MY LATE FRIEND.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 770, 3 December 1886, Page 8

MY LATE FRIEND.

BY M. E,

EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF THOMAS MATSON.

(From the Australasian. )

1 I feel I can hear the burden of it no longer. I have a confidant. It is too much to have a secret, and such a secret, all i to myself. If I cannot manage to unburden myseli; I will do something desperate. I will make this diary act as a safety-valve for my over-wrought brain. By recording here f calmly and dispassionately what I have done, I and how I did it, and why, I will, perhaps get the same relief that 1 have often longed ; to be able to obtain by pouring my strange experiences into the ear of a sympathising f. friend. But a friend might betray me, while this ; iron-clasped, safe-locked volume will hold my secret to the grave. • !. Yes ; you are my best confidant, my truest • friend, good diary, with no maudlin notions ’.of human honor, no selfish feelings of | human interest to make you turn upon me i when 1 have told you what I know. With you I need 4 nothing extenuate, nor set down uught in malice/ but may discuss in a philosophical spiiit, and calmly as a philo- , sopher should, what a merely human friend might shrink to hear. | I like to be orderly. Let me begin at the beginning. These newspaper cuttings will serve as a prologue. Here’s one. How ia it headed ? ‘ Strange Disappearance of a Bank Manager.’ Here’s another. How is it headed ? ‘ Another Good Man Gone— Whither?’ Here’s a flaring cross-line, 4 Fetherstone’s Flight, Astounding revelations, awful defalcation. Warrants issued, j distinguished persons implicated.’ They don’t know where he’s gone—none of them—whatever they may pretend. The vrise, omniscient press don’t know. But I know. Ho !ho ! ho !it is too good to read their wild guesses, and absurd prophecies, knowing the truth all the time, I chuckle as I pass the big posters in front of the great solemn Collins-street newspaper offices. And I can hardly restrain myself from rushing in, and shrieking to the purblind editors, ‘ I know, I know, I know.’ The newspaper accounts were very very much alike.

Here’s a quotation that will serve as a preface to my narrative : ' STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE OP A BANK

MANAGER.’

‘We regret to have to announce that Mr Philip Fetherstone, manager of the Melbourne Joint Stock Bank, has been missing since Saturday night. As usual in such cases, the wildest rumours were prevalent in the city yesterday, and it at one time seemed as if there would have been a run upon the bank, so persistent were the whispers of heavy defalcations. Fortunately, the directors took such prompt steps to re-assure the public that this, which one would have regarded as a public calamity, was And thus there was no need of the aid which a hastily-assembled meeting of the associated banks had tendered to the threatened institution. Probably the knowledge that such aid had been promised was alone sufficient to prevent, the danger. The bank authorities are, as always happens, foolishly reticent, but we can state authoritatively that the Joint Stock Bank will suffer no loss through Mr Fetherstone’s disappearance. The cause and manner of that disappearance still remain inscrutable mysteries. It seems that Mr Fetherstone left Melbourne for Sorrento on Saturday by the Golden Croyvn, having stated that he intended to return by the first ■boat on Monday. He was apparently in his usual health and spirits when on board the steafher. . .He arrived, in due course at his destination, and put up at the Sorrento Hotel. After partaking of the usual evening meal, he strolled out, smoking a cigar. He exchanged a few words with some smokers of his acquaintance who were seated' on the benches about the hotel door; then took the

path to the pier, hue instead of continuing on to that pleasant promenade be turned to the right, and walked leisurely along the beach towards Rye. Beyond the baths he said, “Good night ” to Dr Kerr, the wellknown Collins street medico, with whom he had what is commonly known as “a nodding acquaintance,’ and who was walking towards Sorrento. The doctor looked after him, and saw him turn round one of the points known locally as “The Sisters.” When he passed that point he disappeared from amongst men as completely as if he had vanished into thin air. • No trace or tidings cf him have been found. He did not return to the hotel that night. He has never returned. All Sunday and yesterday the bush for miles round was scoured by, we might say literally, hundreds of eager searchers, led by. the 'local constabulary. So numerona are the visitors now at Sorrento, and so great the interest taken in tlie matter, that there has not Been a square, yard of the p. ninsular upon which

1 Sorrento stands left unsearched. All in | vain, though Mr Matson, of Boondilla, an intimate friend of Mr Fetherstone, who happened to be staying at Portsea, headed the searchers, and offered a large reward for the slightest clue. There are, of course, the usual rumours afloat that are always heard in such cases, about midnight boats being heard rowing off to strange schooners, and whispers of serious defalcations, or domestic reasons for the flight of the missing man. We are authorised to give all such reports the fullest contradiction. There was nothing connected with the bank or in any way with the life of Mr Fetherstone that couid cause him to leave the country secretly. Everything points to accident or foul play—we fear the latter. If an inquest should unhappily become necessary, we trust it will be conducted with a little more ordinary intelligence than characterised one on which we had recently cause to animadvert. But up to the present nobody knows whether the unfortunate man is living or dead.’

