FICTION.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1740, 5 July 1905, Page 3

FICTION.

A DAUGHTER OF MYSTERY.

[Aim Rights Reserved.]

BY R. NORMAN SILVER.

CHAPTER XVIII. A DOORWAY AND A CURTAIN. Among those sheltered in this particular November by the ruddy and irregular roof ot Ducie Court -"was iVii Vivian Harper, lie had come down on the evening of the First by the late express, and had arrived at the Court with a vaieL, a kit-Dag, a dressing-case, and a coupie of portmanteaux; He intended, with the assistance of these powerful auxiliaries, to begin in earnest his attack upon Angela's, heart.

The night of his appearance found Angela strangely ' excitable, almost merrv. - 'me unexpec.ed sight of Francis Orme and fine knowledge of his presence in the .neighbourhood had set her pulses throbbing. fc>he was even tolerant of the young stock-brok-er —what harm could he do to her, after all? The memory of his threats seemed to her like a dream.

The following morning brought her A headache, the reaction from her previous high spirits; she did not come down to breakfast. Mr Harper made an ample meal, nevertheless, and then took himself into the library with a tan leather portfolio. Holidays could not tempt him absolutely to discard the cares of business.

From the library there, opened a large bare reception room and in this, as- Fate would have it, Julius and Hector Sanderson had held the important interview just recorded. The door between the apartments stood ajar, covered on the further side from the library by a heavy drab portiere. Thanks to this, Mr Harper was enabled to overhear almost the whole of the conversation, which possessed for him a singularly keen interest. He ventured to call the eye to the aid of the ear, and pepped skilfully round the edge of the drapery. Thus he saw that Captain Biake left the room, was away for some moments, and returned, wearing a stiff felt hat, then that Hector Sanderson and he passed out into the hail together. The snap of tho latch at the principal entrance told Mr Harper that they had proceeded into the park, doubtless to encounter Francis Orme.

Vivian Harper stepped into the re-ception-room, crossed, and looked tkrougii the window. The Captain and the Colonial were traversing the straight upper extremity of the wandering avenue that led from the Court to the lodge-gates. 'Suddenly the two stopped and seemed to speak for an instant. After which Captain Blake walked rapidly towards the house. .

“Shirked it, by Jove!” said Vivian Harper to himself. As he. muttered the observation Julius Blake was ringing at the hall-door. Mr Harper retreated to the library. He heard Julius Blake come into the adjoining chamber, saw him glance from the window, and the next instant pull violently the bell-handle at the side of the fire-place. A footman answered the summons —a little puzzled at its force. The Captain was scribbling a note in his pocket-book. He tore out a leaf and folded it.

“Take this to Mr Sanderson,” he commanded, “or no, try if you can see him from the window—we parted at the first of the great elms.” The servant glanced through the pane. “Yes, sir,” was the report; “he is walking up and down, sir, swinging his stick.”

“Good!” murmured Julius Blake, too low for either Miles or Mr Harper to hear; “lucky I told him I relied on his honour not to see Orme alone before I could return.” ±±o paused, fingering the note. “I’ll not trouble you, Miles,” he decided; “if Mr Sanderson comes back to the Court to-day tell him I’m not at home. You understand.”

“Yes, sir," said Miles, and marched off with the exaot idea in his brain-pan that was meant to be there.

Mr Harper shared the idea, too, for a second or so. But the Captain strode quickly into the library—so quickly that Mr Harper had scarcely time to spring behind a fold of the curtain.

Gaining a French window at the further side of the room, Julius Blake unlocked it, stepped out into a species of shrubbery, and stole away. Much interested, Mr Harper hastened into the hall, got a hat and went out—“for a stroll” —by a more usual exit than that to which the Captain had recourse.

Quickly he got aoross the lawn, made a detour through a plantation, and approached the spot where Hector Sanderson had been standing. - The Colonial had vanished.

While Vivian Harper paused, won-

dering what mystery might be afoot, a sharp sound came to him on the sluggish November wind—a crisp, definite sound, like the breaking of a twig, yet duller in the echo. Mr Harper started at it, but laughed noiselessly almost before the rapid motion had terminated. However, he moved cautiously in the direction of the slight noise. Threading a thick coppice by a sort of bridle-path, lie perceived a narrow glade, separated from him only by a natural rampart of dwarf shrubs, now sear and leafless. And in the glade, face upwards to the grey sky, lay Hector Sanderson, a trickle of blood oozing from his temple. A revolver was bv him, its blue barrel and nick led butt conspicuous against the dead leaves.

The amazed onlooker hesitated, pondered, and finally drew back. Twigs crackled assertively hard by, the. noise of splintered brushwood drew nearer, and- a man came into the glade. It was Francis Orme! He saw the body of hir. friend, stiffened himself with a horrible surprise, and glanced about him, this way and that. Vivian Harper shrank into a screening hollow ; Ins heart was beating loudly. Yet above its desperate strokes a voice was whispering—whispering a devilish counsel in his brain.

CHAPTER XIX. THE TOWERING LANDING AT DUCIE COURT. The headache that kept Angela from coming down to breakfast and disappointed Mr Harper was not only due to her excitement at having seen Francis Orme, there was at least one other cause. Miss Angela had sat up till a most unearthly hour talking with Dottie Batho, her friend, con lid ante, and maid.

In this instance it was Angela, „that received the confidences; the delighted Dorothy was about to lie married, almost as suddenly as the historic lady who so unexpectedly espoused a Quaker. “You see, darling,” said Dottie, “Hanoi's sister’s been engaged for years, and now he’s got a good berth in Australia, and she's going out with him this week. So Hanoi will be left quite alone —Joan’s managed things ever since Mrs -Skinner died, Hanni and she were the youngest of the family. And Hanni has written to say that if you can spare me we’ll get married ourselves at once. There’s a good house of furniture, and Hanins got some money saved up. We can’t have a honeymoon just yet, but we will as soon as the spring comes.” Angela took a melancholy interest in Miss Batho's plans. She could heartily have wished them her own, if Hannibal Skinner, the lawyer’s clerk, could have been metamorphosed into Francis Orme, the barnster. “I do wish I hadn’t got to leave you, Nan. dear,” Dottie told her penitently; “we’ve been an awful lot to each other, ■haven’t we P—and now I suppose you’ll forget me, and I—l shall have to think about Hanni most of my time.” And at the double prospect Miss Batho wept.

