THE LAST ALIVE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXXIX, Issue 11950, 26 April 1902, Page 3 (Supplement)

THE LAST ALIVE.

Br J. MACLABEN COBBAN, Author of " The Mystery of the Golden Tooth," " Pursued by the Law," " Tho Avenger of Blood," "An Angel of the Covenant," "Wilt Thou Have This Woman?" "I'd Crowns Resign," Etc., etc.

[COPYRIGHT.] CHAPTER XXI. A SURPRISK VISITOR. VVhilk the young people were returning home in what may truly be called " strained relations" Mrs. Pettifer was still busily en-ga;--u in preparing for their evening's enjoyment. And while sue was thus engaged in the middle of the afternoon her maid came to say a gentleman wished to see her. What was his name? He would not give his nam-.', but merely said " A Friend," and she had shown him into the drawing-room. Mrs. x'ettifer went to see the visitor, wondering but unsuspecting. She was well into the room before she saw anybody, and then she was shot through and through by the words of greeting she heard. The visitor rose from the depths of a. lounge chair, and turned on her the full force of a well-re-membered smile.

"Well, Isabel," said he, "there you are, and here 1 am."

That was all. but it rooted her to the floor with a nameless fear, and set her nerves thrilling with an extraordinary repulsion. The visitor was Frank Parris! — husband ! -looking much older than the passage of fourteen years would account for, and much less easy "in his bearing; looking, moreover, thin and worn in form and face, less with want (you would guess) than with dissipation. "What have you come for?" she asked at length. " Come for? I have come to see you, my

dear."' " You have done without seeing me so long you might have continued without." ■ • It has not been my fault it has l>een so Ion". I have, tried, I ton tell von. How do you think I have found you?" (Isabel began to suspect that he had been drinking). "I turned up the P's in the Post Office Directory for the thousandth time, and my eye happened to light upon 'Pettifer.' 'By Jingo,' I said, ' that was her maiden name! I'll visit all the Pettifers in London!' And here 1 am. And yon"re not glad to see me." ' No. I am not,' she answered with energy. "Do you remember this is my boy's birthday?" " I do," he answered. " That's one of the things I particularly r -mber." '/And yet you tried your very hardest to destroy that 'boy in your horrible lust for the money he was to inherit! Yes; and you succeeded so well that he very nearly died, and he has never recovered his health —never!" , ~ ... _ "I am sorry to hear that, said Pains, in a casual tone of politeness. " But, truly, Isabel, I never suspected the kind of place he was in." , „ , " I don't believe yon, Frank Farm, she answered, with inflamed energy. "You knew the kind of place, and you put him there—you and Tzikos— the expectation that he would di"!" . " Me and TsikcsV" he demanded, in a new note of questioning and alarm. " Yes, said she. " I know more than you think. _ I have friends to support me— "never fear!" , "Yes. Isabel," said he, turning on the pathetic stop, "you have friends; I have

none. All these years it's not you that has suffered from our separation, but me. It's not you that has lain awake at nights, but —" ' "With too much to drink!'' she put in in a low voice.

" It's not you that's been disconsolate and sad, and broken in spiritit's me! But." he continued, pulling himself together, "I shall yet be the Last Alive! The accumulated "millions of Grant Granville —curse his money!—shall be mine, because I live for no other purpose! It is the one aim and the ruling passion of my life."

There could be no doubt that be had been' drinking, and he continued, very much as if talking to himself. '" Soon there will be onlv me left! Auburn's dead ; Turner is dead ; and now," he added, with a, subtle sinking and reluctance of voice, " Bruce is dead—dead on the railway— only Tzikos remains. Do you mean to say I am not a match for Tzikos? —the Englishman against the Greek? Hah! I'm a match any day for Tzikos!" " Perhaps you are !" said Isabel. " I can quite believe it. But what has that to da' with me?"

"What has it to do with you?" echoed Parris,' as in surprise. " Everything! It is all for you I am working, Isabel! — for you!" " Then," answered Isabel, " you may leave off working as soon as you like. I would take nothing you could give me. Ido not believe you will have anything to give ; but if you bad I would not take it." " Isabel," he protested with dramatic fervour, "you have always been queen of my heart; I want to make you queen of my life—queen of my fortune! I want you to come back to me, my dear!" She looked at him steadily, and shook her head.