Does nobody know whether Philip Fetherstone is alive or dead ? There is one that knows all about it. He is dead. I killed him 1 .

4 Inquest!’ quotha. You won’t be troubled with inquests. lam not such a silly blunderer as that. Not for me poison purchased to kill rats, which throws your victim into convulsions, and is afterwards found in his stomach. No horror, gory, throat-cutting business, fit for an Adelphi villain, but not for real life.

No, when I determined to kill my friend Philip I resolved that the work should be done properly, neatly, scientifically, and that no traces should be left behind.

I was hot in a hurry—l could' wait. 4 Everything comes to the man who waits/ some wiseacre said I made up my mind to wait. And I waited to some purpose. I thought the matter out. I rehearsed it until I was perfect in every part. I wove in every circumstance of time and place until I knew that I could not fail. I felt like Moltke planning a campaign. But what I prided myself upon chiefly was the grand simplicity of the thing. Most great men have been simple, all great ideas are. My plan was simplicity itself, and it succeeded. Why did I want to kill him ? Why did I want to kill my old friend Philip Fetherstone ? What does the commandment say ? — 4 Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife.’ I coveted his wife, and I’ll have her now. Damn him, why did he marry the woman that should have been my wife. When I think of it, my head seems to whirl round, and my teeth grate with rage. I wish it was to do again, a hundred times. I would do it every time with new varieties of torture. I must lay down my pen ; I can’t write any more now with the thought of it.

This excess of passion won’t do for a philosopher. I must try to be calmer. I have set down why I killed Philip fetherstone. He robbed me of the woman that should should have been my wife. I had known him from my schpolboy days. But I never met her till after thev were married. I was in Europe when the wedding took place, unfortunately for all of us. When I returned I found them married. The first time I saw her I knew she should have been my wife. Are we not told to smite the adulterer, and spare not ? He was the adulterer, married to my wife. I determined not to spare him. But I was much too wise to let my inward thoughts appear. I went cunningly to work I wished, if possible, to save his life, so I took the opportunities that my friendship gave me to endeavor to wean his wife’s affections from him, and get her to bestow them on me. But I soon found that my poor darling’s heart was entirely taken up with that man. Then 1 knew that he must die. I loathed him. I looked upon him with the utmost horror. Yet to secure success I feigned still to be the friend that I had actually been before that unlucky visit to Europe. And I succeeded. If he had been asked who was his best friend he would have at once replied ‘Tom Matson.’ And I redoubled my show of affection for him. I was a director of his bank, and was able to do him fifty kind offices. How often have I sat in the bank parlor in pleasant, familiar, friendly.chat with him, whilst I was scheming all the time his ruin. I thought then that if I could manage to make him embezzle, or appear to embezzle, the bank’s funds, I could easily get rid of him. But I soon dropped that plan as too difficult of execution. And, besides, women are so curious. I felt that even in his digrace she would cling to him still—probably all the more fondly. No ; the wise Frenchman was right — 4 It is only the dead who do not return.’ It was necessary that he should die. My arrangements were soon complete. When summer was somewhat advanced I made a practice of going down every Saturday and every holiday’ to Sorrento or to Portsea, and I frequently insisted on Fetherstone accompanying me. It was not long before we were regarded as regular habitiufe of the place, and knew and were known to all the residents. Occasionally I stayed for days and weeks at a time, and wandered about, along the front beach, through the scrub, along the Back Beach, wherever I would, until no one was astonished at seeing me appear, pipe in mouth, in any part of the district at any time of the day or night. I consorted with the fishermen, the farmers, the lime-burners, and was never tired of listening to their yarns and standing treat for them, until 4 Jimmy the Boy ’ declared T was ‘ the haffablest gent as hever he seed since Gov’nor Latrobe shook ’ands with him and give him a selection/ and 4 Tiddlywink ’ stated on his solemn oath that 4 there wasn’t such another blessed cove between there and the blessed Point.’ In short, I became a prime favorite with all hands. When I had mastered all the necessary . little details. I determined to act. One Thursday I strolled into the bank parlor and said to Fetherstone, 4 Look here, old fellow, you mustn’t overdo it. All work and no play, you know. Now I won’t take any refusal ; you must come down to Sorrento on Saturday, I am going to the West to-day, but shall reach Sorrento on Saturday. You must meet me there.’ After some demur, he consented. We arranged to put up at the Sorrento Hotel, and that if I was not there wheu he arrived.

