FATE'S BEGGAR MAID.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLIII, Issue 13235, 21 July 1906, Page 3 (Supplement)

FATE'S BEGGAR MAID.

BY TOM GALLON, ; ; ' Author of "Memory's Prisoner," "Tattcrley," " A Rogue m Love." " Kiddy." " A ' %', * ' Prince of Mischance," "The Dead Insleby," etc. , i : • [COPYRIGHT.] pf-Mi ' - .'■■■'•.'•. ■' ''■"■:' CHAPTER IX.— (Continued.) It becomes necessary that wc should trace his movements during the past few days, ¥'-' and so retrace the steps of this story by ; that much at least. It will not be imagin- •■ ed, by any reader versed. in the ways of ;■ love, that Mr. Martin Falconer pursued his \ • divinity no further after finding her at the '*■'. house of Ferdinand Kirk ; indeed, he may be said to have gone there more than once, but, like many lovers before him, to have •";;' lacked the. courage to make a call at the house. On • this particular cay. however, "V • seeing Mr. Kirk come out of the house in y, ' ■ Islington Martin Falconet had apparently •' ; ' quite casually accosted him, as though he | f\ '" bad been passing the nlace in the, most un- | / expected and innocent fashion. - j After a little desultory conversation, in r which the weather and other matters were 'V, . . referred to, and the health of Mr. Ferdinand Kirk particularly inquired about, Martin i'' ! ventured to hope that Miss Kirk was well. Whereupon Ferdinand had thrust back his ';" spectacles, stuck his thumbs in the ■ arm'j? : : holes ot his waistcoat, and stared at Martin Falconer as though not quite;understanding what he meant '■-. ' ■■ •. "That is a question I should more properly Jik you,'" was his astounding reply. >' "Ask m«? What should I know about Miss Kirk':" demanded Martin. "My dear sir, do you honestly uean to i tell me that you don't know how Miss Kirk that you "haven't seen my ward?.' asked Ferdinand. ... ■ i 'V ■ "Certainly not. I came down here today, in the hope of hearing something about her; she was good enough to tell me that <■'■ ■'■'• >■ she would write and let me know if she made any other change in her life or in her " ■ place of living." '••'■"'■'.' r' •" Then .-he has evidently forgotten to do- ■'> no," said Kirk. "But tell me," he went on, looking at - the young man. curiously— MK " how is at you're.not at home? •'. " I don't know how you knew that," said j V' . Martin, a little uneasily— but the fact is that I—J. ve been ' away for seme days—l may be away again." _'. ; . ', ' ' . ,„.. -,; "Ah—that accounts, for it, said lurk, with a nod, and speaking with an air of im- "'' portance. "My ward, sir, has been fortuiiate enough to attract the attention of J '<■'- those in a higher position than it seemed i ;' possible she could' occupy; she hr.s been | taken up, sir, in a manner of speaking, by;j ; the rich and the. great; she mixes, if I may **?;'.;' use so vulgar a term, with the quality.' "You can, at least, tell me where I. can find her, urged-Martin. '..-.',! : Ferdinand Kirk stood still in the street to look at the young man ; finally decided that , ' : '' he was not joking, and that he really was j •'!''!* ignorant of the girl's whereabouts. Know- j •I ', ing, however, that he was concerned, even { ': remotely, in that delicate business in which ; ■ : ' Ruth Arkett was the chief figure, Kirk de- j '?' i termined to find out what he could.concerning young Martin Falconer before .commit- ':':'<? : ting'himsclf. to any statement. "Do you mean to say you don't know?" "I tell you I've been away," said Mar- ,'■ tin, impatiently.. v'; ■ , ~. _- $>■«':'.'...• , -'' " You haven't seen your father— -John Falconer—for instance?" •' T . : "I have not seen, my father for. some '-; ■ •days," said the young man, turning away , his head. .• ,- . I Something in his tone suggested to,Fer- ;?;■ dinand Kirk that there must be some trouble