" If I were quite alone in the world," said she slowly, " if I had not a penny and you were—its you think you will be— a. millionaire I would not live with you again. The thought of you is hateful to me, and the sight of you is hateful, too. When I see you and 'Lear you I am amazed and disgusted that I should ever have cared for you—ever allowed you to touch me!" Parris had (kept his vicious temper well in hand : lint the words, and, more, the tone of that final repudiation of him were more than ordinary human nature could endure. He " rucked."

" Very well, my lady. Very well !" said he, his gaudy smile changing to a ghastly grin in the manner site could well remember. "In a little while, before the time is up for Granville's will to take elfwhich, I have no doubt you know, is the 20th day of October will come to me and ask me to forgive youand to receive you back!" " The heavens will fall before then :' " The heavens may fall your heavens may," said he. " That you may know where to come." he added, in a tone of matter-of-fact, "I'll leave vou my address : there it is," and he set a card on the table. " Goodbye," he said, finally. She said no word— she saw him —out. of the room, out of the house. She heard the front door slam, and then she sat down trembling; for there was no doubt his visit had shaken her —brave and firm although she Had been— certainly his parting threat frightened her—frightened her all the more that she could not tell what it might mean. She had not recovered her equanimity when her guests arrived. They were three, and all men, for it was a peculiar occasion ; and their names were Mr. David Storr. Mr. Frederick Townshend, and Mr. Oliver Trent ham. Mr. Townshend and she. had not met for a good many years, partly hecause he was become involved in such occupations as I have hinted at in former stories I have told concerning him, and partly because Mrs. Pettifer (that is, Parris) had been* hutted with him because he maintained the opinion that the true heir of Grant Granville was Herbert Grant; but she had begged Oliver Trentham to bring Townshend that night, if lie could. Oliver Trentham— Mrs. Parris knew only as a relative of the late Lord Auburn —had prospered. He had made it evident that he had inherited much of the business faculty which had carried his grandfather from navvy tt» peer, for he was now known as the director and chief proprietor of the Trentham Cab Company. He had become in the course of years more and more intimate with Isabel Parris, and he now took the privilege of intimacy to pounce upon a. male visiting-card which shone white at the end of the mantel-piece. "Hallo!" he cried. "Parris! Has he been here?" He turned very pale, and gazed with concern at the lady. "He has she answered without reserve. "And he has nearly frightened me out of my life!" '" The beast!" exclaimed Trentham. "Did he threaten you'.''' piped Storr. > " Not at first, she answered. "No; of course not," said Trentham. " He tried to persuade me," said the lady, "to go back to him. I think he had been drinking." " To give him courage." put in Trentham.

" He said he was certain to be the. Last Alive, and so to inherit Granville's millions ; and he boasted that, he was a. match for Tzikos, and that Lord Auburn was dead, and Timperley Turner, and Brewster Bruce."

"Bruce dead?" exclaimed Trentham. " On the railway, he said." added Isabel. "Did he say' what railway?" asked Townshend. "No? Now it is a singuar fact that, he should have known. When was he here, Mrs. — erPettifer?" "About four," answered Isau-1.

"Well, about five o'clock," said Townshend wit.i marked emphasis, " I happened to be at the King's Cross Underground Station when the body of an elderly man was brought in from one of the tunnels: I saw the man and recognised him as Brewster Bruce. (I was going to tell you? about it later.) That was the first the railway people knew of the death. Now— did Parris know of it more than an hour earlier —and the "newspapers are only getting to know about it now? How did he know?— that's what. I should like to find out."