he was to expect me from Queenscliff on Sunday morning. I didn’t go to- the West, but I went as far as Queenscliff, and on Friday I crossed over to Portsea, and stayed there. Fetherstone needn’t be afraid that I wouldn’t be ready to meet him. On Saturday I was quite ready.

I searched for his arrival with feverish anxiety. Something might have detained him, and all my. time.and trouble would have been lost. I felt a. happy, peaceful feeling of contentment stealing over me, when at last from my station in the scrub Isaw him land from the steamer and make his way to the hotel. 3 knew the rest;was easy* When twilight had faded'into darkness I took »p my position on thebeach, near * The Sisters,’ as a couple of sorubbery points, about a mile from' Sorrento, are called. I waited there for my man. I felt no more doubt of his presently strolling past me than I do of the sun’s rising/ to morrow. I had not long to wait. In the darkness I saw him coming round the point. I felt him coming before he- appeared. I knew it was him, though I could distinguish no feature of life face, and could only see andndistinct figure between myself and the sea. I called hint. He stopped,, surprised,.and looked round. I got up and went towards him.

4 Why. Matson, where did you spring from ? You quite startled me* They told me at the- hotel that you* had not arrived/ And he shook hands warmly with me. 4 Hadn’t arrived ?• Why, I- have been staying at Portsea since yesterday. I r got here sooner than I expected. Had quite given you upj/ 4 But lam at Sorrento. It was there that we agreed to meet.’ ‘ Not at all, I assure- you. Portsea was the place fixed on. However, here we are,, and lam heartily glad to see you. I ami particularly glad to dfropupon you now, as I am on my way to the Back Beach to-catch some crayfish, and I hated the idea of going alone. So come along/ 4 What a regular Isaac Y/a’fcon you are, Matßon. Can't you smoke a quiet cigar on the beach here, listen to the lapping of the water, inhale the balmy sea air, enjoy life, and let the crayfish alone ? / Besides, I haven’t my Back Beach bocts on. These things wouldn’t last half an hour on the rocks/ 4 What a lazy fellow you are. It is* Iti-cfey I have energy for both. And here, in my bag, is an extra pair of heavy boots. Sib down here, pufc them on, and off we-go;’ With a smile at my persistence, he gave in as usual to my wish, drew on the boots, which, as I knew from experience, would fit him well enough, put his own in my bag,, and we started.

How pleasantly and lightly we chatted as I led him by a bye-track through the scrub to the Back Beach. Whilst I was thinking all the while— 4 You wretch ! you have disappeared already from the sight of men ; no human eye but mine will see you henceforth. You are blotted out of existence’ My precautions fyad so far all been successful. I defied the most skilful of black trackers to trace Philip Fetherstone. He had changed his boots on a rock, below high-water mark, where the incoming tide would speedily Obliterate all traces, and who would suspect that the huge, unshapely tracks that the heavy sea boots left; after them were made by" the feet of the elegant bank manager. I chuckled to myself, and could hardly refrain from laughing outright when I thought of it. We Reached unseen our fishing-place, one of the loveliest and most unfrequented of the numerous little bay 3 into which the ocean has carved that coast. I drew the nets from the rocky hole in which I had hidden them, and we spent half the night fishing, chatting, and smoking. Fifty times, as Fetherstone stoid beside me on the rocky ledge, whilst the seething water boiled and foamed beneath us, I felt an almost irresistible impulse to hurl him in, and end it that way, but I feared failure. I knew him for a strong and courageous swimmer, and more than my match in personal strength. And then the inquest; the body might be found. No ; the other way was the surest. And so the time went by, and midnight was past. The wind had risen, and the surf, booming more loudly on the reef, roared in my ears—‘lb i 3 time f»r him to die ; let him die.’ He at length suggested that it was time to think of bed. I assented, nothing loth. We hid the nets, and taking the best of our prey (for our sport had been successful) we started for Sorrento.