dinand Kirk that there must be some trouble f- : '.. between father and son. As Mr. Kirk was v: to a very great extent groping in the dark ■' , over this business, and as he had not.yet made up his mind how best to approach $:■ Falconer, he decided mow that, he must be fc-'V wary. Therefore he nodded astutely, and jji •■'.-:. smiled, and gave an enigmatical reply. • ' "My dear sir,' if -my ward has not communicated with?youras;.to<hei-,,,iddi;ess,;, : I don think you can quite expect that I ' ■', -'should let vou know what it is. I have no ' ' < ' doubt she "has a very good reason for her '~ '■ . silence; but my lips are sealed. Perhaps, if you were to go home, you might find that '" ' she—shall we say?—that she had left some '': communication for you." „.,,-,, With that, Mr. Ferdinand Kirk had bowed politely, as to the son of a great man, : ' ' and • hi-1 walked away, leaving Martin Falconer dialing under the tnouglit that tho girl was lost to him for the second time. After wandering about aimlessly for some time Martin had finally set off for Kensington, and so had come to his lathers. : : >'-". house some half-hour or so before the girl PH left, ,' ■ At first the idea occurred to him— mi-

possibly :■• happy idea—that Ruth lid gone theie to inquire about himself; that thought . was dismissed at once. He watched her a.' she walked away, decided to follow her . until an opportunity should arise for.speak • -ing to her. She went but a little distant ; she had but to cross a street or two north

"•' . words, to find " herself in Kensington Gar- | : dens, and there was presently confronted by ■ " tiie very man about whom she was thinking. • ' Her "eyes must have; told him something ', •: . of the welcome her lips refused to , speak. . He seated himself beside her, and held her hand for a momnt, while he watched her colpur come and go. They had reached that • point in the matter of mutual confidence a when it did not seem necessary that cither should ask the other for an..explanation of the meeting—at all events for. a few; mo•'V''l .'";■.•■ nisuts. ' "■.' ■ '". ■' "You promised to let me know if you ;;. ; ' were going away again," he stud, presently. ,- "I,diet, not think that in this case it would be necessary," she replied. " Natur- -' r ally [ thought that you would be in the same house—at least, 1 hoped so." ;.-- 'Hoped so?' He looked into her eyes, :>■ ■' and this time she'did not. turn away her . htacl. "That's the very nicest thing you've ever said to me," lift went on,- impulsively. "What are you doing in that house? I saw you come out of it just now, and I '-fol- ?,.;-'•■■■ lowed you." . She explained the position she had come to occupy there, through the instrunieii- j talitv of her guardian and Mr. Capstick. More than that, she told him, how puzzledj John Falconer and his wife were at the young man's absence . and silence.. For a ' • minute or two after mo had said 'hat he ' .;; sat -looking moodily at the ground, without replying. She ventured to put her hand 'on his shoulder, in 1 her sympathy with a trouble she did not understand. ;.!... "You offered once to help me— did '. help. me," she said, gently ; " won't you let Ife:?«--; ma help you in turn? Your father seems as troubled'a-: you are; I heard him say he '"''"' ' could not sleep." '' "'Hint's; not surprising," he muttered, j with a little bitter laugh. Then he turned j V to the girl, impulsively. '"Ruth," he said ; » : '.'■ —and it did not seem strange that he should ; /,:'.' ;' . call her by that familiar name—"l have '}•' kept away from my father's house; I have ■ not dated' to meet him. He's been the best I 'lather in the world to me;' he has worked ; ' for me,, and given me a position 1 never.j '-•,'' could have occupied but for him. And yet j —and —oh, Ruth', you don't understand l ;■" ' what;lias happened."; i "It can't be anything so dreadful, surely, j > '' that you can't even see him," urged Ruth. , "At any rate, it is folly for you to wander about ,as you seem to bo doing, and to keep /}' ' out of his way. Promise me now that you ' will see him—that you will talk over this . < matter' with him. You'll break his heart if . ; you stay away from hirn." He looked" round at her, and smiled! ""i'es, I'll promise, Ruth," he said, "be- : . ; cause you ask. I think I'd do anything in : the world you asked me, becausebecause I love you.'' , , ..'-, -; •■ ■ "I don't think you ought to say that," |'"?" •. she replied, simply. " You're sorry for me, t just as I'm sorry for you; you're interested ,■ ~'■ in me, because you first stumbled upon me a ■' in rather a'strange way, and have met mo ," : . strangely since. We have been:very good w^Ki'-V"' friends; I hope we may be very good friends .. .. always. But love is not for me, and I cannot tell you why I say that.'' . V .;-.;. -" "I only know that 1 love. you, Ruth; not because I'm sorry; for you, but because ,you and I seem to have met first in this contrary world, and to be necessary somehow to each other. At any rate, I know that you are necessary to hie; • ■, " i hero, to-day, for instance, when i'm racked and torn and tortured, X find you in this great wil- !%" ; • * .