"I suspect he knew," put in Trentham, " for the same reason as be could have told of the death of poor old Turner the night before the newspapers reported it." "It is too horrible!" said Isabel with a shudder. "Too — horrible!'' "And then afterwards he threatened your" observed Stoir, tc lead back to the subject of her interview with Partis. "When I declared I wouldn't live with him aga'tu on any account he got angry, and said that before the time was up for the will to take effect— . the 20th of October—l would go to hint and ask his forgiveness !" " The brute!" exclaimed Trentham, pacing to and fro, and smiting his list in his palm —somewhat openly betraying the warm interest he took in Isabel. " He hinted that something would happen to make me do that !" added she. " And the fear that begins to haunt me is that he means to move me through Phil again! ' "We must look after Phil," said Trentham. " Put he will be off to his regiment in a day or two; Partis probably does not know that. ' '• You may trust Partis to know more than you would guess," said Towiishtend. • "Oh, here are the children," said Isabel, at once brightening. She rose and went to the door smiling to receive her son and the two others who called her aunt, but who gave her—what they owed -the affection due to a mother; for she had in all regards treated them since the day of her boy's deliverance from the home of cruelty and Horror at West Ham as her own children. When she left Lie drawing-room Oliver Trentham looked at Frank Parris' card again, and made a mental note of the address. It was later— was over and its frivolity— Townshend found the chance of a private word with Isabel Parris. "You have been very good to Herbert Grant," said he. " You have been a father to him.'' " You mean, surely, a mother, Mr. Townsbond," said Isabel ;" " that's what I wished to be." "No, Mrs. Parris," said lie. "He had a mother of his own; you have been his father: you have brought to bear on him the strong educative influence." "He has been a good boy." said Isabel, with apparent irrelevance ; "he has always been wonderfully devote- to Phil. '

" You will excuse ray returning to a somewhat sore subject," said Towr.shend, "but I must ask you—merely for information—does Herbert know yet 'his true position in regard to the will?" Isabel flushed and frowned. "I don know what you mean, Mr. Townsbend, by his true position ; but he has no expectation of being the heir to the millions."

" My dear Mrs. Parris", you must forgive me," said Townshend, " but I must tell you you are keeping a course that you will very bitterly regret. You know you are not an avaricious woman, you are not a selfish woman, and yet you keep the truth from this young man— "The truth, Mr. Townshend!" Yes. Because you will not have the courage to trust him. You think that if you let him know, that lie is the heir of the millions he would let your son go penniless or else, my dear lady, you are bitten with that horrid" lust of money when money is within reachgood heavens! how often have I seen it!—which is the ugliest passion poor human nature ever gives way to!" " Mr. Townshend! You mustn't say such things!" " My dear lady, you mustn't really mind my saying such things. I have the same regard' for you as ever; only I'm —very sorry that you should have been bitten, in the same way, though in a milder form, as Frank Parris is bitten !"

" Mr. Townshend, you expect me to listen to such things and not mind?" Both of a sudden fell silent; for both noted the same little scene.

They sat out upon a little balcony at the back of the house that overlooked the garden, which was illuminated by shafts of light both from i..ning-room and drawingroom; thus all movement in the garden lay plainly under their observation, while they were themselves unseen. There moved into the plane of light before them—as into a stage scenetwo young people, moving and talking very close together. It was not difficult to make them out to be Herbert Grant and Amelia —while behind them, as much as possible in the shadow, moved a third person— Granville— watching jealouslythere could be no doubt of thatand now and then clenching and shaking his fists. The scene reminded both of an actual stage scene which all London had recently witnessed ; a scene in the revival of the play called " School," in which the usher named Krux lurked and dodged and jealously watched, while Bella and her lover luxuriously paced the garden ill the moonlight. "My poor boy!" murmured Isabel.