I led the way, being best acquainted with the country, and after winding for some time through the scrub, I took the path to the right, which brought us out into an open space, with what appeared to be a white hillock in the midst of it. 4 Hello/ said Fetherstone, ‘why this is Darky Dick’s. How did we get here ?’ 4 1 am afraid I have taken the wrong track,’ I answered. 4 However, as we are here, let us go and have a look at the kiln.’ The white hillock was a lime-kiln built in a small clearing in the scrub. There was not a soul about the place. Trust me for that. Of the four men who lived there, two went to their distant homes on Saturday night. The other two were lying drunk somewhere near the hotel. I had visited the kiln during the day, shouted for them, found a pretext to give them some money, and I knew their habits too well not to know exactly what would become of them.

- Fetherstone and I climbed the kiln bank together. .Things couldn't be better. There was a considerable heap of ’ 4 breeze ’ on the kiln-head, and a large quantity of limestone ready broken to feed the kilu without too much work on the Sunday.

Dick must have knocked off too soon. The burning limestone was fully six feet down from the level of the kiln-head.

I knew where the heavy stone-breaking hammers were left, and as we reached the summit I dropped the bag of fish I was carrying and took up one of the hammers, which t swayed idly to and fro as we stood for a moment looking down into the fiery pit. Only for a moment. Then with one strong push I hurled him in. He rose to his feet scorched and dazed. 4 Quick, Matson,’ he called. 4 For God’s sake pull me out quickly L- I feel the fire burning me already.’ 4 1 laughed as I replied, 4 My dear .fellow, you have got to stay there. So you had beat make up your mind to it. 1

} ‘For God’s sake, quick, quick 5* 4 Really you are most unreasonable, after ;my trouble ia getting you in, to expect me to pull you out/ and with thee hammer I smote his Hands,• with which he was 'frantically trying to pull himself; up* and j caused hiinito drop back. I ‘ He’s mad-*! Oh! my-pooF child!!' My ipoor wife ! Hfelp ! help ! help V he-shrieked 1 in his terrible terror and agony, j lam 3orry-to say that I lost* my temper 'then.. | 4 Your wife,. your wife, youiwretchi; my wife, you-» mean.. She is mine now*/! j I raised the hammer., Oae blow, andl all! ; was over.. I stood looking for a moment at : the inert mass lying on the burning stone.. /Inquest? 1 ' I' chuckled;; ‘there* woffife.be (much of an. inquest now.’ I carefully examined/the hammer, but there-was no trace !of'the deed on it.. Lrevelled ass I: >of the doctor’s probable.* evidence*afe-an inquest—- Death caused by the blow of some j blunt instrument; probably a, hammer;’ r Yes, ifihe got the chance to bold one. ! But I had no time to waste even* in these • pleasant thoughts ; there* was mueh< still' to be-done.. I got the rough* sapling, ladder used by the lime burners* and Ildescendied into the kiln, and quietly removed the watsh and chain; studs* and; money that; my late friend had with him. X 4 had made a study of the matter. Bones are-easily resolved by fire intotheir pristine lime,- but metals might tell tales*. I; wasn’t to-be caught that way. I then climbed back* to the- removed the ladder, threw.- in my friend's j boots, and quickly shovelled in a bed of breeze* which L covered up in. a workmanliae manner with the-brokenJimestone, then ! more breeze, then more limestone, and soon, ‘ till I had piled up three or four feet of breeze laud stone over my late-friend. ITknew how , it should be done. I’ had often and) often watched the men,at work; I was sure that Hick and his mate, when ! they returned from thein-spree,, could never remember whether they, or*their two absent partners had or had nofeuaed up. the broken stone themselves. These operations took some-littS; time, but I wanted to do, the-thing properly* and I think I succeeded. It was dim dawn when I turned to retrace nay steps to the 4 Back Beach,’ and it was almost daylight as Ii threw nay late friend's effects and the crayfish nets far into the depth of ocean. / I shall never forget that peaceful happy walk to, Fortsea, before sunrise. The wind of the night had diied away, a faint southerly breeze just wafted landward the aroma of the sea, and all Nature seemed tranquil and at rest, as I was. There was one annoying circumstance—-I wanted a smoke badly, and couldn’t have one. My late friend had all the matches. When I reached my hotel, the smiling landlady asked me if ‘I had had good sport.’ I answered, 4 Never- better/ and told her to cook one of the crayfish for my breakfast. Ho, ho, ho !: She little knew what sport I had had. Perhaps she would not have smiled so much if she had known.