With such feminine chatter, salted by tears and lightened by smiles, Angela and her faithful Dottie accustomed themselves to the idea of parting. “I shall only have to live out as far as Hornsey,” explained Dottie, “and you’ll have to coin© and see me often, darling, very, very often. But there, you won’t be able to do much of that until you’re your own mistress or”— this with intense disdain—“the Countess will be reminding you of what you owe to your position. Oh, Nan dear, why did you get left all those thousands of pounds?” “How could I help it ?” cried Angela miserably, “they haven’t done me any good, I’m sure. They’ve taken Frank from me, and made that horrid Mr Harper and that awful Captain Blake want to marry me. And now Captain Blake is going to try and stop my having the money at all.” “Never you mind, dear,” advised Dottie, “Hanni will stand by you, and Hanni knows an awful lot about the law. And then there’s Mr Orme, he’s a barrister. Cheer.up, darling, do, or I shall be sorry I’m going to get married.”

Angela kissed the impulsive speaker. “I hope you’ll be very happy dear,” she said brokenly; “I’m sure you deserve it.” •

Dot-tie brushed the shining drops from her own black lashes and hugged her friend silently. Angela sighed, went to a dress-basket, opened it, andproduoed the flattish brown-paper parcel given her by Dottie at Skye House. “You’d better have this back,” she remarked; “I remembered it, and put it in at the last moment. Somehow it worried me to leave it behind; you seemed so careful about it.”

Dorthy Batho took the package into her hands and gazed at it irresolutely. She considered the possibility of returning it to Angela; then glanoed at the flimsy coffer that had held it—a slight receptacle of cane and American’ cloth with leather braces—and shivered to think of trusting five thousand pounds worth of diamonds to its frail custody. Yet she dared not enlighten A'ngeVi as to the nature of the packet

—at least not without consulting Hannibal Skinner. . . “Thank you, dear,” she murmured, feeling awkwardly that Angela . might rightly expect some information as to tho contents of the parcel so long confided to her - care. Dottie changed the subject rapidly. * ; j “Half-past one!” she cried, peeping at a tiny bee-clock on the mantel; “I really must not keep you up another instant. Good night, darling; - oh, how wretched I shall be when I haven’t you to look after.” Angela smiled wanly; she guessed that the generous little soul of her friend would soon console herself with tho sterner affectipn of Mr , Skinner. To do her justice, however, Dorothy had for the moment tew thoughts for her lover —die looked at the sweet figure in the blue dressing-gown with the wealth of brown hair tumbling about the dainty shoulders. r “'lf Hanni knew how I felt, dear,” she remarked tearfully, “he’d be much more jealous of you than he ever was of the men at the Avenue.” Having made this announcement she hugg-ecl Angela once more and took herself off in a' state of very gasping grief. Her room was a small one on a top floor, under the red-tiled roof of" the U.ueen Anno portion of Ducie Court. Half-way thither Dottie halted, she had awakened to the fact that she was carrying in one hand several thousand pounds ivorth of diamonds. To put them in her own box would be' madness —no servant can ever be positive that her property has not been or may not bo subjected to a process of surreptitious examination. - •- - *

Dottie blew' out her candle, • and being a plucky as well as an extremely intelligent young person, turned into a corridor which led to an ’ unused quarter of the house, a Tudor tower-, and a large hall with equally large and uncomfortable apartments over; The moonbeams,- falling- through the. lofty ■windows on one side of the passage, righted her. • - • •- • • At the further extremity’ of the corridor was a square landing, gained also by a winding staircase- beneath. Beyond was the tower third floor, entered by a single .heavy ,- doorT - The ceiling over the landing was low-pitch-ed, and there w r ere huge wooden cornices above the squat-embayed casements.

Miss Batho, having been in this portion of the house during a tour of . inspection—suggested by the ..butlerhad noticed the landing, stairway, and, by chance, the cornices. Now it had come to her in a flash that in the hollow of one of these she might hide the diamonds, pending a consultation with Hannibal Skinner.

Mounting a window-ledge, she reached up. The cornice was evidently like a deep, lidloss trough. She deposited the package with much care, satisfied to feel it settle, steadily. Then, slipping noiselessly down, she hurried away. • As she did so, the single heavy door on the landing gaped widely—-there had been for seme seconds a curiously varying crack between it and the oaken upright of' the frame. The open door revealed a gloomy void, with a faint red glow at the back of it. When •Dottie had fairly departed, a match scraped, lit, and a candle-flame illumined the dark. By it stood the •Countess with anxious,, dilated eyes. Behind her was a deep antique grate with the vagely glowing ash of consumed paper still warming it. The roorn about her was furnished in no modem style, - yet it was—or rather had been —tasteful and feminine. There was a canopied couch, a lounge or two, a cheval-glass, and the usual accompaniments ’of the toilet. - All •were, nevertheless, dingy and forlorn-

So much might have been seen in the moment that elapsed before the Countess, taking up the candle-stick, passed out on to the landing. CHAPTER XX. MR HARPER’S SECRET. About four o'clock in the afternoon of the day upon , which (Mr Sanderson had made his call at Ducie Court, Cap-

tain Blake rang for a second time the bell in the bare reception-chamber adjoining the scarcely -less gloomy library. . Miles the footman answered it. “Ask the .Countess if I can :: see her for a few moments —here,” was Julius Blake’s command. •. - - - -•;