CHAPTER XXII. THE STROKE FALLS. It was not many days after the coming of age dinner when the two young men, who had received their commissions, joined their regiments. It was by his own express wish, and the gently suggested desire of Isabel, that Herbert had waited beyond the usual time for a commission in order that he and Phil might join together ; for the fond mother would trust her son in no other company, after her own, except Herbert Grant's. And it was in those early days when Isabel and Amelia were so much together— though Amelia, was an enthusiastic and promising pupil at the Royal College of Music —that the .elder lady learned from the younger the meaning of that scene in the garden, and heard of the earlier scene by the Thames Bank. Isabel exhibited no resentment to Amelia for her refusal to become engaged to Phil ; indeed, she rather approved of it ; for in expectation— mother exaggerates the quality and the opportunity of her sonshe saw him lead to the altar the Honourable Alice Feverfew or the Lady Tabitha Tadpole. Yet, for all that— with feminine inconsequenceshe loved Amelia mine the more for being wise enough, and sensible enough, to refuse her boy. For a while after Phil went from home his mother had many anxious hours, remembering the veiled threat of Frank Parris. She feared for him prodigiously when she lay .awake at night, when the wind blew ami flapped and buffeted at the window, or when the rain was on the roof. But when July passed and August, with regular letters from " the boys," her anxiety sank to disquietude, and from disquietude it abated to a mere occasional flutter of loving thought. In mid-September the young officers had to go to Hythe for the usual cadet course of musketry 'instruction—and Isabel Parris, partly because the weather continued line and partly because she wished to be with her son, went to Hythe and took' lodgings. There was another— unconfessed, reason for her move: —She still feared the fulfilment of Partis' threat, the time for which was vapidly becoming exhausted, and she was resolved to be near her boy to ward off any blow that might fall. But the blow fill before she was aware of it.

The greater number of the cadets were encamped, as' usual, on part of the Government ground between the Dymchurch Road and the sea, but a good many of them had lodgings in the town ; and of these were Philip Granville and ! Herbert —reputed cousins. Philip and Herbert slept and had their meals in the lodgings on the front, but now and then they tinned with their fellows in the big mess-tent on the camping ground. On the final Friday night of their stay they thus went forth to dine, saying lightly to Isabel and Amelia :

" Good night. You needn't sit up for us. We won't come home till morning, you know, till daylight doth appear." " Nonsense," said Amelia. " That would be too late in the morning at this time of year. Besides, they'll send you away, knowing you are only boys, at lights out." I'll expect you home, remember," said Isabel, seriously, ' r a few minutes after the ten o'clock bugle sounds. Remember, Phil, ! shall be anxious about you if you don't come then."

"All right, mother," answered Phil. And "All right, aunt." said Herbert. So the young men went off gaily, and the two women returned into the house to eat their own morsel of dinner. When that was consumed, and it was quite dark, they put on cloain and hats (for the evenings were become chilly), and stepped out for a walk along the sea front. Away out, a few miles to the cast, shone bright the lights of Sandgate and Folkestone. To the, south-east across the sea on the, horizon, below which lurked the. French coast, there spouted up momentarily a great white Hash ; that was the powerful light on Cape Grisnez. Farther along, immediately to the south, there glared red and immovable the Varne light, on'a dangerous shoal in mid-channel. And then away to the south-west there twirled giddily at the end of the sweep of coast the DHugeness light. These varying illuminations made the sombre and mysterious face of the sea unusually alive and friendly ; and lie ladies walked up and down a good while. The constant coastguard at the western end. of the promenade, with whom they exchanged a word or two, discouraged their approval of the clearness of the view. He shook his head.

" When you can see so clear as that, miss," said he, "it means there'll be rough weather. I expect there'll be wind and maybe rain before morning." That bend of coast seems to be the home of the winds. There is always a wind blowing this way or that, but in an hour the steady rush of air from the south-west had increased its pace prodigiously, chafing the tops of the waves and chasing them on to the shore, and in less than two hours it was difficult to bear up against it, while the sea. was tortured into a desolate, raging welter 'of wave and foam. Long by that time the two ladies had gone indoors, and they now sat silent by the window, and watched and heard the ceaseless, and apparently meaningless, pother of wind and water. It was between nine and ten when the rain came hissing and lashing the windows, with the sound ten thousand whips. "It must be horrible in the tents now!'' said Amelia.

"They'll hi! soaked to the skin," said Isabel a minute later. " if they try to walk home through this! And Phil has always had a, weak chest and throat since that terrible lime!"

" How long ago that seems, auntie !" said Amelia.

" Hoes it seem so long ago to you? To me it seems but a little while— yet it is fourteen years!"' said Isabel, plaintively. Ten o'clock sounded wild and melancholy from the old church tower (the military bugle could not be heard), and still they sat and watched and waited.