The seareh for my poor friend was a delightful joke. How I enjoyed the fun of it. Pity that I had no one with whom to share my mirth. I was the head and front of the whole thing. Who but I led the searching parties hither and thither with untiring and devoted energy ? Who telegraphed for the black trackers to be sent for at his own expense ? Who offered a large reward for the discovery of Mr Fetherstone, and a handsome sum for any slightest clue to the mystsry ? I, I, and again I. My zeal and friendship were in everybody’s mouth. I won golden opinions from everyone. It was too funny. I had sometimes to go aside and laugh until I was almost in convulsions, whilst the others thought I was indulging my grief. 4 Poor fellow !’ I used to hear them say ; 4 he is quite overcome.’ So I was, too, but with joy.

But let me set down a narrative of the events as they occurred. I woke late on the Sunday morning. I don’t usually sleep well. I think a good deal in the night time. But my exertions during the previous night had exhausted me, and I slept well. A bathe, breakfast (the crayfish was delicious), and I was just able to stroll over to Sorrento in time for church. I fear I fell into a gentle slumber during; service, which was wrong ; ,but the day. was warm, the preacher was rather monotonous,, and the subject was some abstruse point;; ofs dogma. Why don’t they preach morality—something that would do one good ?? The first person I ran against on,tearing; the church was Spranger. Spranger, is. a, lawyer, and also a director of th@> bank*. I don't like Spranger. He is one- of thosefellows that are always fussing and; fuming about trifles. In th.B bank h&, giyes us, noend of worry. He is always, lookingriato. matters, and finding mares’s nests,, and insisting .on doing things that ife is ©then people’s business to do, and generally being a nuisance. Spranger is a, Scotchman, and when he speaks you wish that the- Doric, which sounds so sweetly on other Ups, had never bees) invented. No, I dtont. like Spranger. Most people don’t.

1 After the usual greetings. Spranger-asked me if I had seen anything of Fetherstone-?;- 'I said—‘No ; that I was hoping to see himat the Sorrento Hotel,’ and asked if be wasn’t there.

4 lt is very strange !’ replied Soriager (he , said 4 verra strainge/ but I shall omit the rasp and let him speak English). He'Came down with me in the boat yesterday. .He went-out for a stroll by himself after tea, - and he has never come back. F wonder what can have happened to him.’ . 4 He might have stayed all night with Kerr, or gone on to Rye, or evenßibmana/ 4 Well, I hope so; but I doubt, someway.’

4 111 go back to the hotel with you. We'llfind him there all right, or some -news-of him.’

My prophecy was not correct- When-we i reached the hotel he was not there, strange | to say, and there were no tidings of him* . There is nothing so very wonderful, after ; all, in a man staying awayr from his hotel all I night, and only for that meddlesome fellow, Spranger, we need not ha.ve disturbed our- | selves that day. But the moment dinner ! was over he started inquiring and surmising , worse than, ever, and I suw at once that it would not do for me, the intimate friend of the missing man, to hang back when he was so active. So we formed ourselves*into a 4 coin* . mitiee of investigation,’ as Spranger said, and I threw myself into ~the matter with all energy, though I had my private doubts of our success.

; The evidence was extremely simple. J Fetherstone had taken tea -at the hotel, , and after tea had strolled aloag; the beach to ‘The Sisters,’ He had been, seen by several : persons to start in that direction ; and Dr. Kerr had actually seen him going round the .. point; there all trace of him-aeased. There was no doubt of his- intention, or . professed intention, to retum.after taking-a * short stroll and smoke. Tlse landlady was positive that he had taken nothing with him in the way of brushes, combs, &c., and he had given her instructioasj to have some,candles placed in his room*! as he had some, writing to do; whilst Jafckson and som^n, others fellows said that ho* had promised to 4 cut in ’ with their whisfeparty in about an hour after they saw himij«. Spranger summed up whole case comes under four heads* . He has either—(l) gone away surreptitiously ; (2) he is lying-j in the scrub disabled by-j-a* broken limb ; (3) * he i 3 drowned or accidentally killed, or has died suddenly ; (4) he kao been robbed and, i made away with. Wiftfr-a man like Father- . stone, the first case is extremely improbable.. . There has never beemas murder down here, so we may, I think, pat the first and fourth , cases out of the Ou the-whole! I ] am inclined to fear that h© has been drowned, but he may be lyingsdisabled and dying, in . the bush. In either ease a thorocgjisearch,., of the shore and of the*scrub shoultHie made . immediately.’