“Yes, sir,” said Miles, and disappear- | ed. : He had just carried in the-'tray j-to the drawing-room.- • ; - 1 - ; “"Let the gentlemen know that -tea ! is served, .Miles,” desired his mistress, | when he lifted the portiere to enter I with the Captain’s message: | “Mr Harper is out, my lady,” responded the ifootman, “and Captain I Blake would be glad if you could - see | him f or a -few moments alone —in' the j reo&ption-room, my lady.” j The Countess flushed ; her step-broth-er seemed to flaunt his control over Her even before' her own servants. As the' colour died from her cheek com- ■ mon-sense returned to her brain. She ! murmured a -word or two of explanation for Angela’s benefit, then- rose ; and went down the sweeping staircase 1 to the lofty apartment where the Oap- | tain was awaiting her. ; i As she gamed it. Julius Blake stepped up, closed the door behind -her, and offered her a (hair. He was grimmer, fiercer, and' even a trifle; greyer thanusual. For an instant he stood silently before her,, biting his moustache. “Margaret,” he 1 began at last, “I—l have a shock for'you. It is both good news and bad in one, so spare me any hysterics.” - - ’. 1 His step-sister whitened anxiously, j “Be quick!” was all she said, j “Sandei'son,” pursued Julius Blake calmly, “is dead. They found him shot I in the temple with a - pistol by - his side; the place, a little glade not -far from the great elms in- che avenue. Dueoed bad manners on his part to use I Ducio v barf’in : such a-fashion !- Curse ' you, what are you- staring at ? - • A man .of stouter nerves -than, the . Captain might have been excused-both , tho irritation and' the protest. r - ■■ Mar- . garet, Countess of Skye, was- gazing at her istep-bro fiber—-gazing with - wide terrified eyes and a pallid countenance. An awful dew had broken forth .upon her drawn face, her lips > bloodless and stiff, showed the parted teeth behind them. There - was a dreadful -ihStinfot in the livid*' mask presented to ; Julius Blake’s vision. He turned sharply . away. . • ■ “I’ve just had an inspector up from Reading,” he added, “the local con- : stable telegraphed for him. Sanderson ; was found at eleven this morning. He had an appointment with me at halfpast ten: During our conversation he grew abusive' and seemed to be labouring under much excitement.” I There was a monotonous echo in the • speaker’s voice; he might-' have been repeating a lesson previously prepared. The Countess sat with her hands in her lap, a figure of stone. *•*" “He told me,” continued Julius , Bliake, “that Orme was-i a -the--park and J asked me to go and meet him. T con- | sented, and getting my hat-, set' out, i Miles opening the door for us. As Sanderson’s manner and- speech grew more insulting and incomprehensible I left him abruptly at' the head of 'the avenue and came' back-, • Miles - -again letting me in. i Fearing that I .'’ had perhaps been discourteous I Wrote- a short note, offering to see Mm When he was in a cooler frame of niind. This I asked Miles to take if Sanderson should happen to , be still in . sight. Miles glanced from' the window and reported that Sanderson was -Walking up and down by the first of the great' elms, swinging his stick. However, Ithought better of sending the note, as Sander-, eon had been most insulting) - and tore '; it up, telling Miles that if Sanderson called, I would not be at home to him. Fi'om that to lunch I was in the Stables; as 1 say, Sanderson was found , at eleven- —by—hy Orme.” - '--“-"d; . i “What ?” asked his step-sister faintly, “what was the cause'of Mr Sanderson’s difference with you?” , “My proposed legal action in regard t-j Angela,” said the Captain formally -—he might almost have been under iii oss-examination. “I had felt it. my duty to acquaint him with it a day or two before leaving town. Now, what you’ve got to do, you—you fool!” broke out Julius Blake, changing his manner to one of fretful insolence, “it

to buck up and break the news to Angela. ' Don’t say a word about details, let them come out gradually. And don’t say anything about oux atiatudo towards her —you understand. For Heaven’s sake pull yourself together and don’t look like a dying duck _ in a thunderstorm. Of course Sanderson’s death is a shock to you, as Angela’s custodian, but it doesn’t justify that tragedy-queen stare of yours. The- Countess, thus adjured, staggered to her feet. Julius Blake put out a hand to steady her, but she Uranic from him, a singular thrill convulsing her- and leaned instead ag&anst a sofa-arm. The Captain shrugged his shoulders and opened the door for her. filowly, very slowly, she ascended the. stair to the gallery of the first floor. Yet she did not return to Angela, but crept to her boudoir to compose her shattered nerves and sponge her white face into a more natural glow. A® . she entered it she. saw that Vivian Harper was just turning the handle of the drawing-room. door. Dude Court, indeed, seemed to have changed the current of Mr Harper’s ill-luck. He had wished to find An'gela alone; he had succeeded without the slightest necessity for diplomacy or manoeuvring. . He advanced with a low and singularly melancholy bow. Angela noticed the pronounced gravity of his bearing - and wondered at it. Mr Harper sat down on the same lounge, but at a quite respectful 'distance. As in duty bound Angela offered him a oup of tea; he refused it politely. “May X ask, Miss Holland,” he inquired. “If you have heard any news of importance ?” “Ho,” said Angela, surprised, “none; is there, any ?” _ “News, I / fqar,” answered Vivian Harper, “of tragic importance, especially to yourself.” Angela set down her cup and gazed at him affrightediy. “There is nothing the matter with—anyone I know?” she whispered- But that pathetic “anyone” meant Francis Qrme. “1 cannot truthfully say no to your question, ‘Miss Holland,” was the reply. “Mr-—Mr Sanderson ——” Tn spite of her affection, for the big Colonial, Angela could not restrain a sigh of relief. It changed to one of suspense. “Not—not that horrible hunting!” she cried; “he hasn’t fallen —he—he isn’t killed?” Vivian Harper bent his head in a solemn assent. Angela put up her hands to her eyes, the salt drops had started so suddenly. “I do not want you to remain under any misapprehension,” pursued her informant. “Mr' Sanderson was not killed in the hunting-field ; he was found —shot, in a little coppice in SDucie Court park, not far from here. The police seem to think it is a case of—of suicide. So far as they are concerned, there is no cause for alarm.” “No cause for alarm? I don’t understand,” said Angela.. “1-—l—there’ is reason to believe,” explained Mr Harper, “that Captain Blake had told Mr Sanderson of his intention to oppose your continuing to enjoy your presumed—pardon the word—your. presumed father’s fortune, and that he had given Mr' Sanderson what seemed to be substantial grounds for doubting, your identity. He may even have contemplated supporting Captain Blake in his action. Captain Blake is a very clever man, and Mi' Sanderson, though the soul of generosity, was not naturally acute. He may have been quite taken in by what I, of course, know to* be Captain Blake’s unscrupulous and blackguardly scheme.” \ “But why did Mr Sanderson commit suicide:?” queried Angela; - perplexed and grief-stricken. “He did not,” said Vivian Harper coldly; “he was—murdered.” The girl, beside him shuddered. Mr Harper proceeded, deliberately. “I—l happened to be near, the place at the time, and hearing a shot I fancied it might be. a keeper, so strolled in that direction. I myself saw a man bending over an apparently lifeless body.” “Oh!” murmured Angela, fascinated. “Eor a- moment,” said Vivian Harper, ‘T waited. Then, as he raised his bead, I recognised him. He did not see me, I drew back, into a thick shrubbery, stole cautiously away by a circuitous route, and hurried in another direction. Meeting the village constable this afternoon- —by design, I may say—l heard that the body had been found and that it was that'of Mr. Sanderson. Needless to add, I did not mention my experience of the morning.” “Ob, why ?” asked the listener. “Because,” replied Mr Harper significantly, “cruelly as you have treated me, Miss Holland, I am a sincere friend of yours. Were it not for that, I might have avenged myself upon a certain person—l do not refer to yourself, Mis® Holland—for many slights and covert insults.” “What can you mean, (Mr Harper?” gasped Angela, completely bewildered. “Cannot you guess?” asked Vivian Harper. “The: man whose face I saw in. the park, the man who was bending over Mr Anderson’s dead body, the m«n who, being in Sanderson’s confidence, and. one of his guests, would have known of his probable intention to join Captain Blake in resisting yoiir claim

to be Angela Holland—cannot you guess who this man was?”

