THROUGH THE SILENT NIGHT.

Otago Witness, Issue 3250, 28 June 1916, Page 57

THROUGH THE SILENT NIGHT.

THE STOVSLIST.

[Purusijkd By Special Arrangement. J

By William Guidott.

Author of "What Delia Dared," etc. (Copyright.) CHAPTEE I. OLORES SMITH leant panting against the door. For a moment the whole room seemed to go round, and she put her hand up to her eyes. As a rule, she was strong and clear-headed, hut now—she shivered as she listened for any sound which meant his following her upstairs. But no, nothing stirred in the silence of the gloomy house. Trembling slightly she locked her bedroom door, and with swift sure steps in the darkness went over to the dressingtable, found the matches and lit the gas Once again she crossed to the door and listened". Then, leaning against the wall for a moment she thought hard, her delicately marked brows knitted and little lines of worry at the corners of her sensitive mouth. Her face cleared a little at last, and she relaxed the tensed position. She pushed back the heavy waves of redgold hair from her temples, with a characteristic little gesture of amused annoyance. She bathed her face in the cool water, and with a few little touches was herself again, cool, collected, and charming with the fresh bloom of youth and perfect health. The little lines of worry and uncertainty had given place to a look of resolution touched with excitement and a spirit of adventure. The way was clear. There was but one. She would go away somewhere Avhere she could live, away from the stepfather who raged and swore below. He had shouted at her that she could clear out, and she would do so. Dully she found herself wondering why it had never occurred to her before. No one wanted her now that her mother was dead. The tears welled up as she thought of the timid gentle mother whom she had adored, and who only three short weeks ago had died. That was before the,y had come to li\e in this gloomy house at Brighton, she and her stepfather. They had no relations, no connections, no friends, that she knew of. She shuddered as she fancied she heard a round coming from the dining-room below, and her stepfather's words came back to her.

"You're no child of mine. Get out — and keep yourself! You've got a hundred pounds a year of your mother's, why should I keep you?" She brushed her hand across her forehead as if to refuse even the recollection of the coarse words which followed.

Who was she? Who really had her father been? She had no clue, her little timid mother had always refused to tell her.

" It's better not, Doris darling," she used to say. " There's nothing to gain. Your stepfather—l am afraid, always afraid !"

But one night by the flickering light of a candle Doris had been wakened to find her mother standing by her bedside, tears streaming down her weary face as she stealthily thrust a packet into her hands. Even now Doris could hear the low frightened voice choked with sobs. " It's all right, darling. I'm all right, it's nothing. Keep this, don't open it—only when I'm dead. They're yours—he doesn't know —hide it. And she was gone again. Dutifully the girl had packed away the parcel amongst the linen in a deep trunk, and only now did she suddenly remember it. She must take that away with her, anyway, she thought, as she quickly gathered a few things together and neatly placed them in a little dressing-case. She took from the dressing-table her mother's photograph in its heavy silver frame, and her little old-fashioned ivory-cased prayerbook. She possessed little jewellery, but the few things she had were good, just as the simple coat and skirt she was wearing was of fine quality and cut, for her stepfather knew the value of appearances, and did not allow his meanness to be suspected by outsiders. Then she searched amongst the soft linen in her trunk until she found the square box wrapped in white paper. For a moment she looked at it, and hesitated. Her imaginative nature prompted her to open it, but there was no time for it now. A qualm shot through her. as she realised that until now she had forgotten it altogether. Perhaps it should have been opened immediately on her mother's death. Any way, it must wait now. She wondered nevertheless what it

contained. Perhaps the secret of her birth, and she would at last learn her father's name. Her quick sense of humour, even at such a moment, laughed away the melodramatic idea that he might turn out to be the conventional lord of fiction, but at any rate, she- thought with satisfaction, her name would be different from her stepfather's, and she could at least hold up her head. But there was no time to be lost. She slipped the parcel into the dressing-case. There was no room for anything else. Crossing the room noiselessly, she went to the window and leant out. The moon was shining faintly through the still September night, and she could just see that her bicycle was still leaning up against the wall outside the kitchen door where she had left it. One little dash across the back garden, through the door, into the lane between the houses, and she would be free. Quiet as a mouse she crept downstairs and made her way through the deserted servants' quarters. She was thankful that the last of them had left that clay, refusing Shy longer to put up with such a master. As she took hold of the handles of her machine her heart stopped and she caught her breath, startled by the sharp burr of an electric bell. Someone was at the front door. Her stepfather might shout to her to go and open it. It must be nearly eleven. SVho could it be at such an hour? The bell rang again. Doris did not wait, she dashed panic-stricken across the short patch of grass to the door in the wall, pulling it to bahind her, not daring to latch it.