derne«s|bf; London;-and immediately you soothe my pain, and tell me—wise little woman that «you ■■ are what;to do—-teach me my duty;, in* fact. ■ Will you make me one; promise, Ruth ; you, who tell me that love is not ; for you,- and who,-hint to me that you Ivavo troubles of your/own, of .'which I know nothing?''. ■-. Yes, , Martin,"she replied, 'after . 'a, pause. , : "Will you promise me that if ever these things are straightened; out .for you and for me you will let me be that best of all friends a woman may have— the friend that love makes? ';Will you promise that you. will; turn first *• to.; me, of ; all the world?" • , .'■ • }. ■■■■■-.' -",-'

r, "Yes, I'll promise that," she replied, softly. v ;. ';■:■■ ::.,.-,::;- • -;: : v,; '-. He talked more happily before they parted; he was more willing :•■ to believe that he could come- ou,t. of some tangle, of which lie would, however, give no details. He told;■ her,, as. ho left her at the corner I of Downes-street. that he meant to come | that night to see his father; there was i some point lie must settle in in own mind I first,' something about ■ which he wished to think carefully' 'And as' he parted from her '~ lie said something which at that time seemed strange, but which, was to wear different 'aspect later on. ■."■ '■';' "'l'want you to be 'careful of yourself, little Ruth," he said, for my sake. Somehow I don't like the idea of your being in that house; I tremble when I think of it. . God forgive me for saying, so, but there may be danger for you there, and I ronv not 03 able to help you. He walked away rapidly before she could ask ; him any further questions; and at that time she set down that strange saying of his as being but a part of his troubled thoughts that filled his mind. She went back to the house, and to her work ; got through the day in a desultory fashion, and finally 'went to her room at an early hour, and composed herself to read. It was a pleasant, room on the: second floor, 'and had evidently been built at some time or other as an addition to the original house ; it was directly over the library -'-." Three rooms had formed that addition when it had been made, a lower one. on the ground floor overlooking the garden arid opening on to . it; the library above that, and above the library the room she occupied,; She had noticed, in going to it on the first occasion, exactly how it;was situated : had noticed also that above the garden and outside the windows of the library ran a long harrow balcony, which was, of course, immediately below the window of; -her room. She sank down now into a deep chair and opened her book.