“N-no,” confessed Angela, “I don’t think so.”

Vivian Harper leaned to whisper, almost noisely, ini her ear.

“Francis Orme,” he said.. Angela gazed at him as if he had gone mad. “Believe it or not, as you choose,” the other bade her, assuming quickly, as the Countess entered, a more respectful attitude, “that is the secret Which I intend to keep just as long as you make it worth my while.”.

CHAPTER XXI. ANGELA READS A NEWSPAPER. With the strange death of Hector Sanderson, a terrible gloom seemed to have descended upon Ducie Court. Intimate -as the dead man had been with its inhabitants, there scarcely appeared to be warrant for the depths of their solemnity. True, Julius Blake remained his usual curt ferocious self, and, for the most part, hovered vigilantly about his step-sister, whose acute depression caused her medical attendant —a fussy local doctor —considerable anxiety. Angela had liked, had almost loved, the jovial South African, yet youth is, or should be, elastic, and such shocks are not., in their very nature, abiding. Nevertheless, this one did not pass from Angela; she was melancholy, low-spirited, even hysterical. The Ducie Court physician prescribed but without avail.

Some thing of her depression was no doubt due to the departure of Miss Dorothy Batho who had returned to her own home for the purpose of pre-' paring her trousseau. It would have been an inexpressible relief if Angela, ere her little friend went, dared have told her of Vivian Harper’s terrible threat to fasten upon Francis Orme the responsibility for—not the suicide but the death of Hector Sanderson. Yet as often as she tried to shape the words, as aften a spasm of caution checked them back again; much as she trusted Dottie, there was too much at stake, the reputation, the life even, of the one she loved best in all the wide world. Hers was not a secret that could be breathed in other ears.

Once she ventured, with dry lips and a fluttering heart, to question the Countess on the subject of Hector Sanderson’s death. The white face that looked back affrightediy into her own struck its chill into Angela. “Was. —was poor Mr Sanderson — quite—gone when they found him ?” Angela had asked. ' “I believe so,” said the Countess nervously. “Did—did the keepers find him?” trembled Angela. “N-no,” stammered the Countess; “your—your friend, Mr Orme.” Every delicate nerve and warm muscle in the listener’s body froze in an icy stiffness, she almost fainted to hear confirmed the awful circumstance on Which Vivian Harper had laid such terrifying significance. She did not reflect, as she * might have done, that what wah so casually known to others than Mr Harper need not be so dangerous after all. When the county weeklies began to appear, each with its columns of trivial detail, Angela was able to master what portions of the affair had been kept, more or less by design, from her. Francis Orme had given evidence at the inquiry, so had Captain Blake, so had the footman Miles. There was no contradiction between any two or all of the stories thus related. Captain Blake admitted the appointment made in the hunting-field the previous day, admitted that the interview was held as had been arranged. The servant Miles testified to his master’s anger, to the note hastily written for Mr Sanderson, to having looked from the window and seen that gentleman walking up and down in the avenue; to the subsequent destruction of the note and the issuing of an order that if Mr Sanderson came the Captain would not be at home to him. “What was the nature of your disagreement with thie jdeceased ?” the. coroner had propoundjed to Julius Blake.

“It was with reference to a legal matter in which we were both interested—l on my sister’s behalf, he on account of a dead friend,” the Captain, had answered. “He took a proposed action of mine in very ill part. But, though I was naturally irritated at the time, I perceived, on consideration, that poor Sanderson was in quite an abnormal frame of mind. He insisted upon my going to meet Mr Orme, who, he said, was waiting for him in the park.” “For what purpose did he suggest your meeting Mr Orme?” asked the coroner, courteously enough. “So that he might tell me,” replied Julius Blake, “in Mr Orme’s presence, what he thought of my conduct.. As I was being advised by a firm of reputable solicitors, and not seeing what business it was of Mr Qrme’s, I was not best pleased at his attitude. However, I set out, but Sanderson’s language became so outrageous, that I left him abruptly without reaching Mr Or mo. After returning I contemplated sending him a not* saying that I awaited"

an explanation of the attitude he had adopted towards me.” “You did not send that note,” put in the coroner gently. .. “No,” had been the Captain’s response; “irritation got the better of mej I abandoned the idea and told Miles that if Sanderson called I should not receive him. An hour or two afterwards, while I was in the stables, where I had been since returning, a rumour was brought to me that a gentleman had been found dead in the park. I did not dream of associating it with Sanderson till the afternoon, when an inspector came up to Ducie Court with the news.” Francis Orme had had little to contribute to this. The deceased had consisted him, a®- a friend, about the legal matter in question. They had walked to the Court together, discussing it." At the last turn in the avenue they had separated temporarily, he promising to await Mr Sanderson’s coming out again. “Why did you not go on to the Court ?” he had been asked. “The interview between Captain Blake and Mr Sanderson was obviously to be a private one,” Francis Orme had rejoined, “and it was too early for a formal call upon the Countess, his step-sister.” “Did you notice anything peculiar about the deceased’s mood?” had been another question. “He was naturally of an ardent disposition,” Orme had confessed, “and was, I gathered, extremely angry with Captain Blake. I urged him, however, to be as moderate as possible in conducting any discussion.” “The deceased had lived abroad”—this was an intelligent proposition of the coroner—“did he suffer from any ailment likely to affect his mind ?” “Not to my knowledge,” Francis Orme had said; “he told me that an attack of influenza irom which he had only just recovered was his first illness for many years—fifteen or twenty.” At this point the inquiry had been adjourned for the evidence of the doctor who had attended Mr Sanderson at the Carlton Hotel for the influenza attack just referred to. He had arrived upon the succeeding day, delivered a short lecture upon the probable and possible mental effects of influenza, the jury, without demur, had returned a verdict of “suicide while temporarily of unsound mind,” and the coroner, in concluding the case, commented on the targe number of tragic sequels to the “insidious attacks of this, at present, mysterious ailment.” In such fashion therefore, had ended the Ducie Court sensation. Over that trite verdict Angela wept tears of pathetic relief. Vivian Harper’s hideous suggestion had weighed like a nightmare upon her. Not that it had ever occurred to her to doubt the spotless innocence of the young barrister. Only, as she was a woman, she had been jealous of his reputation ; as she loved him, she had feared for him, though what it was that she had feared she dared not have told herself.

