FICTION.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1715, 11 January 1905, Page 3

FICTION.

WHO KILLED JASPER SKELDING? BY H. BARTON BAKER. Author of “Robert Minor, Anarchist, “Margaret Grey/’ “Stories of the Streets of London,” etc. -[All Rights Reserved.] CHAPTER VII. HAUNTED. The next morning Jack told his sister all that he had heard about Dudley. Until then she was utterly ignorant of his story, though she had wondered what could so have saddened his life. Love was naturally the first suggestion. Consequently, the story, even as told by .unsympathetic- Jack, greatly interested her. Fidelity to a dead love always strongly appeals to a woman. “Ah. you should have seen him a couple of years ago,” exclaimed her brother: “he was as handsome a fellow as you’d wish to see, full of life and gaiety: ho is only the shadow of the old Frank. By the by, he asked us to go and have a look at his studio this morning; it is no distance, only just, up the Finchley Road. I don’t suppose there will he muo.li worth looking at ; ho used to do pretty little landscapes that sold very well for furniture pictures.” “Oh. but I think from what lie slid.” observed Rosamund, “that he has gone in for subjects now, something after Mr Green’s style—the weird.” “Ah. he’ll never do much in that. I don’t feel inclined for work (that was a normal condition with Mr Flemyng), and if you like, as it’s a fine morning, we’ll walk as far as his place.” Rosamund was quite agreeable, and about twelve o’clock they were knocking at the door of an extremely pretty, but unpretentious cottage, with a garden in front, and inquiring at an elderly servant for Mr Dudley. Frank came out himself, and, after warmly welcoming his visitors, conducted them into a plea-ant studio, built out from the house, and enjoying a full and uninterrupted northern light. He and Lai Green, who lived a little farther up the road, had it in common. “Everything is quite new,” lie said ; “it has not been fin -shed more than a fortnight; it lacks associations, ‘the spirits that tend on mortal thoughts’ have not yet taken up their abode here. All is of to-day, and art is all Yesterday.”

“I am afraid. Mr Dudley, you have been spoiled for prosy England by the studios and galleries and churches of Italy,” said Rosamund. “Yes, the genius, the visions, the hopes and despairs of the great artists, who have lived and dreamed and worked and died there, generation after generation, permeate the whole atmosphere, and lend a breath of inspiration even to the humblest dauber of canvas.” While he was .speaking, Rosamund’s eyes were fixed upon an easel which was half turned to the wall. He followed her glance, and moved the picture so that she could view it. “That is a bold attempt,” he said, “to adapt the fable of the Eumenides of dEschylus to the present day. The old classic tragedy opens with Orestes in the Temple of Apollo, haunted by the Furies, the heathen representatives of the Christian conscience, who have never quitted him since the murder or execution of his mother. The allegory is now as true as it was 2,500 year* ago.”

The tone in which these words were uttered was so sombre that. Rosamund looked up at the speaker, but his eyes were fixed so intently upon the canvas that he did not seem to observe her glance.

The scene of the picture was night; a man lay sleeping on the steps leading up to a church portico;; a ray of moonlight fell upon his white, upturned face, bringing it out of the all-pervad-ing darkness in intense relief; it was a face to fascinate the eye and haunt the memory evermore: its reddened eye-lids, its pale, parted lips; its utter weariness and despair, and, above all, a latent horror in it as though it had looked upon sights more than mortal. In tlie background, in the shadow of the portico, seen as through a thick, veil or mist, were three spectral appearances; one was the dead face of an Old man, his forehead stained with blood, the glazed eyes staring, the lips drawn apart., the fang-like teeth clenched in diabolic hate; the second was the countenance of a woman, fierce eyed, ashen grey, malevolent as a Medusa, but beautiful withal; the third was a faceless form, shrouded from head to foot, and showing but as a blurred outline through the mist. The central figure was dressed in ordinary modern attire., but the bodies of the two first

figures were so lost in the folds of the veil as to he indescribable. Rosamund stood spellbound before this weird work, into which the painter seemed to have projected a living power. As she took in the details she saw that Dudley himself must have sat for the sleeping man, and there was something in the woman s face that touched a chord of memory, but too vaguely to produce a tangible impression. The fascination was terrible: her heart went out with infinite pity to the weary, fiend-haunted man ; then shrank back affrighted beforo the basilisk eyes of the grey woman, and the awiul vengefulness of the dead old man ; while that shrouded terror, rendered all the more appall ling by the unknowable, chilled her soul as with a portent, a foreshadowing of doom, in which her own destiny was involved. As she tried more and more to pluck out the heart of the mystery, a strange ide \ rose up in her mind ; it seemed to her that if she could pull off that shroud she would see her own face.

“What do you call the picture?” she asked presently.

“Haunted,” was the reply. “I need not have asked,” she said ; “it names itoelf." “But what does- that shrouded figure represent—which cf the Furies?'’ she asked, in a low voice, without taking her eye; c-ff the canvas.

“I cannot toil,” he answered. “You see, the classical mythology got slightly mixed in my ideas, which nude a confu-ion between ihe Parcae and the Euiiienides, the Fates and ih•> Fur os. The old man and the woman are supposed to bo the sleener’s past fates, the shadowy form his future. I have never been 'aide to imagine what the shroud hides; I have sat before it for hours, trying to penetrate the ctarkne >s, hut it always remains formless, faceless. I know it will be revealed to mo home day, that it will come like a flash of inspiration that there is no doubting.”

As lie spoke he raised his eyes to Rosamund as, pale with excitement, she stood motionless, rapt, enthralled, listening to his si range words, as though under the ird’luehoe of a charm. It was the sweetest of incense to the painter that the work c-f his hand and brain could absorb such a. woman as Rosamund Flemyng, and fire, her with awe and wonder. And die gazed his fill cn her. '

While he looked the sky was darkened by passing clouds, deepening the .shade of her grey dress and grey hat and feather, until they seemed to harmonise with the tonality of the picture, and the pallid light to render her face a counterpoint to that other woman’s. An indefinable thrill agitated every nerve; lie glanced from her to the picture, and the shroud seemed to dissolve in mist, and in hie imagination he saw within its folds the countenance of Rosamund Flemyng. Faint with fear, he closed his eyes for a moment; when he reopened them the illusion was passed, nor could he recall it.

Even Flemyng, who had approached the painting in a supercilious, hypercritical vein, could not resist its potentiality.