"I should think," said Amelia, " they would try to get a cab; the Red Lion is not far on ; they might get one there." "I hope they" will/' said Isabel. As the minutes slipped away, and brought no sound but the swish of the rain on the windows, and the hoot and bellow and wash of the storm, they began to look anxiously at the hands of the clock and in the face of each other. Half-p'st struck on their sit-ting-room clock. " That clock is a little fast." said Amelia, seeking by any means to relieve the dear aunt's anxiety. They still sat and waited, until the strokes of eleven were doled out by the church on the hill. Then Isabel rose, and took to pacing the room, and now and then peering out into the midnight. "Where can they have got to?" she demanded distractedly..

They still waited ; it had struck half-past eleven", and they were pr waring to sally forth into the storm in their cloaks when there came a knocking at the front door, a load, insistent, impatient knocking. They suspected th» truth ; the people of the house had vjone to "bed. " I'll go down to the door," said Amelia. Amelia went down, and Isabel looked and listened over the banisters. Amelia undid the fastenings of the door and opened it; and then her candle was blown out, and she and the door both were almost flung to the wall with the rude force of the wind. " Whoever you are," said she to the person she perceived outside. " you had better come in and let me close the door."' "Yes, miss," said a rough voice. "I beg your pardon. It's a wild night." Amelia Mas not a trembling fawn at the sound of a strange man's voice. She called to her aunt to bring a light while she admitted the man and put the door to. ' < "I'll stand here, if von please, miss, or I'll drowud the lobby out," said the man, as Isabel with a lamp came down the stairs. "I'm soriy to disturb you, ladies, but Mr. Grant and Mr. Granville stays here, don't they? I knows them quite well by eyesight. Have they come home, if you please, miss';' " No, they have not." answered Amelia. "We are waiting tip for them," put in Isabel. " What has become of them? ' " That I can't say, ma'am," answered the man. And then he told what he had to say, in even tones of matter-of-fact. " They ran on to the Red Lion from the camp—and that was before tenand they come away 'time 'ere, one of my men driving them in a close landore. The extraordinary thing is that the 'orse and the landore has come 'ome, very late, all by theirselves." ""You mean, asked Amelia, "that the driver hasn't come back?" " Nothing but the 'orse and the landore, miss, with the door —swingingand the inside drenched, and the reins s-drag-ging! It'll cost a nice penny to put it to rights. Bub the young gentlemen, ma'am— they'll be all right, bless you, with some friends in the town. There's a many of 'em goes to Ihe Swan of a night." " They have no friends in the town," said Isabel. "We are not sure they haven't, aunt, are we?" said Amelia. , " I don't believe Phil has." said Isabel, resolutely. "I shall go to the police." "Can I do anything for yon, ma'am?" asked the man, now less cheerful. " I'll go to the police if you like." " I am much obliged to you," said Isabel, " but I'll go myself. I must do something. ' ■ "We must" all do something, ma'am," said the man, but it's little can be done till morning. You see the Swan and all them places will be closed by now." ; "You are at the Bed Lion, are you not?" said Amelia. "I'm at the Bed Lion stables, if you please, miss. If you are going out, ladies, I'll wait for you and see you into the town. I must go to the police station myself about j the driver." In silence and haste Isabel and Amelia went and wrapped themselves against the storm. Isabel wished at first to go without Amelia, saying. What if he conies home while we're out?" "We'll leave the door merely latched, and the lamp burning," said Amelia. "There can be no danger of burglars on a night like this. So they set out with the man through the wild weather. They gained nothing at the police station. The sergeant in charge meant well, but he was occupied and uneasy with a sense of his importance. So the ladies in silence and in haste returned to their lodgings ; there was nothing else for lliem to do. " He may have got in while we have beengone," said Isabel; and Amelia noted a second time how she said " lte" instead of " they," evidently thinking only of her son. When they ascended to their sittingroom, leaving their dripping wraps below, Isabel pounced upon a card set against the foot of the lamp saying, " Someone his been in!" " God forgive 1/im !" she cried. "He has been here!" On the card was printed Frank Parris" name, and written in pencil were these words: " 'the Leavens have fallen."

CHAPTER XXIII. TnVt'XSHKNO GOKH KOtTXII.