As she bent, half-weeping, over the awkward pages of the principal county journal, Mr Harper’s voice—soft, clear, cynical-—startled her. He had come into the room so quietly that she had •not heard his footstep on the thick carpet. His swift dark eyes glanced at the newspaper heading, then he stooped to speak in her ear. “You see!” he murmured, “thesecret is still ours—yours, that is. Should you not he a little kinder to me when you think that with a word I could close to my rival the way of escape which has so luckily opened before him ? I do not want to be malicious,” added Vivian Harper, casually, settling himself beside her; “by removing Sanderson, Orme has cleverly’ hampered Blake in his projected attack upon you. That is, if, as I suspect, in spite of Mr Sanderson’s indignation at the Captain’s persistence, Blake’s arguments had compelled him to doubt, though unwillingly, your identity with the real Angela. That much he probably admitted US’ Orme, and there was a quarrel. Sanderson, like many Colonials, may have carried a pistol, drawn it against Orme, and in the struggle had it turned against himself .” Angela was too terrified to analyse

the rapid sentences, poured so glibly into her ear. Nor was she wanted to, they were merely intended to confuse aind to alarm with an appearance of reasonableness.

“Whatever happens, however,” continued Mr Harper; “I must now be your only friend. Miss Holland —Angela—l love you! For your sake I will keep our secret, I will fight your battles, only, do not make me jealous. If after this, I were to ©ee you and Francis Orme together—if I were to, I say—if ” / He lingered upon the unfinished sentence, thrilling Angela with a paralysing despair.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE COUNTESS OPENS SOME DOORS.

The days that followed Vivian Harper’s warning—all the more terrible because it had been allowed to remain unfinished—were -1 for Angela as dark t as they were lonely. Mr Harper hunted, amicably with Julius Blake, the Captain; little dreaming how skilfully his companion was plotting to defeat his dearest ends. At night® they played a game of billiards on the ancient table in the dingy smoking-room and then, at- Mr Harper’s suggestion, returned to the ladies.

Angela had taken to dressing herself in black, partly out of an instinctive respect to her dead friend, partly to revenge herself on Vivian Harper. Unconsciously she thwarted her own object ; she looked, with her delicate features and large dark eyes, more patrician, if less youthful, than in. gayer costumes. Mr Harper, cynical, selfish, calculating as he was, began to feel in earnest that curious fluttering of the heart which betrays a genuine Angela endured with set lips and downcast lashes, his affectedly indolent courtship; she dared not offend him, for Oirme’s sake. Julius Blake had often wondered at the Countess’ apparent interest in Vivian: Harper; the idea struck him that she wished to provide for Angela a tolerable marriage against the time when the Skye lawsuit should have rendered her penniless. “Margaret’s a fool,” reflected the Captain contemptuously. “Harper’s not one of that sort—Orme would have done better. . But he was a lawyer—curse him!—and might have given me some trouble. However, that seems all off now, which is deuoediy lucky.” Julius Blake himself had speedily recovered those fierce good spirits which the strange death of Hector Sanderson had somewhat lowered. His brick-red complexion evinced an increased tendency to settle in the neighbourhood of his nostrils, showing that the process of “picking himsetr up” had been, conducted in his habitual fashion. Although the Countess held by no means all the strings of the plot which had grown up about her and Angela, she could see that Harper’s net had begun to close upon the- latter. It was impossible that a strong, if hidden, emotion should fail to bind the woman and the girl. Margaret, Countess of Skye, could not quite restrain her love and her compassion. Yet she feared her own weakness and for the most part shunned any intimacy with Angela.

Driven to the last extremeity for something to do, Angela- began to explore the recesses of Ducie Court, and came upon the tower, landing: and staircase. The winding flight of wooden steps she pursued to its lowest point and found that they gave, upon a looked and bolted door, through which there came vaguely the scent of the open air. One heavy November morning, subsequent to-this discovery, she was seized with a fancy to see if she could find, from the outside of Ducie Court, the door at the foot of the staircase. Wrapping herself up in furs, Angela slipped out into the park and went* along the terrace which on three sides surrounded the bouse. She identified the entrance with ease—a. low, slightlyembayed door in< the flat wall just past the rounded curve of the tower itself. As she stood looking at it,.' thinking' what a romantic little portal it was. a

found of creaking bolts struck on her ear. Then came the * sharp thud, as a Cock shot hack, the whining of reluctant lunges succeeded, and -the door swung onward. In the narrow opening stood tihe Countess.

When her eyes fell on the slender figure that barred her - passage, they fixed in a gaze of absolute and unmeaning terror. Her tall - and. stilt powerful frame lost ite she covered her iaoo, and sank hack, halffainting, upon the stair-foot. Perplexed beyond measure, Angela stepped within the cramped arch. “I’m afraid -I .startled you,” she Sara apologetically. “I—-I wondered if A could find the door from the' otitside.”

The Countess -glanced -up-quickly, the blood was returning to her pallid cheeks. “I—l—yes,” she stumbled pathetically over the broken words, “you did take me by surpise; . I didn't think of anyone being there, least of all you, dear.” Angela hesitated; she was hazny aware that the .Countess' own presence at the tower exit was singular. The elder woman fathomed her reflection.

“X haven’t opened this door for—since I was a girl,” she stammered. “I had a fancy to look out through itonce more. 'Gome in and let -us fasten it up again—it makes me feel horribly old.”

She rose, drew Angela dear, and the door hastily. It sent a hollow clang up the winding way behind.

“I used to live in this part of the Court when I was .a girl," she said, looking irresolutely at this second entrance ; “would you like to see my oia room?”

“'lndeed I should,” Angela confessed, interested by her glimpse into the past of this reserved yet striking woman.

The Countess was carrying a rusty ring with .a couple of equally rusty keys—a large and a small one. Sne put the lesser into the lock and gained admission. Angela lingered, scarcely knowing why, upon the threshold. The room was that from winen 'one Countess(disturbed by a footstep without in her occupation of burning some hoarded letters) had spied, a v r eek or two before, upon certain proceedings of Miss Dorothy Batho’s. Angela w r as astonished at its neglected appearance. “I was a wild young thing in those days,” said her guide ; “my mother died when I was a child; at nineteen x made myself my own mistress. 1 had. romantic leanings, this tower apartment pleased me, "I had it furnished, slept in it, read in it, was happy in. it, oh, so happy V' I shall never be as happy again.” . Angela saw that the lined, melancholy face had - grown almost tender; a sweet yet sorrowful smile softened the stern mouth.