“'By Jove!” he said, “it’s a big thing. That is to say,” he added, to modify this spontaneous praise, “for this kind of work, you know; I am prejudiced for the classical and reposeful “Don’t talk rubbish,” cried Rosamund, angrily, his petty envy breaking the spell. “'Genius knows no school, it creates its own, it is a law unto itself, and however bizarre it may be, it compels the soul that can understand it to bow down submissively before it and say, ‘I know not how it is right, but I know it is right.’ If you have not an understanding soul, brother, don’t expose yourself.” Jack turned all colours, pulled his moustache, and stammered: “I don’t deny its power, I —l only remarked that I preferred the —the reposeful in art, it suits my taste better.” “There’s no doubt about that, Jack, you are of a reposeful nature,” retorted Rosamund, with a touch of sarcasm. “You do hit hard, when you set about a fellow, and being a woman I can’t hit you back,” growled Flemyng. “Forgive me, Jack, for being so rude,” she cried, turning to him and taking his hand, while the tears started into her eyes. ‘T know I’m a spitfire, but I do hate cant of all kinds, and you were talking cant in the presence of a masterpiece.” In her enthusiastic fervour, Rosamund had forgotten the presence of the artist, or at least did not think about it.

Never in all his life before had his art yielded Dudley such ecstasy as did that spontaneous eulogy from Rosamund Flemyng’s lips, and coming from her lips made him feel that it was no ex agger ati on. Tlicm was no pallor upon her face now; it was warm with, the flush of her ardent soul, and her eyes were full of fire, yet humid with emotion, and the sun’ darting through a south-west window which was uncovered, hallowed her in golden light. Who could have denied her the divine gift of beauty in that inspired moment P “Oih, Mir Dudley,” she cried, turn-

ing to the painter, who was trembling with the force of his emotion, “if you only knew the pleasure you have given me. I don’t set up for an art critic, and I never shall. I can no more dissect a work of art than I can analyse the sunshine, or the effect it produces upon me, bub I can feel a fine picture in every nerve. There may be faults in your technique, but there is a living soul in your conception.” “Yes, you have plucked out the heart of its mystery, Miss Flemyng. And your praise is indeed most precious to me. To disclaim it would be to insult your enthusiasm. I shall never forget this day, I shall never again look upon that picture but your words will be in my mind.” His voice faltered with the intensity of his feelings as lie spoke.

If ever a woman wore her heart upon her sleeve it was Rosamund Flemyng. When moved by any strong emotion her heart rushed to her lips and relieved itself by a torrent of words. The emp ressement of Dudley’s tone and manner brought the hot blood to her cheeks, and something of embarrassment, as she remembered how perfervid she had been to one who was almost a stranger. But as she looked up at him with her clear, fearless eyes she felt that this was not the man to misunderstand her warmth of feeling.

Dudley insisted upon their staying to lunch, and before they sat down to table. Dal Green came in and joined them.

“Why, Frank, old man, what have you been doing to yourself?” he exclaimed, in genuine astonishment, ‘‘l have not seen you look so bright since —not these two years.” “Here is the elixir vitoe that has worked the change,” replied Dudley, pointing to the blushing Rosamund; “she has been saying such delicious things about my picture, Lai, that I fancy myself almost a Michael Angelo.”

Lai Green looked at Rosamund, and then at Dudley, several times during the meal, and then became thoughtful. When it was over, the four strolled into the garden to enjoy cigarettes, and somehow Rosamund and Dudley unconsciously seemed to separate from the other two. He asked her about her work, and what she was doing, and presently she found herself confiding to him ideas and aspirations which she had never spoken of to any living soul, and lie said he would come and look at some of her work next day, and

how charmed he would be if he could I afford her any assistance.

Then they talked of the galleries and the pictures they admired most, and of their favourite poets, and discovered how wonderfully alike were their tastes. That afternoon, with its balmy air, its blue sky flecked by white clouds, its golden sunshine, budding foliage, springing flowers, and the sweet vernal scents, like the very breath of Flora, that permeated the atmosphere, was never forgotten by them, and in the dark days to come rose like a vision of delight upon their troubled souls. Tea was served. And the sun was far down in the west when the Flemyng* at last took their leave. Dudley watched the tall, graceful figure pass down the road in the red light. Once she looked round and waved her hand. As a turning in the road hid her from his sight, the sun sank behind a cloud, and his faoe. which a moment before had been luminous, became grey, and the light died out of it, and ifc was sad and weary again. Lai Green was looking at him, and seemed about to make some remark, hut changed his mind. So they strolled back silently into the garden and smoked more cigarettes, until the ohill of night sent them into the house. Finding that his friend was indisposed for oanvei'sation he bade him good night. Dudley sat for hours after he was alone, thinking of liis fair visitor; but not in any relation to himself, for ha believed that woman’s love was dead to him for evermore. The mere suggestion of bringing another life within the fatal shadow of his own would have appalled him. But the strange vision of the faoe that had revealed itself out of the folds of the shrouded figure. What did that portend? Nothing. It was only an illusion. CHAPTER VIII. THE COUNTESS REVEALS HERSELF. Dudley was at the Flemyngs’ soon after eleven o’clock on the following morning, stayed to lunch and until evening, and during a great part of tho time was on tete-a-tete with Rosamund. Much felt the charm of tho other’s personality, yet neither dreamed that it meant more than mutual admiration.

The inter course between the sexes is. So different in artist circles to what it is in private life; there is so much more freedom. In the latter, if a man -talk earnestly with a woman for half—-an-hour, or pays her particular attention during a single evening, it is at once concluded that he has matrimonial intentions; in literary, musical, artistic •society, these things mean nothing. It is not the man or woman who attracts, but the painter, musician, writer, actor, which is quite a different thing. Rosamunds father was a musician; blio had been used to male society far more than to female from girlhood, and was always eager to converse and exchange thoughts with clever men; but she had never fallen in love with any one of them. Not that she was cold or nourished any anti-matri-monial theories, but she never thought about love, and never would until the passion took possession of her. When Dudley departed the house seemed suddenly to become lonely; she did not care to read or paint, hut only to sit down and think over all they had talked about.

But only, she believed, because she sympathised with his melancholy and ardently admired his genius. Yet, she thought, with some scorn, what a strange woman his wife must have been to let him go to Italy alone. And for all that, how deeply he seemed to mourn her dead. Beyond this grief there was some mystery, some secret that oppressed him. Soon after Dudley was gone, a letter came from the Countess gushing with praises of the fisher picture, and enclosing a cheque for a hundred pounds. “It ought to be five hundred,” she added.