We took prompt,; action. A d£ise.n Jjoys,, and young men were despatched -on horse-., back to summon the police, to vtejiSi-.llyje and j Dromana, to warn,all! the farmers, settlers, .. limebumers, and fishermen, and to announce the rewards I had- offered. (Spranger left ; that part of the- business to m@v) > All th&* able-bodied visitors of the hsttelsj joined; eagerly in the pursuit. A little flept ofil boats, directed-by experienced fishermen,, searched all lifce% places alcag the shore-.. The main body, under the leadership of myself, the local* police, and ae.sefetler . from* neighboring Tpo&garook, native,and to.tbte* manner born, who happened,; to be> afc Sorrento, went to the spot ? where-ppeir Fetherstonpc-had been last seen,.and spread out in all directions, searching,every, bjtt*r f scrub for miles around.

At dark;we returned* weary and unauqoear a « ful, to the hotel. Not fae-slighteASttw ce had beeuifoiyad.

Daring, the night our horsemen.cawPefr ack from*Rye,. Dromana, and! Cape* Schar lC b. They had, been as unsuccessful as .oubssJ v es but had-csltected reasonable, evidtepc® that the,,missing man could not have got; > away by land, firom the Sorraato . district;, \Ve determined to redoubla-our, ejEsJi;v&*. The Tootgamck settler impressed ( npgn* us the (necessity of searching every square, • yard in isuptea scrubby country,,a»d toldln®* that his isister,. when a child, a\yay,back v iii)tsjr *e fifties* jhadibeeEk lost for eight.days about; the very -spofewhiere we then, ware, and ouUy found by accident, though the vshole couhtnjj/side were lookiog for her.

I won't recount the details off -the search. L telegraphed for tha- black <me*ckers. They cam® j and I believe- thafe zittsJuere fead been any tracks, and some hupcßps. l ia of srarchers had' not been over- the ground before them, they might have dims soraatming but, as it was, they were not s very, suflicessfaL

Spranger stayed ifor tvao, three days. I attached myself, to him* He bored me about ‘my late friend*’’as, h-*- began to call poor Fetherstone, but , I had! my revenge. He is full-boiied and shpatt-wrinded, and after X had walked -arftn, upt tlta- steepest hills andi through the thickest sac-nbs fora day or two*, he was redueed tqj a. pitiable condition, and. had to retu?n ; to,to3«iik i Ou the fourth, day of the search I found •myself at Darkey.-Di<ric's kiln. I had kept away from* it, hitherto, but thought I had; better haye' a.look at it now.. The men ■stew*

away on the search, and paid by me, but Darkey Dick himself was feeding the kiln as I came up. 4 Any news, sir ?’ he said. ‘No, indeed, Dick ; it is quite impossible to say where poor Mr Fetherstone is. He might be quite close to us now. How is she working ?’ 4 Oh, very well, sir, though, of course, we are short-handed just at present. But she is turning out a beautiful sample of lime, but trade is very dull.’ His words suggested a happy thought to me. "Why not have my late friend always near me ? I was building myself a residence at Malvern—lime was required to plaster it. In short, I arranged to buy and have put aside for me the lime that had been burned on Saturday night. I gave the full market price, but considered I had got a good bargain.

After a week I abandoned the search, and came to town, Even my devoted friendship despaired at last. The mvstery was as great as ever. From time to time various bad characters about Sorrento were expected of having made away with my late friend. Nobody suspected me. Nobody ever would suspect me. Jf the kiln should ever give up its secret it might go bard with Darky Dick or 4 Jimmy the Bov,’ but I should go scathe* lees.

People were always boring me about my late friend, and my zeal and devotion, and so orfeh. I unfortunately, couldn’t confide in them. I should have gone mad if I had not been able to confide in these pages. I have written to my poor darling ; I have not seen her yet. I dare not, at least, not yet. She weeps still for that man.

My God, what a blundering idiot I have been with all my clevernass- I have destroyed that wretch too effectually. I have just come from seeing her. I can’t write, I can’t even think of our interview. I feel suffocated, l am delirious with rago and agony when I think cf it.

She refuses to believe that he is dead. Uctil some proof is presented to her she will always regard him as living, and will act as if she was still his wife, and not hie widow. She declines to wear widows’ weeds, contenting herself with a plain black drees, and she will take no steps to administer hie estate. Was ever such obstinacy, and stupidity heard of ? I argued, expostulated, entreated all in vain. What an unfortunate and miserable wretch lam! A hundred times it ■was on my lips to tell her all. To tell her that I knew that he was dead, and would return to claim her no more. I had to tear my. self away to prevent myself from shrieking, 4 He iB dead, dead, dead ! I killed him 1 ’

Tnere is going to be an inquest upon my late lamented friend after all. I received ths following telegram this morning . ' * The fisherman known as Old Daddy has found some human remains near Point Franklin. Supposed Mr Fetherstone, Inquest to-morrow. Attend with witnesses as to identity.— Senior Constable, Sorrento.’ Somehow I don’t think that these remains belong to my late friend. However, we will -see what an intelligent jury will say.