She could not settle to the book at all ; a story that had 'appeared interesting the night before was now 'stale and commonplace. '■ She closed the book, and moved restlessly about the room for a little while, remembering uneasily; what Martin had said when he had suggested that she might be. in danger; there; wondering what he would have said, had he but known that she was the Ruth Arkett who" was said to be dead, and yet was presently to come tO John Falconer with a message from her father. Her troubled thoughts refused _to let her rest. She went to the window, and softly opened it, and looked out upon the dark, hot night. J v '.' "■*'■.■ ~ A lighted room opposite, overlooking the garden of another house, attracted her attention. : She heard the distant tinkle of a piano, and a man's voice faintly singing from a distance. She could not hear the : words of the song; she only saw figures; moving .in v the rpom, and once or twice people coming to a balcony like that which was below her. . It was cool and pleasant there, and she switched out the electric light, rested: her arms - on . the window ledge, and ; looked out at the stars. , .' '■'':■: ■.;.-' :v,>-:-,.- : '■.'-;;'.' ; ■'";.;'.-":'. ; ' :--; - '

- Then from below she . heard voices. Voices she recognised as those of John Falconer and his, son. ..... All the,house was by 'that t'nw-i.asleep and in darkness. Father and Is'in stood together, within. few' feet of where she knelt at her • window; she could hear all they said distinctly. '.:>" There. is : something >; between us, Mar-; tin,; : I don't; understand," John Falconer was saying. You and I have been more than father and son; wo have been friends and comrades. .. I ■ have .given .. the best years .of my. life for your sake, every ambition I have had—every bargain I have made— ; been for.your sake. • Come, be frank with me;' what 'is wrong between us?" ;,'-,'. ■ :. •'. •■ ■ ■■■'•,; "There is nothing wrong, nothing can be explained," replied the voice of Martin. ; "I- came back {to-night to see you ; I felt I must see you—must say something to you I neve?, thought I should have to say. r Now I haven't the courage! I stand before you, father, as though I were the guilty one, and you my 'accuser." , '■'■■■■" Guilty?" ,:: The voice ■of the elder. man was low. and tense. Ruth heard it clearly enough where she crouched in the darkness' listening. The tinkle of the piano far across the gardens seemed a mockery while these two menfather and son fought out their tragedy between them. ,; "Do you remember the night of the din-ner-party, dad, when you were taken ill?" went on Martin. " I was concerned about you, because - you * had told me' that you were in trouble. I wanted to help,you, I wanted to be more of a. son to you than the boy you dressed well, and fed well, and,;. who was. nothing, and who . did nothing. I wanted to stand shoulder to shoulder with you, and to fight your troubles for you." y"Go on," said the voice of John Falconer, and for a moment after that only the tinkle of the, piano was heard, while Ruth waited for what Martin was to eay. "I met you on, the stairs, dressed to go out. I saw then a look in your eyes I pray my God I may not see in the eyes of any man' again. You told me to go back to: your guests, and to say > nothing; but that'look had made a man of me suddenly almost against my will. I was afraid of you, and I was afraid for you, dad. I' followed you.' r : , "Followed me?" The voice of John Falconer seemed to cut the night air like a whi;

--~'P- ~-.■■■ ' \ . . ''. "HeaVen knows I never meant to" spy upon you; heaven knows I only wanted to help you. I seemed to see the father I loved going out that night to meet some great and sudden trouble. Proudly enough I felt I might stand shoulder to shoulder with him, might meet the trouble with him. So I followed you to the office, saw. you go in„ and wondered why you went at that hour. Fortunately, as I thought,; you had left the door unfastened. I followed you into the placewent upstairs after you." The tinkle of the piano was very distinct just then. It died away, and was followed by a little faint sound of laughter and applause. "What then?" said John Falconer, as though the words were wrung from him. " Then I grew afraid,". said Martin. "I thought you might be angry if you knew that I. bad followed you; i turned to go away again. Just as I did so I beard the door down below open. I heard someone come •iip through the house, sinpring. It was a woman. I was puzzled ; I could not understand why you should come there at such a time, or who the woman was. I waited in the dark; I heard her come up and up, until she brushed past me in. the darkness. I heard the singing cease; heard her call out to you; heard you cough. Shall Igo on?" "Go on," said the voice of John Falconer, steadily. ; * : "I heard her go into your room, there was the sound of a • blow, and then a fall. Then I felt, in one awful moment, that I understood what that look in your eyes had been, that I knew why you had come at.that hour to the place. I dared not meet you. I heard the next morning that the office had been burnt down. I think I was glad. But I felt that I could not meet you again—-could not look into your eyes with the old frank trust I had always "ad-" '' ' ' '