“I am so sorry you were not at our ‘At Home;’ you would have met some ,charming people, and some useful people. Your painting was greatly admired, and a certain rich connoisseur gave it as his opinion that you would some day do great things; you may imagine how proud I felt at having said almost the same words upon my own judgment. You must he sure to come to our next; everybody is dying to meet you, and you will he quite la Dionne of the evening.” While breathing in this sweet incense, Rosamund almost forgot Francis Dudley. She was aspiring, ambitious, she worshipped art, and the thought that she might some day win a name that would live among its records intoxicated her with joy.

She wrote off to the Countesis without a moment’s delay, thanking her for her letter and kindly interest, and promising that she and her brother would do themselves the pleasure, of coming to her next evening. “I have something curious to tell you,” she added, “apropos of the artist whom you met in a church in Rome. It was not Mr Dudley, but Mr Lionel Green, who, strange to say, is Mr Dudley’s particular friend; and was one of the three who dined with us. He desired me to say that he would he delighted to renew his acquaintance with you and the Count.” In the course of the following day came a card for Mr and Miss Flemyng, and another for Mr Lionel Green, for the Count and Countess de Hauteville’s “At Home.”

We may pass over the next few day®, during which Rosamund was in highglee, and her brother in great disgust, at paying off old bills. “Oh, Jack,” she cried, “you should have seen old Cowbeef’s look of astonishment when I put down my hank notes and told him to take his account out of it; and then his bow, quite servile; he hoped we should continue to favour him with our custom. Oh, it was simply lovely.” “Rut he never expected to.be paid, and I hate deceiving people,” growled Jack.

Scarcely a day passed without Dudley looking in upon the Flemyngs —to bring Rosamund a hook or a drawing, or to talk with her about some work of art.

During the past eighteen months he had lived a life of morbid seclusion, Green being his only friend and companion ; from woman’s society he had been entirely estranged. No wonder he found the charm that surrounded Rosamund irresistible. He longed to tell her his life’s story; if he could hut unburden his soul to another, what a relief it would he.

But the thought that she would Bhrink from a possible murderer, even though the crime was unintentional, held him dumb. Without her friendship life would now be unendurable.

The effects of the Countess de Hautevilla’s penchant for his sister were so pleasant that Jack Flomyng became quite reconciled to it, and on the evening appointed he and Lai Green accompanied Rosamund to Queen’s Gate. They arrived rather late—it was a special characteristic of Jack that he was always late; the rooms were pretty, well filled with smart women and presentable men; artists, authors, musicians, a sprinkling of the histrionic profession and of the fashionable element, and others who hang on the fringes of society and never refuse a card of invitation. No one in London seemed to know anything about the Count and Countess, beyond what they crave out about

themselves. The Count was supposed to be a rich French noble, who had been educated and passed his boyhood m England, which accounted for his exceptional knowledge of the language; he had married an English lady, and, they were making the tour of Europe previous to settling down upon their estates in Auvergne. Some people had met them in Rome, but reported that they were not received in the best circles, although nothing was ever said against them. They spent money lavishly, and lived in good style; yet somehow they were kept at arm’s length—an indefinable atmosphere of suspicion seemed to hover round them. The Count gave out that his stay in London would he very brief, as he and his lady would shortly depart for New York. But to return.

The Countess pressed forward to welcome the new comers in her most, fascinating manner; kissed Rosamund on both cheeks, and warmly congratulated Flemyng upon his sister’s talent. “I am charmed with her,” she said; “she is delightful.”

Then she turned to Lai Green and recalled t-hedr meeting in the church at Rome, and began talking about pictures.

Just then the Count came up, spoke a few complimentary words to Rosamund in that low, flattering voice' in which lie usually addressed women; finding, however, that his fascinations were coldly regarded, he entered into conversation with Green. He and Flemyng recognising several persons they knew; the Countess and Rosamund were left to themselves.

These two ladies attracted general attention. And they were certainly the stars of the evening. The Countess was magnificently dressed, the prevailing colour of her costume being pink, clouded with the most costly lace; strings of diamonds were twined among the tresses of her black hair, a diamond necklace clasped her beautiful white throat, and bracelets of brilliants, rubies and emeralds encircled her lovely arms.

If the pose had been pre-arranged for stage effect, no more perfect contrast could have been conceived than that presented by her companion.

Rosamund’s somewhat tall figure quite o’ertopped the petite Countess; it was clad in a simple dress of yellow silk, clouded by chiffon; which, however, did not obscure the graceful flowing lines of her form. She wore no ornaments, except one plain gold bracelet, and a couple of Marechal Niels in the bright brown wavy hair; while in her hand she carried a bguquet of those lovely roses, mixed with the deep apricot of the William Allan Richardson, which had been sent her by Dudley. Again that pale complexion, the dark reposeful luminous eyes, the whole countenance so full of soul and sweet girlish dignity, stood out in relief against the artificial fascinations, the restless vivacity, of the woman of society.

Probably, there was not much difference in their ages; but, beautiful as was the Countess, she had lost all youthful freshness, and there was a worn and haggard look at times, that not even her brightest smile could hide. - Linking her aim in Rosamund’s, she led her round to a number of people, amongst whom she discovered several acquaintances.

A short, fat Jewish-looking gentleman was one of the first to solicit the honour of an introduction.

Mr Hart was most profuse in his compliments upon the young artist’s last picture. Indeed, to let the reader into a secret, Mr Hart was a gentleman who bought pictures for certain dilettante noblemen, and it was to him that the Hautevilles were selling Miss Flemyng’s work at a very handsome per oeatage. After making a round of the room, which occupied some time, the hostess said, “Now oome, let us find a quiet comer and have a quiet chat; I am sure you must be weary of all this noise. First of all. tell me about- the petit diner which deprived me of the pleasure of your company last week, and about your chief guest, M—M—a ” “Dudley ?” “Ah. yes, Dudley. It seems that it was not he whom we met in Rome, then P”

And so she led on Rosamund, nothing loath, to speak of her new friend, and to grow enthusiastic over him and the wonderful picture he had painted. “What is the subject?’' asked the Countess.