“Come to the window,” added the Countess. Angela crossed, tire room to the deeply-set, old-fashioned casement. It had small thick Margaret-, Countess of Skye, flung it open. A magnificent stretch of woodland and meadow lay before them.“With the sun on it,” commented the Countess, “it is a pleasant sig~ now, it is only g-iey and &au, as I am. In the summer this room is flooded with sunlight—or moonlight. I have watched the moon from this window many an evening when the world and I were young.” She put an arm about Angela’s shoulders and stood silent, then closed the casement and led her towards the door.

“Everything here is faded and cold," she said, “yet I have had bright fires in that .sulky grate, and flowers m those dusty vases. A bird hung in that window. I had a white Persian kitten —see, this is Its basket, the ribbons onoe were blue.” The tears welled into Angela’s eyes; she felt that there lay about her the traces of some secret tragedy. The Countess saw the soft dew upon the long lashes, and yielding to a sudden impulse, drew the girl to her. For an instant Angela was clasped in a painful embrace.

The elder woman recovered her sellcontrol determinedly. “There!” she cried, “that’s enough of the dismals lor one day. Run and put on your hae. and get Roberts to take you for a canter. I will lock up Bluebeard’s cliam;ber. I ought .never to have come here, still less brought you. Run along.” Amd Angela wap forced to obey. As she .walked back to her own room along the deserted corridors, she wondered if she should ever really understand her guardian. Lost in bewildered thought, she suffered her new maid—perpetual reminder of Dottle’s departure!—to put her into her riding-habit, a message was on its way to the stables. A few moments later she was pacing a big chestnut sedately down the avenue wiu, the head groom, Roberts, at her heels. Captain Blake had not carried out his project of teaching her to ride, but Angela had coveted the accomplishment, and taken lessons, Roberts had put the finishing touches to her education, and was proud his pupil. At the lodge-gates Augela drew the chestnut’s head to the right. She intended to give herself the pleasure of ruling past the Ohesils. Not that she knew if Orme had returned to town.

She guessed not: he would surely have ' called to say good-bye. j Suddenly she saw that Orme himself, I unconscious of her neighbourhood, was advancing towards her upon the earthen, side-walk. The .memory of Vivian Harper’s threat came to her; she shuddered, and, for her uake, would have turned back. I-t was too late. He had glanced up and seen her. In half a dozen strides he gained her stirrup. Angela had no choice but to stop. “This is lucky, dearest!” he said cautiously, though the discreet Roberts had halted some distance off. “I was i promising myself to call this afternoon, j Poor Sanderson’s awful —end,” he had paused for the word, r, has given me a great deal to do. I was practically ■his only friend in England.” Angela was lighting with a stormy emotion —fighting for a sentence to warn without insulting him. “Please don't call,” she got out, “it —it isn’t safe.” ‘‘Not safe,” repeated Francis Qrme, raising his eyebrows. “No,” whispered Angela, distractedly. “Oh, I can’t tell you why it isn’t hut it isn’t. And oh, shall I do, for I can’t ever see you any more.” The young barrister stared incredulously. “It’s true,” gasped Angela, “but it’s only for your sake I’ve given in, Frank, dear. I know you’re innocent, darling, but think what it would be if anything i got into the newspapers. You would •be ruined, you would never a Lord Chancellor or an M.P. or anything.' “Who has been lying to you about *me now ?” demanded Francis Orme sternly. “Don’t ask me, don’t ask me!” begged Angela. “I shall always love you, darling, and I shall never marry anyone else, but don’t try to see me any more. I should die if anything were j to happen to you through me. On, why did I ever get rich P’ and witn this pitiful inquiry Angela turned her horse’s head and shook him into a canter. Nor did she breathe freeiy till she was round the nearest bend, sure that Mr Vivian could not, by some dangerous accident, see her wren j Francis Orme. 1 Ajs for the young barrister, lie was standing in the roadway, astounded yet indefinably alarmed. CHAPTER XX33I. JULIUS BLAKE MAKES A PROPOSAL. It was fortunate for Angela that she had introduced into her existence at j Syke House something of the independ- j ence of her previous life. Except to ! the theatre, she found herself able to move about freely, and, as a rule, unfettered by any unreasonable bonds of chaperonage. The Countess was given to indulging in long hours of melancholy seclusion; on her return from Ducie Court these periods grew more frequent—the carriage was at Angela's disposal three days out of four. She did a great deal of shopping; as has been said, her allowance was a handsome one. There had been a sort of ,

understanding that Angela was to 'be taken abroad for the winter—the Countess talked of spending Christmas in Rome. But there was no sign of these plans being -put into operation. The Countess and her step-brother stayed on from day to day at St. James' Square. . . _ Angela did hot find it difficult to slip off to Dottie’s wedding, and _the Skye carriage created a tremendous impression in the neighbourhood of St. John, the Martyr’s. Hornsey, where Miss Batho and Skinner had announced their intention of entering into tne bonds of holy matrimony. Even the self-possessed bridegroom, magnificent in dove-grey trousers and a tight frockcoat, was flattered. “It is really most kind of you, Miss Holland,” he said, with his professional air, as Angela and Dottie hugged one another in the vestry after the service. Angela shook hands with him, nervously but cordially. Hannibal Skinner’s heart warmed to her. “If ever, Miss Holland,” he added, forgetting the lawyer in the man, yet not without a certain significance of manner, “if ever Dottie and 1 can be of any service to you, please understand that it will afford one of the happiest moments in our married life to render it- At any hour of the day or night Mrs Skinner and her husband are yours to command, and proud,” concluded Hannibal incoherently, to hear and obey.” “Yes. indeed, Nan darling,” sobbed Dottie, “and you never know what may happen, do y<su? And you mustnt think we don’t really mean it, beoause we do. It was kind of you to come, though I’m ashamed to say I expected you’d put me off with a telegram. It would have served me right if you had, for thinking it of you. Good-bye, darling,” and the newly-made Mrs Skinner, after the fashion of her sex, dried her eyes and moistened them again, and laughed and wept in one. A tall, closely-buttoned, and acutely timid best man, a legal acquaintance of Mr Skinner’s, was deputed by him to attend upon Angela, who watched the bridal couple rattle off in the inevitable clumsy landau behind its pair of greys. Then her escort, waving the rest of the vehicles aside, summoned the Skye brougham, and, with a multitude of bows, handed her into it—the Skye footman attending impassively at the door. The bays were whipped up, the stately carriage rolled off, and the event of the Skinner wedding was at an end. The best man went back into the church to lord it- over the whispering bridesmaids. Angela returned sadly to St. James’ Square. Orme was lost to her, Dottie married —she was, indeed, alone. Miles, the ‘’‘first footman,” opened “Captain Blake wished to be informed of your arrival home, miss,” he said confidentially. “Very well, Miles,” replied Angela with some alarm; “I suppose he wants to see me. I will be in the drawingroom in ten minutes or so.” “Quite so, miss,” said Miles in the same gracious manner as before. He liked to wait upon Angela, she was both friendly and considerate. Miles had gone so far as to intimate to the housekeeper that a West-end house