How slowly, and in what anxiety and anguish, the night passed! After reading the card of Parris Isabel had been completely prostrate. Amelia (who read the card "also, knowing who Parris was, but ignorant of the allusion of the enigmatic words) kept the lamp burning, in case the boys should return. Neither went to bed, but took what rest they could get on couch and in easy-chair, and waited for the dawn. As it drew towards morning the wind sank exhausted, and the. day at length broke clear and peaceful. Amelia was out and on her .way to the tamp, as early as she conceived it likely she would find anyone, to tell her story to. She learned that "Phil and Herbert had dined there, and had run oft' as soon as the rain began to pour; and that was the last that had been seen of them. She saw the officer in charge of the cadets. He was very gracious (and exceedingly sympathetic to so handsome and attractive a young lady) and promised to set all possible inquiries agoing. On her return to the lodgings she found her aunt, to her amazement, much changed. Isabel had written out telegrams to be sent to Mr. Oliver Trentham, Mr. Townshend. and Mr. Storr. Amelia, picked up one of them and read it : "My boy has disappeared. You remember my fear. Please come if you can." "Why haven't you mentioned Bert, aunt?" asked Amelia. Then Isabel flamed at her, and cried, "Don't speak to me! Co away! It's yon that is the cause of this! Head that, you wicked, conceited, abominable llirt !"' Smitten to the heart, and overwhelmed with amazement., Amelia took and read a. little letter in Phil's hand, beginning " Cruel Amelia, —I don't know why I write you this, except —" There was no more: he had probably left it to be finished another time. Amelia set it down without a word. "Don't you'know," cried Isabel, "that you have made fools of both of litem, with your airs and graces, and your .sweet looks? If they are both dead you'll have, that- on your conscience! They have quarrelled about you — l am certain fought and died ! And now they lie somewhere, soaked and cold ! I have warmed and cherished snakes in my bosom; and they turn and sting me! Why did I ever trouble about you and that boy? Why did I not leave you to the life you were born into?" "Oh. aunt! Don't—-don't say such things!" pleaded Amelia, weeping, and dropping on her knees by Isabel. " I know it is because you are distracted with anxiety and grief! I know you don't mean them! But 1 can't bear tli*»m!"

"I do mean them!" insisted Isabel, mean all I have said—and more!"

Then there came a quick revulsion of feeling in Amelia, and had herself something of a, hot, rebellious temper. She rose to her feet, dried her eyes, and went to the door, saying, "Very well. If I am such a wretch I had better go away! I will!" She passed out and shut the door. Then Tsabel was invaded with bitter regrets for what she had said ; but slate was too proud to confess to the girl that she was sorry. She sat still and listened. Presently she heard Amelia come from the bedroom overhead (the bedroom which' they shared) . and descend the stairs. Then she rose and flew to the door. She opened it upon Amelia, dryeyed, hard-faced, and dressed to go out. "Where are you going, you silly girl?" asked Isabel soft.lv. *

"I don't know." answered Amelia "and I don't care!" But her lips quivered. "I suppose the sea won't drive me away, any more than, I suppose, it drove away Phil and Bert!"

"My dear!" said Isabel, gathering Iter in her arms, and drawing her into the room. " Forgive me! lam a beast, 1 know ; and I'm never angry like that except, with those 1 love!"

So they kissed each other, and were better, more confidential friends than before; and Isabel told all she feared from Parris.

' They set out together to send the telegrams* as soon as the post office should be opened; and they called in at the police station, but there was no news for. them thereexcept that the driver of the landau had been found. 'They visited the stables of the Red Lion and saw the stable - keeper, who said that the driver had told a strauge: story, but that he knew nothing of what had become of the young gentlemen; the man was at borne then asleep, but if the ladies would come back later in the day they might hear what he had to say. In the course of the morning there came a long telegram from Oliver Trentham, that;

he could not leave London at once, but that he would later soon as ever he "was able. Meanwhile he was sending Townshend, who was by far the best, person for ; such a case. Another from Stony) who said he, could not come, but that he was " communieating" with Townshend; and a third from Townshend himself, who said he would be in Hvthe at one o'cloek. . Townshend arrived late, of course: for be had to travel by the Sooth-Eastern Railway. Isabel had delayed lunch for him, and while he ate sparingly and drank not at j all ho gave the closest attention to every J detail of the story—which was not. a long Isabel had to tell. Then he asked a question or two. " Have they been quite good friends since they have been down here?" Isabel flung a sharp glance at Amelia; and Amelia looked down. - " Yes." answered Isabel. "so far as I know they have. 1 have no reason to think they have not." Amelia rise softly and went wit.