Rosamund hesitated. She knew that only herself, her brother, and Green had been privileged to view it, and that it would be a breach of professional etiquette to give any description of it. Sb she explained her scruples. “It is very weird, and the most powerful thing I have ever seen,” she added. “Which of the galleries will it bo exhibited at?” inquired the Countess. “I don’t think he has any intention of exhibiting it.” “How strange. But perhaps it is already bought?” “I don’t think he intends to sell it.” “Mr Dudley must be a very strange man,” remarked the Countess, with a touch of sarcasm.

While fanning herself and pretending to be indifferent, she had, from beneath hen long, dark lashes, been keenly observing Rosamund's face the whole time that the young artist had been speaking of Dudley; noting the flushing and paling of the cheek, the quiver of the sensitive lips, the humid brilliancy of the ©yes, the hysterical catch in the voice.

“Mr Dudley seems to be a great favourite of yours,” remarked the Countess, smiling. “Oh, yes; he is so talented, and we have so many ideas in common, and he is so unhappy,” answered Rosamund, naively. “Unhappy ?” “Yes, he lost his wife, of whom I believe he was dotingly fond, about six months ago.” The Countess turned away her head, and there was a change in her voice as she answered: “It is not many husbands who mourn their wives so long. By that time they are usually looking out for another.”

“Ah. but Mr Dudley is not like other men. I don’t believe he will ever marry again.” The Countess turned round and regarded the speaker. Was this girl acting the ingenue. Was she playing pretty simplicity? No; the open, unconscious look with which her glance was met seemed to defy her suspicions. But a pang of jealous envy shotthrough her as she noted Rosamund s fresh, young beauty, so pure, so ingenuous, and caught a glimpse in a mirror of her own ruse face, which barely disguised her seared and callous heart.

She was paler and her voice was lower when, she answered: He must, indeed, be unlike other men. come, they are going into the refreshment room; I will find you a cavaliei. At that moment Mr Hart came up and offered Rosamund his aim, just iu time to anticipate the Count, while the Countess was led away by a well-known composer. Mr Hart was very pressing to know what Miss Flemyng was engaged upon. “Let me give you my card, he said; “I can always purchase such work as vours if you will favour me with a sight of it. The Count and I hope to pay a visit to your brother’s studio tomorrow.” “I have nothing worth your notice just now, but I am going to set to work bard upon some ideas.” “Genre pictures, bite of every-day life, with an atmosphere of sentiment and romance, not too much emphasised, that is your speciality. By-and-by© you will do something bigger, but don’t be in a hurry.”

The guests have departed, the lights are out, it is the early hours of the morning, but the Countess has not retired to rest. In the neglige of an elegant robe de chambre, she is sitting before the fire in her own room, agitated by a battle of conflicting feelings and emotions.

Presently the door opened and the Count, still in his evening dress, entered the room. “What is the matter?” he asked. “What caused you to look so pale and unlike yourself during the latter part of the evening? Is anything wrong?”

She did not answer for some moments ; then she said, “I think we had better leave London and go back to the Continent.”

“All in good time,” he answered* dropping into a chair. “When 1 have done with London we will leave it, not before.”

“We ought never to have come back to England. Your devilish bravado—l can call it nothing else—will be our destruction some day.

“I am a profound believer in Danton’s motto, ‘Audaoe, audace, toujuirs audace 1’ ” he answered. '‘And Danton died at last on the scaffold,” retorted the Countess, significantly. “I defy augury,” replied the Count, with a cynical laugh. “I saw a change come over you while you were talking with Rosamund Flemyng. W 7 hat was she saying?” “She was speaking of Dudley," replied the Countess in a low voice, her eyes fixed upon the fire. “I suppose she spoons on the fellow ?” “Yes, but she is not conscious of it,

yet.” “Dear innocent! And why should the young lady’s penchant affect you?” “Because he loves me still; mourns my supposed death, and vows never to marry again,” she answered without moving. A sinister look came over the man’s dark face.

“I thought you told me you never loved Frank Dudley,” he said. “I nevea* did,” she answered. “Very well, then, what is it to do with you if he choose to marry this girl ?” “I will not have it,” ©he cried, turning fiercely upon him, “that shall never be.”

The Count laughed, and took out his cigarette case. “Then you did not, but do care for him,” he said. The Countess perceived the trap that had been laid for her, but she was too proud to retreat. “I have too much respect for Rosamund Flemyng to allow her to link her life to a man who might be guilty

of a murder, to a man who loves another woman.”

“Whom he believes to be dead,” put in the Count.

“But who is living,” she answered quickly. “I thought your object in sending him proofs of your death was to set him free.”

Tho Countess sat nervously twisting her hands one within the other, as though she would wring them off. “I have done mischief enough already ; that girl shall not he added to my victims,” she answered. “Do you suppose you can deceive me by such transparent humbug?” lie retorted, contemptuously. “I watched your face to-night and read your thoughts; you are jealous of this girl; you will hate her soon as your rival. The man you despised and fled from, you are jealous of now he is loved by another woman, and probably loves her

“I say again he does not love her.” “And if he does, what can you do? There is an eternal barrier between you and him.”

“I know it. I know that he loves mo dead; but if he knew me as I am, he would loathe me. 1 have no thought of revealing myself to him. But he shall never have Rosamund Flemyng. I would kill her first.”

And the passion that had been .simmering and boiling within her, burst out at last.

Could Rosamund have seen her then, she would have recognised the face of the woman in the picture. “You will not be so anxious about her now; perhaps you will even assist me.”

“'No. I will not.” “Yes, you will, ma petite, when the two are lovers.”

“Tempting, sneering devil that you are,” she cried, starting up from her seat.

“Surely you are jealous of me?” “You have poisoned my whole life; you have destroyed me, body and soul,” she went on, not heeding his last words.

“That is always the weak, wicked woman’s cry,” he answered, with withering contempt. “I am a devil, granted; but if there had not been diablerie in your own nature, I should have but little nower over you. Woman, it is your own egoism, your utter selfishness, your unbridled passions, that have dominated you, not me. You never knew how to resist a temptation, how to struggle against a caprice, a desire; how to sacrifice the smallest modicum of self for another’s happiness. To gratify yourself you would render a hundred miserable. I am all this, I don’t deny it, I don’t lie about it. We are .kindred spirits, my charmer; it is a case of the needle and the magnet —I am the magnet', you are the needle.”

While he uttered this tirade, slowly between puffs of his cigarette, she sat down again, writhing under his bitter denunciation, as though, she were being flogged with a steel whip; the truths cut into her flesh, into, her soul, though she denied them even to herEelf.