The inquest has gone on extremely well It is not formally closed yet. Some mistake was made about summoning Daddy, and he as to be called in the morning. But the identity has been satisfactorily proved. Dr Kerr proved that the remains were those of a small person about Fetherstone’s age. Dr Spqedwell, the old family physician was confident as to the identity. George Fetherstone, deeea6ed’s brother, was confident also. He was especially sure on account of a particular tooth that was missing. My evidence was more guarded. I couldn’t conscientiously say that the remains were those of my late friend, but I said that I wouldn’t say they were not, and that they might, be taken to be his ; as indeed they might, or anybody else’s for that matter. , . Thera was other corroborative evidence and the jury evidently have their minds made up. All goes well. My poor darling will be convinced now, and we shall be happy 3 et.

I have received a shock. I was sitting on the beach after the court closed, enjoying the coolness of the evening, when I saw old Daddy approaching me. I had scarcely ever spoken to him, but I was familiar with his appearance, having often met him going to or returning from the Back Beach; where he generally fished. He might have been any age. The tradition which spoke of him as a survivor of Collins’s settlement in 1803 might readily have been believed. He always repelled me, but. as be shambled towards me now, bent double under the bag which, as usual, he was .carrying, with his cunning bleary eyes peering out from underneath liis frowsy hair, and his tattered unsavory garments clinging round his meagre skeleton-like carcase, I felt a shudder thrill me; To my surprise and disgust, he accosted me. . . . ‘I was wantin’ to see you, sir, for a minute, ■ if you wouldn’t mind.’ “ Well, you see me. What’s the matter ? ’ ‘Touehing this inquetcb, sir; there’s suntbink I’d like to say. if I might make so bold.’ 4 Oh, you'll get the reward all right. ‘ It’s not that, sir. , Though hard earned that same’ll be,’ . . 4 Well, what is it ? Out with it. 4 Which they’re a Bayin’ that the body is found to be Mr Fetherstone. It being ’dentified mostly by a tooth as is out, whieh I chucked that tooth out when I was a catehm of him. So be as Mr Fetherston he had lost a tooth this one beant he.’ And the old feliow chuckled. _ , . The logic of the old 4 ruffian was too clear. I was taken aback for a moment, but managed after a pause to reply carelessly— f “ Well, if it isn’t the right man, you won t get the reward, that’s all.’ 4 Which I’m affeared it ain’t, sir, ’cose he couldn’t have come here neither from the place be was chucked in,* and the fellow looked at me in a sly, sinister mariner, that he had not shown before. * What do you mean, man ? Speak out.

What could he mean ’ If by any unlikely chance he had learned anything, it would have come out before now. He muttered and mumbled that he 4 didn’t mean nothink’ but h 9 looked at me in such curious manner that I resolved to bring matters to a crisis. I clutched him suddenly by the throat exclaiming ‘Asa magistrate I arrest you on suspicion of being implicated in the murder of Mr Fetherstone.’ He resisted for one second, and in the straggle something bright that he was trying to conceal fell upon the sand. Grasping mv captive tightly with one hand, I stooped and picked it up. _ One glance was enough. It was Philip Fetherstone’e locket with his initials upon it. " It dropped from my hand, and, with a white and scared countenance, I stood gazing, over it, at the white and scared countenance of my prisoner. A moment sufficed to restore my presence of mind.

4 And so,’ I said ‘you murdering villain ! I have proof against you at last. I have long suspected you. I am certain now.’ He fed upon his knees, and with oaths and prayers and ejaculations protested his innocence, and promised to tell all he knew. He saw clearly the plight he was in ; and realised that one word from me would send him to the gnllows. I let him rave till he was exhausted, and then sharply bade him tell me the truth and the wbele truth. He protested that he was doing so, and told me that on the night, of the disappearance of my late friend he had been looking after some wreckage on the Back Beach, and had 1 seen two swells a crayfishing; and thought he knowed one of them (glancing up at tno), but warint nowise sure. That he thought no more about the matter, as there were several parties along the beach that night, and one of the persons, if he was right in his supposition, was ‘above suspicion,’ (glancing furtively at me again) ; adding, this very day as ever was, instead of being at the inqueteh, which I thought was to-morrow, I went a combing on the Back Beach, and, the tide being very much out, I found that there locket at the bottom of a deep rocky hole. And, so help my Davy, that is all I knows about it. And the locket I was abringing it to you to sec if it belonged to the old ’oo.’