"1 asked you. of course, Mrs. Parris,'' said Townshend, " because of what we both saw on thai birthday night." "Yes: I remember only too well," answered Isabel. "And I have thought horrible things, but I truly believe they are only the imaginings of a fowl, _ jealous mother. No. Mr. Townshend—this is the doing of Frank Parris; and that is my one hope; for. if he was really in earnest in saying he wished me back, then their lives are safe ; hfl has just hidden them away somewhere."

" That seems lively," said Townshend. " Well, now, can you, or Miss Coote, come out with me, to show me the way about a little?"

" I think Amelia had better go with von," said Isabel. "You sec, Mr. Trentham may come this afternoon." " He may," said Townshend— as if Le doubted if he would.

"What has kept him in town? Do you know?' asked Isabel.

"For one thing," answered Townshend, " I know he was going to call on rams." " What for?" demanded Isabel, turning very pale. She added, hastily, " But Frame Parris must be somewhere in this neighbourhood " Must, have been: yes. But it remains to be seen whether he still is."

Townshend walked out with Amelia. He did not appear as if bent on any business: be wine a rough tweed suit and"a soft grey hat, and lie twirled his walking-cane like a man out for a. holiday. He made Amelia conduct him the way that; the young mew should have driven home from the Red Lion, and so on to the camp on the Dyinchurch Road. He would not' enter the camp. " Now that I know the way." said he, " I'll return later by myself. Now we'll go back, and call at the stables of the Red Lion.'"

They found the stable-keeper, who, on Townshend being introduced by Amelia as a, friend who had come down from London to "look into" the mystery, rehearsed his story of the horse, the landau, and the driver.

"Will you show me the landau?" asked Townshend.

"There it stands, sir." " Has it been out since last, night?" " No, sir, it ain't." " But it is dirty don't you wash your cabs every day if they have been out';"' " Yes, sir ;we do mostly. But the police said, 'Don't touch nothing:' and I ain't." The vehicle hud been shoved into a shed. Townshend asked that it might be drawn out; and then he explored it very thoroughly, spending some, time upon the wheels. ' "The soil is very chalky about here, isn't it?" he asked.

Very, sir," answered the stable-keeper, as if he were answering a casual gossiping question. "Well, look," said Townshend. "These wheels have ploughed through black, tindery muck; look at it—feel it." " Yes; I see it, sir." " Whereabouts is that sort of stuff to be found V

"There's no road made with that cinder stuff, sir." " But on a road or off —where is it to be found?" " Only by the gasworks, sir." " That's the only place? Very well. Now T should like to have a word with the driver of the landau." Townshend was directed to the home of the driver, who was said to be still " a-bed," and he set off with the guidance of Amelia. The man lived in a respectable little house near the head of the St. Leonard's Road, which leads down to the farther or western end of the sea-front. His story was odd and his manner uneasy. "Just tell me what happened," said Townshend. interviewing him in bed. " Last night nigh ten o'clock the master he comes to me, and he says, ' Harness up Punch, John, and put him in the landore, and take these young gentlemen down to Groevenor House on the sea - front." And 1 said, 'Right, sir-," and harnessed up." " You knew exactly where Grosvenor House was?" asked Townshend. " Did you, or did you not?" "Oh, yes, sir; I knew Grosvenor House. And there the gentlemen were afore my 1 eyes, and 1 knew them." "Well, you harnessed up.and drove off. It was raining hard, wasn't it?" "Cats and dogs, sir!and them by the cartload ! —and wind! It was a night!" " And which way did you drive?" "There's only one way, siralong the lane from the Red Lion to the Stade Bridge over the canal, and then over the bridge." " And then, when you crossed the bridge?" asked Townshend. "I turned to the right towards the common and the. top of St. Leonard's Road here." " Why didn't you go light ahead from the bridge down Stade - street; that was the direct road, wasn't it?and the best protected?" "Yes, sir; it was. But I wanted to call in here and have a word with my wife." '" But you didn't get as far?" suggested Townshend. " 1 didn't get so far. A great bang of wind came on us as we tinned the corner of the schoolhouse. And at the same time— it licks me how it happened—a man jumped from the school pavement up beside me on the box. He clapped a handkerchief to my mouth and a pistol to my head, and dared ine to make a row. And presently he gives me a shove, and off I tumble into the road, unconscious, as you may say." "There was something in the handkerchief to make you unconscious, I suppose?" said Townshend.