“Get us part; I can endure this life no longer,” she cried wildly. “And you would go to that man and cast yourself at his.* feet, conceal the truth from him, and implore his forgiveness; betray our mutual secrets, instil your hate of me into him and goad him on to your revenge. He might be fool enough to take you back again; and as soon as you had chased away the woman who might make him happy, he would no longer have any attraction for you, and you would leave him as before. No, no, ma petite chat, you and I are bound together until death do us part, by law as by destiny.” All this time a hurricane of passion was tearing through the woman’s soul, ail the more terrible from its impotence.

‘'Take care that death dees not break the bond,’ 5 she cried in a voice choked with fury. “Bah, I have no fear of that. Come, come, ma belle,” he went on, in a soothing, cajoling voice, “you will spoil your beauty and make yourself old and ugly by giving way to these horrible paroxysms. What would your admirers say to that lovely face distorted by passion, Venus transformed into Medusa? Our interests are one and indivisible, and it is only in your mad caprices that you run counter to them, or that I play the master. I have much to talk about with you to-night. Come, bathe that charming face with a little ean de cologne, and then we will talk business.” His soft cooling tones and caresses seemed to exercise an irresistible influence over the angry woman; her passion passed away, and in a few minutes she was gentle, amenable, subdued. CHAPTER IX. A DEADLY QUARREL. As she had no work that she cared to show, Rosamund contrived to avoid the Count when he called next morning in company with Mr Hart, by going out. Flemyng was full of Andromeda and

nothing else, so they remained only a short time, promising, however, to pay another visit.

“Get us go on to Green’s,” suggested the Count. “I made an appointment for another day, but that doesn’t matter. If he’s not at home we can have a look round all the same.” De Hauteville’s object was to get a sight of Dudley’s pioture, concerning which Green had not been quite so reticent as Rosamund.

When they arrived, both the artists were out.

“Oh. it doesn't matter,” said the Count, pushing his way in. “I have come to see a picture; which is the way to the studio?”

“Mr Dudley is very particular, sir, he does not allow anyone to enter the studio unless he is here,”' answered the servant.

“I am a privileged person; I have with me a gentleman who wants to buy the picture; he cannot call again, as ho is off to France; you will lose your master a large sum of money if you deny me.” While he was speaking, he slipped a sovereign into the woman’s hand.

“Well, sir, Mr Dudley almost always takes the key with him, but I see he has left it in the lock this morning, which shows he won’t be long. But I’m not going to take you in or unlock tho door; if you won’t be denied, I’m not strong enough to turn you out; but you take all the responsibility on yourself.” And she hurried away.

De Hauteville followed her with one of his sneering laughs: “When a man does anything wrong, he cries ehereher la femme; and in all cases the woman’s moan is cliefpfier l’homme. And they are both equally right.” While he spoke he turned the key, opened the door and entered the studio, followed by Hart. He pounced at once upon an easel covered by a green baize, and threw back the covering.

As bis eyes fell noon the picture, he started with admiration and amazement. “Hart, come here, come here,” he said in a voice subdued by excitement. “This is a chef d’oeuvre.”

Hart gazed at it for some seconds, then gave a low whistle and exclaimed, “It is superb, it is tremendous.”

They stood iso rapt by the weird fascination of the picture that they were unconscious that someone had entered the room, until they were startled by an angry exclamation and a man pushing them rudely aside and drawing the baize over the paint n- again. “What is the meaning of this intrusion ? Who are you ? How dare you force yourselves into my studio?” cried Dudley. Mr Hart retreated to the door, but the Coamt, very pale yet composed, held his ground. “Pardon me, sir.” he said, haughtily, “for the liberty I have taken; I am a. friend of Mr Green’s; he invited me; I thought it was his studio, and that I was privileged to look at his work.” “That is not Mr Green’s work, but mine, sir. The servant says you forced, your way in in spite of her. Is that the conduct of a gentleman?” “There is my card, sir,” said De Hauteville, handing him one. . “It does not matter to me who you are.” retorted Dudley, who was in a towering rage, throwing it disdainfully upon a table. “Your conduct is unpardonable ; infamous, terrifying au elderly woman, and tresspassing in a private house. There is the door, and I request you to go.” Hart sneaked out, but the Count did not budge one step; his face was livid, his eyes were blazing with fury. For a moment the two men silently measured one another, from that moment they bated one another with a blind, unreasoning hatred. “You dare address such words to me. Apologise, apologise, humbly, abjectly, or I will kill you.”

Though gracefully formed, and showing no marked development of strength, De Hauteville was a man of enormous power, and could have crushed his opponent ; but Dudley had the courage of a lion, and would have struck the first blow and been felled like a ninepin, had not Green fortunately arrived at that moment and rushed between the combatants.

“In Heaven's name, wbat is the meaning of this?” he exclaimed, looking from one to the other in utter amazement.

‘You invited me to your studio, sir, I come; and I am brutally insulted by this ruffian, who shall rue it to his dying day. I know you, Mr Frank Dudley,” he hissed between his clenched teeth, “and I know why you are mad that I have seen that picture—it reveals your secret. I know the terror that is ever on you, the terror of your crime. I will make that terror a reality. I will destroy you.” Seldom did this terrible man lose all self-control; but the presence of Francis Dudley rendered him frantic with hate; and for once the wall of sneering cynicism and icy sarcasm, by which ho concealed the hell that raged within him, were swept down, and he stood revealed an incarnate demon. He strode out of the studio and

joined Hart, who was already outside the garden gate. The cool air calmed him. He v.dped the beads of perspiration from his face with his handkerchief, and said, with something of his usual sang froid. although his voice shook: “I made a fool of myself with that canaille. I ought to have quietly thrashed him, broken his head, his ribs, and I could have done it. But 1 will destroy him.” “I should liked to have bought that picture,” observed Hart.. “You shall have it one day, but you will have to pay for it, for I will make it the most famous picture in Kngland.”

“What do you mean?” inquired the Jew, with a doubtful look, for he began to be apprehensive that his companion had lost his senses.

“Vous verrez, mon ami, vous verrez, you shall see what you shall see,” he cried, excitingly.

Dudley stood like a man stunned by the Count’s parting words; the flust of anger died out of his face and was succeeded by a deathly pallor.

Green waited for a moment, expecting that he would offer some explanation, but he spoke no word. “What is the meaning of the row ?” ho asked at last.

“I went out. for a little walk; when I came back I found those two men, who had forced their way in, in spite of the servant, standing before my picture.”

