself expelled with ignominy from the presence of ,the woman he bad boldly claimed as his wife/but not too far gone to be unable to think with some amount of coherence upon what had taken place. "If she is not Bella," he said to himself, " lot Bella be produced, I have been mad for so long, I may be under a delusion ; and if she is Bella, where is my master's widow? That is tbe puzzle. If she is alive she would bo here; if she is dead, Sir John would know it. 'I must be mad, and yet—and yet —if a man does not know his own wife, or mistakes another woman for her —well, he must be mad."

He went back to London ; gave up the lodgings he had taken for his wife, and went back to Little Centre Bridge, with no definite purpose in his mind, except that of watching Mrs. Erskine and Walter Duncombe. And the better to carry out that design, he disguised himself before ho started with a bushy black beard that entirely covered the lower part of his ftice, and dressed himself, not like a servant, but a workman. And, under the shelter of his altered appearance, he was, at the very time his condecc and his whereabouts were beiug discussed by Mrs. Krikine and her father-in-law, working in the great kitchen garden of the Chase, one of the half-dozen men who were employed by Sir John all the year round.

It was by one of those curious chances which now and then take place that he got the situation. An advertisement in the Stoneshiro Mercury, for a "couple of handy men," appeared the morning after he reached the town ; he applied at once ; was engaged, and set to work directly. And there, under the very eyes, so to speak, of Mrs. John Erskine, he spent his days, keeping his mouth shut and his eyes open. During the first week he heard incidentally that the "young mistress" was unwell and confined to her room, ia consequence of a fright she had from a madman, who had escaped from <1 lunatic asylum, and the police were on the look out for him to have him shut up again. He was a lunatic and no mistake, one of Pottinger's fellow workmen said, for he wanted to claim the young mistress and Sir John's grandson for his wife and child. Pottinger listened, and said nothing; indeed, he soon became remarkable for his silenoe, and went by the nickname of " Dumb Harry." Ho had given the name of Harry Millar, when he applied to the gardener for work.

The day after the last mentioned conversation between Sir John and his daughter-in-law, Harry Millar, looking up from his work at the sound of voices, saw coming directly towards him, Mrs. John Erskine, and, beaide her, Walter Duncombe. They were engaged in very earnest conversation, and neither of them as much as glanced at the man with the beard and the restless eyes who touched his hat in a fartive and half sullen manner as they passed. Mrs. John was speaking. "I dare not venture into the wood again," she said. "He might be lurking about there; this is the safest place. There is no one to hear what wc say," They walked on, and Dumb Harry watched them until they disappeared into a rarely used summerhouse at the top of the garden. And the following day, and for the rest of the week, at the same hour every afternoon they made use of the deserted garden house for a prolonged tcle-a-tcle ; certain there, if nowhere else in the house and grounds, of being safe from interruption. Bat an unsuspected listener was close at hand. Every day, about tea minutes before the pair appeared in the garden, Dumb Harry left his work, and while they remained in the summerhouse, he remained undiscovered behind it. And through the narrow chinks between the boards of which the house was built,the voices were heard, sometimes distinctly ; sometimes the reverse.

And much they said was unintelligible, even when the words were not lost; and many times he heard his own name mentioned and a man far more stupid, and lees interested than he, could have told that the pair were lovers ! If they but kuew who was so near ! It seemed to Pottiager sometimes that he must unconsciously betray himself I But his self-commaud was greater than he knew, and the man and woman whom he watched so eagerly were too much absorbed in one another and in the nature of their conversation to suspect the presence of the one eavesdropper in the world who was most to be dreaded by them ! Had it been otherwise, one or tho other glancing aside might have noticed the wild and savagely gle:«uiing eyes that were glaring at them, from behind the refuge they thought so uafe and so unapproachable. And while, during those interviews, he lurked unseen, and the rage of a mad jealousy grew to an almost ungovernable height, Pottinger gave up for ever the idea that a delusion had turned his brain.

CHAPTER LXXI. TUB MAN WITH THE BEARD.

The Bummer was beginning to wane, and the day was at last fixed for Sir John, Miss Lambton, Mrs. Erskine and her boy to leave for Scarborough. Mrs. John had opposed the plan »3 long as she could find any reasonable objection to make , to it ; but she gave in at last. It was but too evident to all those about her (although she would not admit it herself) that she was suffering from extreme nervousness and restlessness, and that change was becoming absolutely necessary.