" Martin!"■ The voice of John Falconer rang out in agony. ■ " I shall always remember the dad who was so good, to me, who was everything to me through all my life." said Martin, gently. "This will be only between you and me; no one else will know anything about it. , The fire has burnt away-all evidence of t what was done that night: but all -the fires of all the ages couldn't burn it out of my brain. ■' 1 am the most unhappy man that walks ■ the earth tonight, dad, because 1 may not take your hand.-; Heaven forgive you. father—there 'is blood, upon it." ' . Silence, jand; then, the: slow steps of a man on the balcony. A moment or two later 'the" closing/of a door, which told that : Martin had: left the 'house. > Ruth Arkett, venturing -i to look ■■:. out from her

window,]: saw the figure' of John Falconer kneeling in v the darkness, with his head on the railing of the balcony, sobbing as though his heart would break. :,

CHAPTER X. MASTKR NICHOLAS STEAKS.

The remembrance of that .bowed figure on the balcony—of that : tragic interview between father and son—haunted Ruth Arkett all night. She-tried to make up her mind what to do, how to face the appalling situation in which she found herself. One moment she was for flight, unconditional, and without thought of. the future; the next her heart hardened at the thought of this woman who had been done to death in her place, and had received ! the cowardly blow . meant for her. She could not yet understand why that blow had been struck; she could only dimly feel that the man John Falconer had had reason to fear her coming. And yet there was a certain pity in her heart for him, because she could guess what his feelings must bs at the thought that the son he loved had repudiated fiim for ever. i ,":■",;.- •-, -. ■ " v . She could not sleep. She remained for a long time at her window, looking out into the darkness and wondering what she should do. She was go utterly aloneso entirely friendless for had she not brought disaster, quite innocently, even upon Martin Falconer? But for her coming this tragedy could never have happened, and father and son might have remained on the terms that had always existed between them. She cast about in. her mind to discover anyone- to whom she might turn. Ferdinand Kirk was not to bo trusted, because his interest in her was purely a monetary one, to get out of his connection with her what he could. Saul Capstiek was out of the question, because he, too. was plotting in regard to the supposed death of Ruth Arkett. The man who had stood that nighton the balcony, and had listened to the accusation of his son, had undoubtedly plotted also to kill her, and had by the merest chance killed someone else.- Even the wife of that man wa« hot to be' trusted, for Ruth had already seen enough to make her understand that Ursula Falconer would stand shoulder,to. shoulder with her husband under all circumstances.

. The night wore itself away, the tinkling piano ceased, and the lights dropped out from the various! windows, until only the blank walls of the houses faced her. ' 'The dawn grew in the skv. and still Ruth Arkett knelt there, and bitterly blamed Fate that ever such a burden as this* should have been laid upon her. There was that of her dead father in her, however, that taught her at least to face the crisis—to battle for herself against what seemed overwhelming odds, to-find a way out from the tangle. It was nearly five in the morning when .she'finally made up her mind what to do. She made her dress as neat as possible, and gathered together the few tilings that belonged to her, and;prepared to depart. The world held a place for her somewhere, and she must find it. If she could do nothing else she could, at least, leave ..these people to fight their way alone ; she could drop out of their lives as'mysteriously as she had come into them. And let it be whispered here that, perhaps, that determination was not wholly uninfluenced by the fact that Mr. Martin Falconer had -also gone out of the house, probably never to return. / -