“But you need not have been so violent. I invited the Count and Mr Hart to look at some pictures, and I suppose they thought they might walk in and look round • it was not a very extraordinary thing, under the circumstances. This row has very likely lost me a good patron.” Green spoke with great vexation. “I ‘am very sorry, Gal, very, if I have done you an injury; hut that picture is a sacred thing to me. Is that dark, fiendish-looking man the Count de Hauteville, then?” ‘Yes,” replied Green, shortly.

“I don’t know how it was that I was so violent, it is not like me; but at the first glance I seemed to be fired with a deadly antipathy to the man —I felt that I should like to kill him. How strange these sudden dislikes are.”

“In this case it seems to be mutual,” said Green, drily. “Yes.” answered Dudley, shivering. “But who is this man?”

“A gentleman of fortune who travels about, I suppose; that is all I know, or am ever likely to know about him now. His wife is a most charming woman, received me delightfully, but your violence has done for mo. Partnership in studios never turns out successful.”

“My dear Lai, don’t in any way consider me if you can place yourself better ; stay as long as it suits you, but not a moment longer,” said Dudley, kindly. “Well, Frank, if you throw yourself into such a rage because a stranger looks at your pictures, I think you will be much better alone.”

And so they agreed to part. Perhaps it was not so much the quarrel, as the Count’s mysterious accusation that determined Green. The word “crime/’ had been applied to an intimate friend, who instead of indignantly demanding an explanation, is struck dumb by it. He was aware that there was some great mystery in Frank’s life that he never alluded to. Was this the explanation of his silence? Green had his belongings removed that same afternoon. “Of course, old man,” he said, “this will make no difference in. our friendship ; indeed, it’s far more likely to preserve it than if we remained here together.” j “It will make no difference ip my J friendship,” replied Dudley. I There was such a strange, lost look of utter desolation in his face that Green’s conscience smote him for his desertion. But it could not be recalled now. I “I shall come in and see you to-mor- | row,” he said, lingering. j 'Yes, I shall he oleased to see you.” ‘You must get out of this hermitlike life, you must indeed ”

“Don’t sav any more, Gal. Good-by©, for the present.” And Dudley held out his hand, which the other grasped warmly; then went away in no very comfortable or self-re-specting frame of mind. CHAPTER X. NOT LOVERS—COMRADES. Left alone, Dudley dropped into ft chair, and resting hie elbows upon a. table, supported his face in his two hands and stared blankly before him. The desertion of liis only friend was a great blow to him; henceforth ho would be alone, quite alone. The curs© of the old man’s blood was upon him, and would sink him to perdition. Who was this Count de Hauteville? —he evidently knew his secret, but how ? And this man was now his deadly foe. Then, for the thousandth time, h© went through the events of that fatal night. “I did not do it,” he cried aloud, “it is impossible; I am entangled in some infernal web of circumstances, but I shall never free myself from it; it will be my shroud.”

“Why did I paint that picture, that it might stand in damning evidence against me? Some devil must have prompted me to such madness. I’ll do stroy it.”

He caught up a knife and threw the baize; but he paused to look upon it—for the last time. He recalled the labour he had bestowed upon it, tho excitement, the enthusiasm in which ho had painted it. He knew it was a grand work of art, and his artist’s soul, apart from the thought that it was the creation of his brain and hand, revolted from its destruction; he could not do it ; his hand refused to. murder its offspring; the knife fell to tho ground, and he bowed his head and sobbed.

A soft voice said: “Mr Dudley, what is the matter?”

It was a lovely evening, and the rays of the westering sun were flooding the studio with golden light. He started, looked up, and saw Rosamund Flemyng standing in the full glare of the sun, that focussed around her like a halo, and irradiated th*. sweet face, divine with anxious tenderness and pity. The vision of the shrouded figure of his picture flashed back upon his memory, and it seemed to him. in his highly-wrought imagination, that this glorious creature had come as an angel of redemption in the darkest hour of his despair. “Rosamund,” he cried, convulsively clasping both her hands in his, while the tears coursed down his cheeks and his voice was broken by sobs. “God has sent you to me. God has .’.ent you to me as a sign that I am guiltless; never again, never will I believe 1 am guilty.” In his ecstasy he dropped down upon his knees and pressed her trembling hands to his lips, and kissed them passionately, kindling in her an unknown rapture, a sense of joy too great for earth, in which her heart beat wildLy, and her brain seemed swimming to faintness. Utterly overcome by the suddenness of her emotions, she sank down upon a chair, while he still knelt at her feet and held her hands. Their eyes met, revealing each other’s soul; he drew down her head and pressed his lips to hers. It was all so instantaneous and spontaneous, that neither realised the meaning of the situation, until that long, lingering kiss had rendered it irrevocable. Rosamund drew back and covered her burning face with her hands. “And this is love,” she thought, “and it has rushed upon me all of a moment. No, it has been in my heart from the night we first met; but love was a stranger to me, and I did not recognise him.” Dud I* 17 rose to his feet and looked agnast. more astounded than was even Rosamund. He had known how precious she was to him, how her voice fell upon his aching heart like sweet music, how her face was a light in his

darkness, and hear coming filled him with joy; but it had seemed to him that it was only fraternal love. What a blind fool he had been. He had not perceived until now how the image of JEthoda grew daily fainter and fainter, how the beautiful face he had onoe so loved faded and faded, until it resolved itself slowly into the Medusa of the picture, a thing to shrink from. But what had he done? —linked this noble woman’s fate to his own, when bis own was darkest, when a danger more formidable than any he had yet encountered menaced him. What madness, what wickedness. She must know all—nothing must be concealed —before she left the house, while there was yet time, ere their secret was known to anyone but themselves, while the ecstasy was still like a dream and there was time for the awakening. “Rosamund,” he said, again taking her hands, “I’ve done a wicked act. I cannot understand how I could have been betrayed into it, but I seem to have gone out of myself, carried away by your sudden appearance at a moment when I thought all the world had forsaken me; your beautiful face, to me an angel’s, your sweet voice transported me into a paradise, and I forgot everything but you. Perhaps before you leave this room you will abhor and despise me.” She shook her head and smiled as she answered, “That would be impossible.”