She made an immense effort, that was plain enough also, to appear the calm, indolent, sell-possessed fine lady who had, in the course of a few weeks, usurped gentle Miss Lambton's place in the housefascinated Sir Johu, made him the slave of her. whims And fancies, and set the tongues of Little Centre Bridge, and the neighbourhood, wagging either in praise of her beauty, or abuse of her haughty, scornful manner. She had not, it is true, resigned in favour of Miss Lambton, nor relaxed in her efforts to keep Sir Johu enslaved by her charms ; but she was changed in many ways, and her anxious and devoted father in-law put it all down to the way she had been terrified by that " mad fellow Pottiuger," and he blamed himself for having brought the man about the house. But the bracing air of Yorkshire would soon, he said, make his favourite like her old self again ; and, if it would make her happy to marry Duncombo, and to go abroad with him, why—he must sacrifice his own feelings, aud let her go. It was the fate of old people to bo aloue and lonely ; and ho must not repine as long as he had the boy. Several of Mrs. Erakiue's habits had changed of late, and among them hor habit of lata rising ; she was now the first to appear, and, because she said it amused her to give out the letters, Sir Johu allowed her to have the key of the post bag, and to distribute its contents. His correspondence, good man, was open to all the world, and Miss Lambton's was the same. And, for the matter of that, so also was Mrs. John's, but the state of feverish expectancy in which she lived made her watch even the contents of the' post bag ! It was a brilliant morning, about the middle of August-. Breakfast was laid in a small room in the front of the house, generally used by the family when they were quite alone ; and through the open windows could be seen three or four men. one of whom was Dumb Harry, raking and rolling the gravel outside ; aud, for the first time, Amy noticed the man with the big beard. " What an odd-looking man that is," she said to Sir John. "Isho a now comer ?"

"lhat is Millar; a man Campbell picked up somewhere," Sir John answered. "A very good workman, but a morose, silent fellow, they tell me. Ah ! Here comes the bag at last ! Now, Amy, my darling, here is your key ? ' She gave out the letters and papers one by one. There were two from New York : one for Sir John and one for Miss Lambton. These were eagerly opened, and the readers of them were so absorbed in their contents that the sudden fall of the now empty letter bag from Mrs. John's hand, was quite unnoticed. As it slipped from her, she sank down, quite unable to stand, from the trembling ot her limbs, and her face had blanched suddenly to a livid and alarming pallor. In the hand that lay upon her lap, she held a small envelope bearing a French stamp, and the post-mark was Paris ; it was addressed in a woman's writing, but not to Mrs. John Erskine. She was grasping, as if her life de ponded on the postcssion of that thin foreign envelope, a letter that was not meant for her. But she knew the writing only too well, and not for worlds would she hand the letter down the table to Sir John, its rightful owner. Her agitation presently passed away

unoticed ; the pallor lightened on her face, the trembling of her limbs was less violent, and looking up, she glanced curiously first at one and then at the other of her companions. They were not thinking of her just then, so she set her lips together, and, with a hand that was firm and cool, opened the letter she held, and read it through ; and as she read, she slipped the envelope into the pocket of her dress. It took her about five minutes fully to master the letter itself, for it was not short; the four sides of the thin foreign paper were covered, and, when she had finished, she folded it deliberately and put it also into hor pocket. Then she drank greedily, as if her lips were parched, the coffee that remained in her cup, and getting up she went over to Sir John, laid her hand caressingly on his shoulders, and said : "Can you send a message to the Hermitage for me directly ? I want to see Walter. I—l have just heard of the serious illness of a—a very dear old friend, and I must run up to town by the afternoon train. You have no objection, I suppose?" " What—what is it? I beg your pardon, my dear ; I did not hear, You want to go to town to-day? My dearest girl! You must not go alone." "Now, Sir John, I knew you would say that; but I must go alone or not at all." Than she made a long explanation to the efiect that it would be much easier for her to give her time and thoughts to her poor suffering friend if she were not worried by knowing that she was keeping Sir John or Miss Lambton in town to look after her.

And he gave in presently, as he always did to her wishes, and it was finally arranged that she was to stay in town for a week ; at the end of that time Sir John, Aunt Louise, and the boy would join her, and they would all go to Scarborough together. The poor old lady will be either better or worse by that time," she said, as she wrote down the address in town of her friend's house, and gave it to Sir John. "You may remember we drove there one afternoon, when you met me in town, on my way from Sorrento." "To be sure! To be sure!" replied Sir John; but he did not remember it all the same.

The note that was sent off by special messenger to Duncombe, by Mrs. John, contained the words, "Come over at once. You can cat3h a train that will bring you here by one o'clock. Circumstances I did not foresee oblige me to do what you have been urging upon rno for so long, and I leave for Loudon at 4.30. Be prepared for a surprise when we meet for the last time in the old garden house! I must indeed have nerves of iron to be able to go through what 1 must go through to-day ; but, so far, all is well."