* Did yon find nothing else ? ’ ‘ So help me, never a thing.’ (The locket must have got detached when I flung the watch and money into the sea). 4 Did you see nothing else that night that loo v ed suspicious ? ’ ‘May I die this minnitif I saw a blessed thing. I went away down near the Schanck a combin’. ’

‘Well, Daddy HI don’t know what to say about this extraordinary story. But I know this that if I take you to the lockup and show this locket yon will be hanged. lam half inclined to believe your tale, though a jury never would.’

4 So help my Davy, my word is gospel.’ 4 1 have made up my mind to let you go. I don’t think you murdered poor Fetherstone. By keeping quiet as to your discovery, which will ruin you if known; and by allowing it to be supposed that the corpse is that of the murdered man—which it probably is, indeed —we shall stand a better chance of discovering: the murderer. Now go ; huh remember I hold your life in my hand, and will take it the moment you give me cause.’ He waited for no second bidding, but disappeared in the scrub. He will not forget my warning. I had to have a hot bath. I hope I will not have to capture such a creature again.

The inquest is over. Daddy gave his evidence like a book. My poor late friend is legally dead now, and a handsome monument can be erected in the family buryingground.

My late friend’s will is proved. His friend Thomas Matson and his widow are his execu ors. Business matters will give me opportunities of being constantly with my poor darling.

Months have elapsed since I opened this volume las 1- . 1 have hadnotbing to confide to it in the interval. Ordinary business and soc'al matters I have confided to tny ordinarv human companions. The fate of my late friend hae ceased to excite much interest. My affairs have flourished, and I have been installed in my new house. I often have a quiet chuckle as I sit in the library and gaze at the plastered walls. It is pleasant to have one’s friends about one.

My love and devotion have won upon-my prior darling. She lias forgotten that wretch— I feel it, I know it—l will devote my life to her happiness. Why should I hesitate ? Too much time has been lost already. To-day I shall know my fate.

She has consented to be mine.At length my- long waiting, my toil, my devotion are to be rewarded. Oh 1 my darling.

The time for our marriage has been fixed. I feel as if I trod on air, I sing to myself all daylong. People look at me in the street, lam so radiant with happiness. I can’t contain myself. Do people ever go mad with joy ? *:. . . “

My late friend is a decided nuisance. What a constitution the fellow must have had to survive after all he has gone through. It would have settled most- men, but he seems all the better for it.

Last night as I sat in my library, thinking of my happiness (mv wedding day is at hand) my-late friend suddenly entered the room through the plastered wall, and began all sorts of absurd pantomimic action. I threw things at him and yelled, but he wouldn’t go. What a jolly old dog he is. He only left when the servant came to see what the row was about. If he comes again I’ll settle him—l know the remedy.

He has come'again. He was more absurd than ever. 1 reasoned and remonstrated with him, but in vain. I poiuted out that a joke in season was very well, but that just before a man’s wedding he was de trop. It was no use. Be wouldn’t go.

To-morrow is my marriage day. If he won’t go quietly I will apply the remedy to-

night-. That lime was underbaked. I’ll burn it again. Ho ! ho ! ho ! That will settle him.

NEWSPAPER CUTTING, ‘FATAL FIRE.’

4 We regret to have to announce the total destruction by fire of Boomlilla, the magnificent mansion of the late Thomas Matson, Esq., J.P. The unfortunate gentleman perished in the flames. It appears that the fire originated in the library. Mr Matson was reading in that room when the alarm was given. The servants who heard his shrieks and rushed to his rescue, wore horrified to find that the door was locked on the inside. From the frantic exclamations of the deoeaßed the servants weie persuaded that he was being held by some person within the room, who prevented his escape. But no fact corrobor oes this, and it is certain that no person except the unfortunate owner perished in the fire. When at length the library door was bur-t open his sufferings had long been at an end. A volume of flame shot forth that drove t h e dismayed servants away. The fire spread with wonderful rapidity, and long bo r ore the engines arrived the vast and luxurious mansion was a heap of ashes. Hardly a vestige of it is now to be seen. Of the owner’s body, but a little heap of cinders remains.