“Ah but you do not know; you cannot dream what my confession will be,” and bis face grew haggard as he spoke. “What would you say if I were to tell you that—*—. No, I have not the courage to speak the word that may bring horror into your eyes.” “Tell me what it is, don’t keep me in suspense,” she said. “Do you believe in omens? If you do, look at the golden light we are both suffused in; it is like an aureole round your head, and I can feel that my face is shining in it. Take good heart from that.” Her words composed him a little, be took a seat opposite her, and told her the story of his marriage, of the murder, of his wife’s accusation, and of their parting. Pale, almost breathless, rapt, never taking her eyes off him for a moment, now and then moistening her parched lips with her tongue, she listened with all her senses to the strange narrative, imprinting every word upon her heart and brain, never interrupting, even by an exclamation, but waiting for the end.

“Wliat am Ito think?” he cried. “As I hope for salvation," I have- not concealed nor twisted the smallest fact or deduction even. What do you say?” Bhe paused for a moment with lowered eyes, her bosom rose and fell with emotion, then she softly knelt down at his feet, and raised her eyes, full of heavenly light to his, and said: “I would not believe you guilty of such a crime if an angel were to denounce you.”

“But have you thought of the proofs —the terrible, damning proofs?” he asked, holding back his joy, fearful to grasp it yet.

“All the proofs in the world are nothing to me; the only proof I believe in. is yourself.” “Ged bless you for such words,” he Bobbed folding her in his arms and drawing her closer and closer to his throbbing heart-. “No doubt shall ever again cross my mind; it would be a blasphemy against you, against God, who sent you to me, and lie, through your voice, has pronounced me innocent. All the burden is lifted off my aoul; I feel light and free as air.” “How terrible you looked when I came in,” she said. “I saw you standing in front of the picture with a knife in your hand as though you were going to destroy it, and looking exactly like a sleeping man. I was so- terror-struck that I could not speak ox - move, until your sob broke the spell. What had happened to put you in such a state of mind ?”

“Ah, that reminds me that I have more to tell you ” He then related the episode of the Count’s visit, and how Lionel Green had left him.

“And he went away like that,” she said, indignantly. “Mr Gfieen will never he numbered among my friends again.” “Should I not bless the Count and bless Lai Green, as for them we should not be as we are ? What do I care for hate or friendship, while I hold you in my arms ?”

“It is very strange about the Count,” she said, musingly. “I cannot understand it. But what can he do? The case was thoroughly sifted at the inquest, and whatever did not transpire was known only to yourself and wife. “And she deserted you in your awful trouble, believed you guilty, or said she did. And if you had been guilty a thousand times, was not her place by your side, to defend you, to sustain you, to help you to atonement, to repentance? Such women are not wives.” She spoke these last sentences rather to herself than to him, her eves sparkling with indignation.

she cried: “What am I saying? Oh, forgive me my brutality—she ia dead, and you loved her. How shameful of me. I can never check my unruly tongue.” “It ia a good fault,” he said, kissing her hand.. “But is there no possibility of solving this mystery P” she exclaimed. “Have you ever done anything in it yourself ?” “Nothing. I left England, as I told you, as soon as the verdict was given. I have not long returned; such a thought never occurred to me; and if it had, the horror was too strong upon me to move in it. Besides, what can be done after this lapse of time?” “Mysteries have been unearthed after long years, and do you not think that the Count has furnished a new clue that a clever detective might make something of ? He knows something whioh you suppose was known only to yourself and the dead; how did lie come by that knoweldge? You cannot rest under this nameless horror any longer; something must be done, even if it fails; after that man’s threats, it is impossible to remain quiescent.”

“You are right, dear, for now the shadow must fall upon you as well as upon me. But how to induce the police to take up the matter?” “Oh, it is not the police me must go to, but some private detective. I must tell you that, as a girl, I was a great devourer of detective stories ”

“But, my darling, we want fact, not fiction.”

“Oh, but there is a good deal of fact in fiction, and fiction in fact,” she answered, laughing, “and the writers of these stories must know a good deal about the detectives’ mode of procedure to give vraisemblanoe to their invention. Now, let me find out some clever private inquiry agent ” “You ?”

“Yes, I. Don’t look horrified, dear. Since I was seventeen, when my dear father died, I have been the head of the family; my poor mother belonged to the womanhood of the past; she was a dear creature, but she thought a woman’s only place in life was at the fireside, that everything beyond it was the husband’s sphere, into which it was unwomanly to enter. I was reared in the new cult-, that man and woman should walk shoulder to shoulder through life. Poor dear mother, I used to shock her with my heresies; but if I had not taken my father’s place I don’t know what would have become of her, or of Jack either, for I managed everything. And if I ever marry I must he my husband’s equal, share all his bad fortune as well as his good, and struggle with him, work with him, fight with him ; no baggage waggon for me, but shoulder to shoulder, and if we fall, we fall together, comrades as well as lovers.”

While she spoke her face was glowing, her lips trembling, her eyes flashing with excitement. Rosamund Flemyng was a bundle of highly-strung nerves, an incarnation of enthusiasm, capable of any act of courage, daring, devotion, self sacrifice. Circumstance?, might have rendered her a heroine of history instead of a heroine of private life.

Dudley could have fallen down and worshipped this beautiful, heroic figure. Could it bo possible that he had won such a love as hers?

“Rosamund,” he whispered, again clasping her hands, “if the dark shadow is taken off my life, will you be mine?” “If I am not yours, I will never be a wife,” she answered earnestly, “I mise you that. B : ut this is no time for sentiment, dear, and for the present we are comrades, and nothing more. Now you leave the matter to me; I have every particular impressed upon my memory, and when I go home I shall make a precis of it all; if I am in doubt about anything, or if any question or suggestion occurs to me, I shall come, and see- you the first thing in the morning. A newspaper will give the addresses of private detectives, and before noon to-morrow I shall have arranged something with one oFthem.” r# But you will want money,” he said. “I will ask you for that when I have arranged.” Hie would have taken her in his arms, but she held out her hand and said, laughing, “No, remember what I said, comrades, not lovers, for the present.” “But it is getting quite dark ; I must see you home.” “Oh, no, no; I am quite capable of taking care of myself; you may walk a little way, as the night is so beautiful and a little fresh air will do you good, for this room is close. By-the-hy, I quite forgot, I brought back a volume of Browning to get another, that was how I came. I wanted ‘The Book and The Bing” ; hut not now ; it is your tragedy I must read, not the poet’s.” He put on his hat and they issued out into the twilight; there was still a line of dull crimson where the sun had set ; the stars were twinkling out of the pale blue sky, silvered by the half moon, and the air was fresli and keen.