All was silent as she crept down. ..She made up her mind that sho would go without rousing anyone. At the last moment, that seemed unfair. She decided to creep into the library, and write some note that should explain, however indefinitely, her departure. She opened the door, stepped into the room, and ; stopped at once, for there was someone there. 1 " '; '

; John Falconer was .seated, at his , writingtable, with his arms spread out upon it, and with haggard eyes staring before him. Even as she saw the man. in that first momentary glance, she saw that his right' hand gripped a revolver;.saw also that the room had apparently been ransacked, and that papers wore torn up, arid the scraps fluttered all over the floor, and that other papers had been stacked carefully in little heaps upon the table. If ho Had stood up and cried out clearly what he meant to do ho could not have declared his purpose more accurately. Ho did not appear to notice her entrance. He turned his eves to the weapon he held, and slowly raised it. And then in a. moment she seemed to "wake from a, ; sort of* trance,, had gripped him by the arm, and was' battling strongly with him for the revolver

For a moment or two they fought silently, with their faces close together, and then at last she had the thing, and had flung it into a corner of the room. The man had sunk down into his chair, and; was shivering and moaning, like; a child awakened. suddenly from a nightmare, ."What-wore you going to do?" she whispered, still holding his hands. . . ' "I was going to kill, myself," said Falconer. .''Why did you stop me? You had m right to do that. In heaven's name, what,have I to live for—what is there left to me?":'";:.- - ':'"; : .-

." Your wife, your son," she whispered. - "My son has gone," said, the man,.with a little pitiful shrug of the shoulders. "It has come to this with me, Miss' Kirk, that I have worked all these years—have sinned, in fact—for him, and now my sin has found me out, and the boy for whom I did it all leaves me. Why did you stop me? There is/nothing left for me in all the world." The curious thing was that at that moment she pitied him sincerely, he was so utterly broken and ruined. 'Whatever he had done, and whatever '.penalty he was to pay, this seemed, at the moment at least, punishment enough. For there was this of sympathy between them—that she, too, loved Martin Falconer, and was for ever separated from him. • . . " Will ■ you'add to his bitterness she asked. "If he knew that he had driven you to this"—she pointed to the. revolver lying on the floor—" ib would surely kill him. L» there no way in which you could make your peace with him—no fashion in which you can draw him again to you?" "None." Said John Falconer. "You don't understand,""and I can't tell you; but he will 'never see.me again." " Would you be content if you could see him again— only for a moment—and know I hat he forgot anything that had happened, and remembered only that you were his father?" . " " .

"If I could see him, again, could clasp his hands again! "You; see, Miss Kirk, he said lie could not touch hand ever again," added John Falconer pitifully. . "Do you think that you cou'.d find him? : Do you think that you could make him understand what my love for him has been, and what it is still? I swear I will kill myself if he, of all the world, turns his back upon me. I don't know why I say this to you, only I seem to trust you somehow. Do you think you can find him?" '■■_ She looked into his haggard face, and slowly; nodded. "Any feeling of horror or repulsion she might have fe'.t had been swept away by the remembrance, of this greatest tragedy of all— hands that grasped hers seemed to have no blood upon them at that moment. "I will try to find him. I will tell him what you say," she said, unsteadily. She moved across to the corner, and picked up the revolver. Her intention was in take it with her, but John 'Falconer held out his hand for it with a smile.

"You need not be afraid," lie said. "1 shall not kill myself until I see him." 'Shegave him the weapon, and saw him lock it in a -drawer. As she left the room she looked back for a moment at him. He had sunk again into his former attitude, with his arms spread out on the table, and with his face fixed in that haggard look shehad first seen upon it. . .:,; Shaking herself free of the house, she seemed, in a.sense, to shake herself free of the shadow that overhung it. Almost she decided, at fust, that she would carry out her orginal intention to go away, and to' leave all this sordid business behind her; but the remembrance of her promise —the remembrance, ton, that she had a legitimate reason for searching for Martin Falconer spurred her on the path on which she had already placed her unwilling 'feet. ' There arose, too. another thought in her mind—a feeling of loyally to that unfortunate woman. Nance Ryder, whose death she had innocently caused. She could not, of course, know' with certainty that Nance Ryder had been the woman mistaken for her, but every circumstance seemed to point to that. Nance o'nlv had known to what place in 11k* city Ruth Arkett was going; Nance had taken the- note to the, office of John Falconer. And, '.' above all, Nance Ryder had carried with her that; miniature which had been seen in the hands of Saul Capstiek, and which that gentleman had triumphantlv produced as evidence of thedeath of Ruth Arkett.