wasn’t like a West-end house unless it had a pretty young thing such as Miss Angela knocking about It. Angela kept her implied promise, notwithstanding her detestation of Captain Julius Blake. That gentleman found her, a quarter of an hour later, in the big drawing-room that looked upon the Square. He strode into her presence, a note of discourtesy in his bold bearing, and halted before her, twisting his moustache. “Oh. Miss Holland,” he began, “I have some rather unpleaasnt news for you. At present it is only informal, and I cannot expect you to take immediate notice of it. But I think it.as well to break the facts to you.” “Dear, dear!” said Angela, too despondent to be startled, “what is it now? Something is always happening.” “I will come to the point at once,” answered the Captain, “as I believe you to be a girl of sense. A document has turned up in the., strangest way which throws very grave doubts - upon your identity with James Holland’s daughter. The document in question was given by Ellen Silvester on her death-bed to a Mrs Gallagher, of Fenimore Terrace, Paddington. You may have known her.”

“By name,” owned Angela falteringly; “she had a funny little husband. People said they were misers. I was afraid of them.”

“That may be,” retorted Captain Blake drily, “in this confession—for confession it is—Ellen Silvester admits that James Holland's daughter died when it was young, and that, not wishing to lose the payments which its father made her for rearing it, she got -another child, yourself, in its place. The matter is now in the hands of my step-sister’s solicitors, who are making inquiries. It may be our painful duty to take the opinion of the Courts upon it. In that case w© will see that your interests are properly represented.” ‘You mean,” pursued Angela, “that I should have to have a lawyer of my own.”

She thought, of Orme, then recollected Vivian Harper; her heart sank. “Exactly,” remarked Julius Blake. “There is one method, however, by which any eumberous and costly legal processes may be evaded. All action in the matter is at my sister’s discretion, and I have much influence • with her. I cannot conceal from myself, Miss—er, Holland, that I would, if possible, save you from this threatened disinheritance. If you .were my wife, my step-sister would not be at all likely to raise any objection to your enjoyment of James Holland’s fortune. I can even say that I could prevent her doing so, if she wished to.” Angela was standing now, whitefa oed * and indignant . Slowly she parted her lips and spoke. “I would rather be a beggar than your wife, Captain Blake.” Something not herself seemed to utter the words; an instant later she wished that they had been less, brutally direct. Julius Blake smiled—a grim, flickering smile. “Then you have chosen wax,” he said, “war between a powerful family of position and resourse and a penniless, nameless girl. I congratulate you on your pluck, Miss—er, Holland; I cannot on your discretion^”

He regarded her leisurely and Boomfully, then lounged from the room. Angela rang the hell, her eyes shining, heir face flushed. v ; > : ,

“Please the Countess if X can iaee her a moment,” she desired Miles. “More trouble 1” Reflected that worthy, as he went upstairs with the Message; “and the Captain's in it, as usual.”

The Countess was in her boudoir and Would Angela go up? Angela did so, her passion by now at white heat. In a few breathless sentences * she made her custodian acquainted with the position as sketched by the Captain, not forgetting his proposal of marriage.

Margaret, Countess of Skye, turned away her head. “I cannot advise you, Angela,” she forced herself to say; “Julius, of course, will be my heir if he outlives mo - should you marry him it would he foolish, for me to raise any question as to your keeping a fortune which., if I took it from you, would come back to you through your husband.”

“You—you think I would marry Captain Blake to keep my money 1” cried Angela; “oh,: how dare you? Take the money, take it all—l “will £° hack to the Avenue. I wish I had never left it.”

The Countess would have spoken, but Angela -had burst out. of the boudoir, struggling with a flood of tears. CHAPTER XXIV. AN ENVOLOPE WITH A SEAL. Francis Orme was not the man to leave matters between himself and Angela Holland in the chaotic state to which the young lady herself had reduced them by her extraordinary warning. He wrote to her promptly at Xtacie Court, asking, in an affectionate, if bewildered fashion, for some explanation. Angela replied in a few mysterious words. : “My Poor Barling, “Please, please don’t write to me any more —it is risking your life. I think about you always, and I know that you are very miserable because I *m- rnyself. But it is madness to run any risks —tbe thought of it makes me ahudder. Good-bye. “Your own, “ANGELA.”

To say that the young barrister was by this time absolutely astounded) but faintly expresses his state of mind. He racked his brain to discover some reason for Angela’s anxiety respecting himself. His life bad been a quiet and exceptionally sober one, few men.’® could have better borne the test of a public scrutiny. Yet Angela was evidently in mortal terror on his behalf. “It is some trick of that villain Blake’s.” he decided; “he is afraid, I suppose, lest I should thwart his plan to rob the little woman. Would to heaven I could have- half an. hour’s sensible conversation with her!” Not only was Mr Francis Orme unable to obtain, his thirty minutes with Miss Angela, he could not even catch a glimpse of her. He lingered in the village of Ducie Court, taking up his quarters at the Skye Arms, and boring himself horribly. A relative of Hector Sanderson’s had arrived in England, and the dead man’s affairs were by now in other hands than Francis Orme’s, who had not even that- melancholy occupation. Great was his disgust when he ascertained that the Countess and Angela, together with Julius Blake and Vivian Harper, had deserted the Court and flitted back to town. Thither the disconsolate lover followed them. A solitary week at his club—during which he reflected seriously upon the curious plot against -Angela discovered by Hector Sanderson and himself—drove him into the determination to Bee Miss Holland whether she would or no. Accordingly he walked round to St James’ Square and mounted to the gloomy portal of Syke House. The Skye carriage was standing at the kerb; as he went up the steps, the double doors opened and a footman descended . bearing a wrap and followed by Angela herself. At sight of her lover Angela started back. But Francis Orme gained the step upon which she had halted and said, very gently but very firmly, “Angela, I must see you alone—you are breaking my heart.” Miss Holland’s brown eyes swam in sudden tears; she could not resist either the masculine “must” or the pathetic appeal into which it had tailed off. She motioned him to pass in—a quick, nervous gesture—and glanced up and down the Square. Then she went to the pavement. “Miles,” she said, “I shan’t want the carriage to-day.” Miles acknowledged the instruction with a grave yet sympathetic inclination of his head. “And. Miles,” added Miss Holland, 4 If—if anyone should call I am not at home—not to anyone.” With which naive instruction. she ran back into the hall. “Come up into the drawing-room,” ehe said to Francis Orme. Her lover obeyed; his pulses were beating quite fast. It was a long time

since he had enjoyed a tete-a-tete with Angela. Hie had, no fear, now, of having his heart broken; there was too warm a blush in certain soft cheeks, too tender a glow in certain sweet eyes. A faint gleam of December sunshine stole in through the tall windows of the apartment to which Angela led him. It made a delicious halo about her, as she took off her hat and tossed it on to a lounge. This done, she did not turn towards him but paused listlessly.