As they turned into the road Dudley started; ho noticed a man, a shaibbylooking man, hovering about on the opposite side of the way. When they had proceeded some little distance, they looked round and saw him following on

“That is some emissary of Count de Hauteville,” said Dudley; “he has not been long in starting operations.” “Courage, comrade, courage,” said Rosamund, pressing his hand. “It will be our turn to move to-morrow, and we shall win the game.” These were no idle words of conventional consolation ; her face was full of hope and confidence. “Axid now, not a step further. Remember, I am the commanding officer for the present, and I must be implicitly obeyed. Au. revoir.” And with a wave of her hand and a bright smile upon her face, she walked on with a graceful, swinging gait without casting a look behind. He watched her until a turn in the road hid her frofn his hight, then slowly retraced his steps homeward. The shabby man was still loitering in his wake, turning as he turned. When Dudley looked out of the window an hour afterwards, and again before going to bed, he caught sight of him still upon the watch. Dudley had been out of sorts during several days, suffering from. a. cold. When he arrived home he felt shivery, though his hands and head were hot and throbbing. After sitting over the fire for a while, he went to bed, but woke up in the night feeling very ill. CHAPTER XI. MR ARTHUR JARRETT, PRIVATE INQUIRY AGENT. Rosamund was too excited to return home immediately, for she had no intention of acquainting her brother with anything that had transpired between 1* —• ojfwl Xin/11 mr -

It was impossible for the highlystrung tension of the last hour to be maintained, and she was no sooner alone than it began to give way. It was not two horn's ago since she left home, a free woman; and during that brief time every condition of ber life had been changed, a great inward revelation had come to her, she had linked her destiny with another’s, and taken upon herself the burden of that other’s trouble.

And did she repent of this, did her heart misgive her fox* what she had done? Not for a moment; she loved and was beloved, the crowning necessity of such a nature as hers; and if she faltered it was with the fear that she might not be able to fulfil the task she had undertaken. But she uttered an inward prayer foi' strength, and hope and confidence returned to her. Feeling calmer and more self-pos-sessed, she turned her steps homeword. Jack had gone out, so she had the house to hei'self, and was able to sit down and Write out a succinct naiTativo of the events that had been related to her.

The one terrible stumbling-block was the blackthorn stick; all else was easy of explanation; but what possible elucidation could be found for that? Not that her faith in her lover faltered. There must be an explanation, hut how was it to be arrived at?” Yet she was no less puzzled by the xxew factor which the Count had brought into the mystery. She had hoped that in the process of writing out the particulars, of which her tenacious memory had not lost one, some light might hi'eak iix upon her; but no gleam came, all was profoundly dark.

Nor could she seek any assistance or advice or direction in the business; all must be done on her own initiative, and her knowledge of such matters as she had undertaken was entirely draw* from the pages of fiction. If she only knew the right person to go to, and so could start fair, it would be something. Whilo she lay tossing upon her pillow,. unable to sleep or rest, there flashed upon her a memory of a curious story of detective cleverness that had been related by a friend of her brother’s one day in the studio ; it related to a robbery that had baffled all the acumen of Scotland Yard; the mystery had been unravelled by a private detective, and the criminals brought to justice.

She remembered the narrator saying, laughingly, “If ever you want a legal or criminal mystery solved, go to , and if he fail vou may bet it is insoluble.”

But she could not fill up the blank with the name. It was in vain she racked her brains, the blank remained a blank, and at last she fell asleep, utterly worn out. When she woke the next morning,

almost "before she opened her eyes, the lost name, Arthur Jarrstt, —■ — Street, Soho, dawned upon her mind. ‘■'Eureka,” she cried joyfully, jumping out of bed. .Rosamund dressed, breakfasted, and was on her way to Soho before her brother was down. She had very little difficulty in finding Mr Jarrett, who had chambers in a large house in Soho Square, entirely let out in offices.

Upon the black board which gave the addresses of the various occupants, she read ’the name, “Mr Arthur Jarrett, Inquiry Agent, second floor.” Ascending the stone stairs with a rapidly-beating heart, she found herself facing a black door, upon witch the name of Arthur Jarrett was painted in white letters, and “Hours of Consultation from 10.30 to 4.0.” It was close upon ten now. She would await his arrival. Clerics and ottiers were passing up and down, the stairs, and everyone stared at her, but she wore a thick veil and did not fear recognition. Presently, she heard a light, brisk seep upon the, stones, she looked over the balustrade and saw a slight, wiry man about forty, with reddish hair, and dressed in very gentlemanly fashion, tripping up humming a tune. Ho cast a keen glance at Rosamund from out of a pair of steely grey eyes, raised liis hat, and said in a pleasant voice : ‘•You tlie waiting for me, madam?” “Are you Idr Arthur JarretP?” ‘‘l nm he; pray walk in.” He unlocked the outer door and then an inner one, which was secured by a patent lock, and led the way through an outer to an inner room, which was also secured by an elaborate specimen of the locksmith’s craft; while the one window, looking out upon a blank back wall, was defended by thick iron stanchions and a net-work of strong iron wire.

“The soot cf a hundred years which decorates yonder wall never allows more than a dim—but I don’t think religious—light to penetrate this arcanum, so I will turn on the gas,” ho said. “Will you have the kindness to sit in the clients’ chair? And I make it a rule always to see my clients’ faces while I am talking with them; therefore, I will ask you to raise your veil.” The chair in which he seated Rosamund was so placed that, while the brilliant light from the gas burner was focussed fully upon her, he was left iii shadow. One quick, all-comprehending look at the flushed, nervous face, revealed by the unlifted veil, sufficed to satisfy Mr Jarrett as to the nature of the visitor It was not often that so fair and truthful a page was opened to him. “And now, madam, if you please, wo will proceed to business; I am waiting to hear what has procured me the honour of this visit.” Rosamund had expected to meet a coarse, uncultured man, and was much relieved and reassured to find herself in the presence of one who had quite the tone of good society. “Do you remember a murder that was perpetrated in -the .Surrey Hills about eighteen months ago?” she asked. “\es, perfectly; a most interesting case, police were entirely at fault, could not get a clue, though I fancied I could perceive a most obvious one.” “Indeed,” exclaimed Rosamund, eagerly. “Is that your business?” he asked, in a surprised tone. A murder would have been the very last subject he would have expected this charming girl to broach. ‘Tt is,” she answered. (To be Continued.)