. She decided that she would go first and find Ferdinand Kirk. Thinking it improbable that she would find him ready to receive her at so early an hour as this sue made her wav J into Kensington Gardens and sat down there to think about all tnat i had happened, and all that a malignant fate seemed to have prepared for her. ; ; , Quite apart from Mar Falconer, there was one man to whom her thoughts turned naturally , and with gratitude; that man who, whatever his motive, had first betnenaed her in London. She was shrewd enough to guess that he had taken her to the house of John Falconer with a distinct purpose in his mind, and that that distinct purpose might be embodied in the word money. Yet hero she was going back to him. to .live again on his charity, and to tell rum that so far as she was concerned he could not hope to be one penny, the better. For bv this time she had made up her mmd that the shadowy claim she had upon John Falconer must never be pressed ; , this man who had, as lie believed, struck her down in cold blood, must never do anything to help her. . With that blow he had struck away for ever the nossibilitv of her going to him, ; trustfully and frankly, as she had once meant to do. When' at last she ■made her way to Islington and was admitted to the house by the maid she discovered Mr. Ferdinand Kirk clad, in a very shabby dressing-gown, enjoying a frugal "breakfast. He rose to greet her in some surprise,.demanded hurriedly to know what was the matter, and, it must be admitted, began to show, at that moment when his hopes appeared likely to be dashed to the ground, a little of that sordid man who had been made and ground hard in the mill of circumstance. " You said some days ago, when I told you who I really was, that you thought— that von were afraid that this was a question of murder," began Ruth in a low voice. "Now I know that you were right. 1 know that some other woman has beeu killed by a blow meant for me." I'm very rarely wrong." said Ferdinand Kirk, nodding. "How did you learn -this ', '• I can't tell you that ; but I know that what I say.is correct. I'm afraid I know, too, who the woman was who was killed in mv plaice, but that I mean to find out for certain. At present I can only guess.". " I know ("exclaimed Kirk, holding up a finger, and nodding sagely. "You sent a woman to pawn that- miniature, and Capstick found the miniature— got. it from her. That's the woman that someone Han killed."

"I'm afraid so," said Ruth. "Oh, Mr. Kirk, if you only understood what I feel .about it, ' how I'm torn a dozen different ways, how I want to do right, and yet aim afraid to do anything.',' Who .could have thought, when 'I started out a little time ago to do what my father had begged me to do, that I could have brought such disaster as. this upon everyone? There is something within me, crying out to me to do the right thing, amd to tell all I know; there is something stronger within me, crying out to me to be silent. Mr. Kirk, whait shall I do?" "My dear Ruth, you are a woman, arid therefore not so finely balanced, in such... a matter as this, as a man could be," sniid Ferdinand Kirk, a little pompously. "Your heart will sway you in one direction or in another, and hearts are bad things in'ai crisis. Now, I have no heart to speak of; at all events it became hardened amd sentimentally useless years ago. Trust me, tell me everything, leave me to judge what is best to be done." * ■;

" No—no—l can't do that," replied Ruth. "Oh, please don't think thoifc I don't trust you, but I feel that whatever is done must be done by me. And, first of all. I mean to see this man Capstick. He will know, ait least, who it was from whom he obtained the miniature." .-,,-, . ■ ',

(To be continued on Saturday .next.)

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