The men were still raking and rolling the gravel sweep in front of the house, when the groom rode round from the stables to get his instructions from Mrs. John. She was stand* ing at the bottom of the steps with Sir John, laughing and chatting in a gay and sprightly mood, and twisting the note in her fingers. " I am very sorry you have to go to-day, darling," Sir John said. " I cannot bear parting with you even for a week. Take care, my love ! The man is coming with his roller." It was Dumb Harry who was working so close to them. "Oh ! But a week passes so soon," Mrs. John answered. " You will not have time to miss me."

When Walter Duncombe drove up from the station soon after one o'clock, the gardener's men were just leaving off work for the dinner hour; but when they came back again to finish their work, the man with the beard was not with them. He was In ambush behind the garden house, waiting. And on that afternoon, if never before, the pair, for whose coming he watched so eagerly, forgot their usual caution, and he was thereby enabled to hear almost every word they said ; and what he lost was lost by reason of his intense excitement. He seemed to have no power in his eagerness to catch the exact meaning of what was said. But he heard and understood enough to send the blood surging through his brain ; for a few seconds at a time he seemed almost blind, and, had he moved, he would have reeled and staggered like a drunken man. But he never moved; for over half an hoar there he stood, with his distended and bloodshot eyes fixed, and the palms of his hands pressed npoa his temple*, and his fingers buriod in his hair, to keep down, as it were, by sheer physical force, the cry that was rushing to his lips. " At length Mrs. Erskine rose, and Dun combe with her. Her face was deeply flushed, and her eyes were troubled, as she fixed them upon her companion. He took her hand in his, and drew her towards him. " I cannot honestly say I am sorry it happened," he said, and there was a distinct note of triumph in his voice.

" But 1 am !" she broke out, passionately. " I hoped it would never happen. I thought she was too indolent—too selfish. And do you suppose J cannot see what the end will be by-and bye ? Years may pass before you can redeem your promise, and by that time—"

"By that time the man who made it will be unchanged.' " And if you do change, what does it signify?" she answered, defiantly. "There is always a way out of everything. I daresay, all things considered, you think I am over particular ; that I have done too much to make a fuss about doing a little more, and— Hush! What is that? Is there anyone about who could hear what we say ?" and she tried to run outside, but Duncombe held her back.

" Stay where you are, and calm yourself," he said. "Do you want to betray everything ? I must take you in now, or someone will come to look for you. But first let us say good-bye until to-morrow."

As their lips met in a farewell kiss, Pottinger's hand moved swiftly to his breast; but he withdrew it as swiftly, and it fell to his side empty, and as in a vision he saw himself standing by Bella Kossitur's side in Stillingfort Woods the night Jim Hatheaway, after trying to commit murder, shot himself. " Not yet and not here," he muttered, as he crouched down in his hiding place, until Duncombe and Mrs. Erskine were out of eight.

At a quarter past four the carriage from the Chase drew up at the Little Centre Bridge Railway Station. It contained Mrs. John Krskine, Sir John, and Walter Duncombe. Mrs. John was going to London quito alone, not even her maid was to accompany her. She talked incessantly. Charged Sir John with messages to her boy and to Miss Lambton, who had promised,-to write every day to let her know how he was. She leaned on Duncombe's arm, while Sir John took her ticket, and saw the luggage labelled, and she kept on talking in a voluble and excited manner.

" Every moment I think he will rush up to me !" she said. "I am sure he is in town, and that he saw the carriage. "I wish the train would come."

" What are you talking about?" asked Sir John, comingup. " Who saw the carriage ?" "I have such a nervous dread of seeing that wretched Pottinger," she answered. "But why do you think he is in the town? I saw that black-bearded fellow, Millar, who works in the garden, just now, and I asked him what he was doing here, and he said he had come to fetch a parcel for Campbell. He was standing under the clock there, not thinking of his parcel, but admiring you, my dear, like the rest of us. Be never took his eyes off ycu. Here comes the train. Be sure you telegraph from Victoria, to say how you got up, and write to-morrow. Good-bye! Take care of yourself." He put her into a carriage, and then stood back to let Duncombe have the last words.

" You could not have done it better !" he whispered. "Do not break down now. Tomorrow will soon be here, and then—" " Stand back shouted the guard, and then blew his whistle! The train was in motion, when a belated passenger made a rush forwards, and, amid the shouts of porters, one or two of whom tried to pull him back, ho scrambled into a third-class compartment and banged the door after him. Sir John and Duncombe both saw him distinctly as the train passed on. " Why ! it's that fellow with the beard !" cried Sir John. He turned laughing to his companion, but stopped short, struck by the expression of his face. " What is the matter? What has happened?" he cried. " That fellow with the beard is Pottinger !" exclaimed Duncombe, in great excitement. "I know him by his eyes, and she is alone ! What are we to do ? When is the next train?''

"There is not another for three] hours," replied Sir John,

[To be contiuaed.]