"Ah. chloroform; that's what there was. And when I came to a, bit in the road I sees myself close to Magnus' building-yard out there. 1 creeps in and lies there till the morning. And that's all I have to tell."

"In the morning you came lipme here, I suppose?" 1 "In the morning I comes home and goes to bed—sick."

''I quite understand," said Townshend. " You're not well, of course. You should see a doctor. Let me look at your tongue." Townshend stooped and considered the protruded tongue. " Unijust a little feverish. Rut you should see a doctor. Hare you been sick?" "No, si) - not a bit." "Are these the clothes you were out in last night?" asked Townsliend, handling a coat and trousers hanging over the bedrail. Yes. sir. There they be, just as I took 'cm off." "Well,"' sakl Towusliew<l, "I'm much obliged to you for your .statement. Good afternoon."* When they were out of the house lie repeated to Amelia all lw had been told, and a,sked. " What do you think of the story?" " I don't quite know what to think," said Amelia, with indifference; "it sounds inCredible." " It's worse than that: it's untrue. I smelt his breath on nretence of looking at his tongue; and though ale has passed that way plentifully daring the last four-and-twenty hours chloroform has not been neat it. Nor was he tumbled into the road ; for his clothes, though damp, bad no mud, or mud-marks. Now whereabouts is Magnus' building-yard?" " There it is, over there," said Amelia. "Ah," said Townshend, considering it through his monocle. " Now, don't you think that, when he came to, and saw where he. was, it would have been quite as easy for him to cross the road this way and turn comfortably into bed as to ''turnthat way and go into tie cold and draughty building-shed?" ■ : " Certainly it would," answered Amelia. J Well," said Townshend, "I believe he, did come borne, and I believe he neat the! night comfortably in bed." . . I "But why should he make up such a story?" asked tiio simple-minded Amelia.

."For the obvious reason," answered Townshend, ''thai he is afraid to tell the? truth—which we must now try to discover., Can you conduct me to the gasworks,, Miss CooteV"' ~ ' . " They are down this way, sho answered,, v ami led* off towards the sea. Towards the end of the road the gasworks appeared on the right, within a stones-throw of the. beach. They were small, consisting of but one gasometer, and appertaining buildings, but for some considerable distance around the sandy soil and the shingle were black with cindery deposits. '! • • i, , "This is no" doubt, the way the cab was taken," said TowHskead, turning ( wn a by-war that led to the gasworks* ' Where, ■ ■ lie asked, " does the road go when it has , passed the gasworks?" '~/;' ' ' '•'} " Nowhere, I believe. But we had better go along and see." • • ! "i They went— proved Amelias guess to be" correct. The prepared way—very, cindery in the neighbourhood of the works— became lost beyond the gasometer, where, were as old house behind an old, broken stretch of sea-wall, and then further on nothing but the Government shooting-range*l with the Government targets, and the absurd Martello towers at wide intervals, built a hundred years ago to defend tin© coast when w* feared a French invasion. Townshend stood ._ and bit the inside of his thumb. . , "They came this way, no doubt," he' /• murmured, "hut where did they 'go? Fortunately the storm of last, night narrows the held of search; for they could not have put to sea. Well." r '] '$ And he turned bade to the town, •• (To be continued,) ; ■ . . On Saturday, the 3rd of May, the opening chapters of a n-w and interesting serial —"The Flower o' the Corn," by the wellknown writer, M. R. «=!.' Crockett, will be commenced in our columns. The new talc is one of Mr. Crockett's best. a