Orme crossed to her. “Angela,” he said pleadingly, “Angela, dearest!” -Angela Holland turned now; her tears were running fast. Francis Orme could not control his own emotion. He gathered the weeping girl into his arms —the first such embrace that had passed between them. His breast heaved; Angela felt it and knew in that moment how greatly Francis Orme loved her.

“Oh, Frank darling,” she sobbed, “I have been so lonely!” “Poor child!” whispered her lover and kissed her.

Angela put a protesting palm against his shoulder and pushed herself away.

“There!” she * -T now I must scold you for disobeying me—l told you not to

“That is precisely why I am here,” answer er into a

seat. “You are evidently under some terrible misapprehension about me—l suppose that blackguard Blake, for his own purposes ” “No. no/* cried Angela indiscreetl: “it was not Captain Blake—indeed it wasn’t.” .

Francis Orme was surprised, all his theories were blown to the winds by that denial.

“At any rate,” he said, recovering himself, “Blake or not Blake, someone has persuaded you that I have something—something in the nature of a public exposure —to be.afraid of. It's an infamous libel.” “I know it, I know it,” Angela assured him; “but I could not bear you to he accused.”

“Accused!” repeated Orme, catching at the word, “of what?” “Please don’t ask me,” begged Angela ; “I can’t tell you.” “Then you do not know?” queried the barrister; “am I to understand that you do not even, know of what I am to be accused?”

Angela was powerless in the grasp of a trained cross-examiner—she ceased to struggle. Covering her face with her hands, she abandoned herself to grief. Orme relinquished the legal method hastily. “Let me know what I have to fight, dearest,” he besought. “Remember it is you yourself who are at stake. I will not, give you up without an effort to keep you.” “You—you would only laugh,” said Angela. “Is it absurd then?” asked Orme drily. “It—is terrible,” was the murmured answer; “you would be ruined even if people were only made to suspect.” “A cowardly fear,” said the barrister; “all men have to take that risk when their honour is attacked.”

“That’s why I can’t tell you,” persisted Angela; “you’d do something reckless.”

Orme was cornered; he thought hard for a moment.

“Then I will promise to say nothing and do nothing without your express permission. Will that satisfy you? Give me a chance to win you back, dearest —you cannot really love me if you would refuse.” “Love you!” sobbed Angola, stung, and choked on the rest of her sentence.

Orme stroked her ruffled head. “Well,” gasped Angela, half-frighteu-

ed, half-hopeful, “it is about Mr Sanderson.”

“Poor fellow!” said Orme; “and what has he to do with your troubles ?”■ “Might he,” stammered Angela,! “have been murdered?”

“I have asked myself the same question a hundred times,” answered Frani cis Orme. “It was possible from the nature of the wound. I can’t help thinking Sanderson an unlikely kind of man to commit suicide.”

“Could anyone have seen him ant. —and someone else together without being seen themselves?” asked Angela tremblingly. “Are you training for a detective?” demanded. Orme, amused. “Yes, I should say so. As I daresay you know, it was I who found poor Sanderson — having heard a pistol-shot close to 1 wondered what it could be, so went exploring. He was lying in a little glade surrounded by bushes. It was November and mild, the foliage was still fairly thick. It might have acted as a screen for some observer.”

“It did,” got out Angela; “Mr—Mr Harper.” “How very odd!” exclaimed Francis Orme; “but why .should you he the one to learn this ?”

“Oh. Frank,” Angela could contain her secret no longer, “Mr Harper is—is fond of me. He wants to marry me, and he says that if I—l won’t, he will say that:—that you—you ”

“Great Heavens!” cried Francis Orme; he had 5 understood. ne rose, and took a few hasty strides about the room.

“You are right,” he said, “it is a terrible threat. I found Sanderson dead; I gave the alarm. Harper could prove nothing; he should have come forward, too, at the inquest ; that will go against, him. But I might be suspected—l should be ruined—what a ■ghastly trapl” Angela watched him anxiously. “There is but one thing to do,” he pursued; “Harper suggests murder—it is possible therefore, that he knows something. 1 know that I am innocent, he probably knows it also. Who was the murderer? —was Harper? I must find out; I will find out.” He came and took Angela into his arms.

“Good-bye for a while, sweetheart,” he said; “when you next hear of me I shall he a step or two nearer the solution of this accursed mystery. Goodbye !” He kissed her passionately and hurried away. At the door he looked back, wondering when he should see again that wan face and dropping figure. Miles availed himself of Francis Orme’s departure to carry to Angela a stiff -white envefiipe with an embossed seal on the back. Mechanically she tore it open, hoping that Miles would not notice how red her eyes were. The contents of the note were brief. They ran: — “Re the Estate of James Holland, deceased. “Dear Madam, “We have been consulted by our client, the Countess of Skye, of Skye House, St. James’ Square, and Ducie Court, Berkshire, respecting her claim to the above. She informs us that you are already aware of her intention to prosecute such a claim. No trustee having been appointed in the room of the late Hector Sanderson, we have advised our client- to proceed against yourself a ad the remaining trustee, Mr Ambrose Mannering, of Messrs Mannering and Henderson, Solicitors, Capetown, with which object we are taking the necessary steps. You should, therefore, communicate with that gentleman regarding your future course of conduct.. Our client being anxious to treat you with, every consideration, we

make this early intimation for your personal guidance. Until you - can place yourself in communication with Mr Mannering our client is willing that you should remain, without prejudice, at Skye House. “We are, dear Madam, “Faithfully yours, “Pennyfeather and Pennyfeather.”

•liss Angela Holland. (By courtesy.; ' A mist swam before Angela’s eyes; the blow bad fallen. fro be Continued.)