To jump on her bicycle and ride away for dear life was the work of a second. Madly she scorched down the steep hill to the brightly-lighted front. She slowed down as she turned the corner. A policeman stopped her. "Your light's out. Miss," he called somewhat gruffly. Doris dismounted. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I'm afraid I what time is it?" she added rather inconsequently. The officer smiled, for her voice was charming, and his masculine eye decided that she was, too; besides, she was evidently a lady. It's some time after lighting-up time, miss," he answered, not without a touch of humour. "That clock over there is striking eleven. Allow me, miss." Doris thanked him gratefully. She sped along the front, on and on, breathing the pure, fresh night air, her brain clearing as the exercise calmed her over-strained nerves. As the lights of Shoreham came into view she slowed down, dimlv remembering her mother saying they had some cousins who always spent the summer there in Bungalow Town. The name of their bungalow was Rose something-or-other. She would ask someone, and find it, and then throw herself on their mercy for the night. Through the old town and over the toll bridge into the quiet of Bungalow Town she rode. The long rows of little houses were all curiously alike in the night which seemed to be growing darker and darker. No one was about. Numerous boards were to be seen outside the bungalows. Evidently the season was nearly over. She had not thought of that. Dismounting from her machine she stood looking around, a little at a loss what to do. It seemed a hopeless task to find any particular house at such an hour, the more so that she was uncertain of the name. She never could have imagined there would be row after row of bungalows stretching for miles along the beach like this. To add to her discomfiture a few heavy rain-drops were falling. She looked up at the gathering clouds. There was going to be a storm; the heavy night brooded ill. In the distance there was the muffled rumble of thunder. The girl shuddered. All her life she had always been a little afraid of _. lightning and storms. Her eyes searched around for a possible shelter. The garden gate of the nearest bungalow stood open, and on the woodwork of the house "To Let" bills were fixed. Without a second thought she ran her bicycle up the path and took shelter under the dark verandah. She felt she would give anything if only the door of the closely-shuttered house were open, and, half hoping, tried it. To her surprise it yielded to the turn of the handle. A flash of lightning almost drove her in, lighting up a large sitting-room with a white vivid light. Somewhat frightened Doris stood hesitating in the doorway. "Is anyone here?" she called out. There was no answer, only the noise of the pattering raindrops on the flat, roof outside. She glanced about her fearfully. Of the two unknown dangers the empty bungalow frightened her least. Hurriedly undoing the bicycle lamp she went in and closed the door. She flashed the little lamp around the room. It was very ordinarily furnished. It gave one the impression that the last tenant had left in a hurry, for cushions were Iving about anyhow on the deep lounge, and old magazines and newspapers littered the place. There was a candle on the table, and when she had lit it she explored the kitchen and the two dismantled bedrooms. There was no sign of anyone. Thankful for the shelter from the storm she sank on the lounge, dimly realising that she was very tired. She unpinned her simple hat, and then opened the drossing-ca?e and took her mother's parcel in her hands. But the excitement she had been through and the long ride had been too much for her; physical exhaustion overtook her; she dragged her feet up on the lounge and. curling up amongst the cushions, lay still. As her eyes closed a medlev of rushing thoughts poured through her brain in which were strangely-mingled parents, bicycles, and empty bungalows, but above all an electric bell which rang and rang as though someone were trying to get in as she fled into the night, and sank into a dreamless sleep. CHAPTER. IT. John Douglas Smith had slammed the door, after his stepdaughter when she ran from the room, with a jeering laugh. A

man of about forty-five, not without a certain pretence to good looks of a rather vulgar type, he had terrorised his late wife with his fits of violent rage. As a business man he was well known amongst a certain financial set whose dealings were more than doubtful. In short, John Douglas Smith, under a somewhat more pretentious name, lent money on note of hand alone. If you were fool enough, or hard-pressed enough, you went to him. He had made a good thing out of the various fish his net had entoiled, and now, since the move

to Brighton, had almost retired from the business —of which his Avife and daughter had been in complete ignorance—keeping on only a few cases which were a permanent source .of income to him.

He poured himself out a stiff brandy and soda, and with a gesture of contemptuous dismissal sat down at the writing-table and took up some papers lying there. As he did so the tall grandfather's clock in the corner chimed out half-past ten. The money-lender looked up. "She'll be here any moment now," he murmured. For a few minutes he sat there smoking composedly. Then the front door bell sounded far off in the kitchen, clear through the still summer night. He got up and, walking to the mirror over the mantelpiece, straightened his tie, and looked critically at himself, smoothing his hair. Then, apparently satisfied, he went out into the hall. The bell rang again. "In a hurry," he said, smiling; but his face was quiet and serious as he opened the door. "I am so sorry that they kept you waiting, but the servants seem to be deaf, and my daughter is upstairs, so I came myself." A young girl was standing on the steps. The light from the hall lamp caught the yellow sheen of her hair. Her black gown seemed by its sheer simplicity to emphasise her distinction. Her fingers were playing nervously with a little thin gold chain, to which her purse was attached.

"You told me to come late to-night," she said breathlessly. "I got your note when I called this morning; all day long I've been wandering about to pass the time. Can I have the papers quickly ? I must catch the 11.5 back to town."

" You have plenty of time. I will not keep you a moment. Our business can be quickly settled," he answered, as he led the way into the study.

" Oh, thank you. Thank you so much"; the girl's voice was low and more under control now. Any man with less contempt for her sex would have wondered at the vibrating note which went through it, betokening a fund of latent energy, and possibly he would have been afraid. "I can't tell you how kind mother and I think it is of you to give us back that promissory note—l wish we could pay it." Her voice broke. "Poor darling father, he did his best."

John Smith looked at her for a moment before replying. A slight touch of hauteur about the short, curved upper lip, and the unmistakeable something in the graciousness of speech and bearing which betrays grace, fascinated him. "It was a pleasure to know your father," he said at last. His voice did not betray the falseness of the sentiment to her, possibly because he had, after all, derived considerable pleasure financially from the acquaintance. "These are the papers." The girl rose, her hand outstretched. " Oh " she began.

But the money-lender made no movement to hand them to her. Something strange in his attitude or manner arrested her. She hesitated, staring at him with wide-open violet eyes. Could it be that he did not mean to give them to her after all? She let her eyes fall, then flashed a glance at him under the long lashes. Outwardly she looked somewhat frail and a little timid, but behind that look burned an indomitable flame of courage, the courage bequeathed to her by a long line of ancestors who had never known" when they were beaten. Yet, instinctively, she feared something—feared the man. But she faced nim quietly with a little smile. " May I have them?" He nodded. " Yes. But I want to talk to von first."

" Yes?" She sank back into her chair with a wondering expression. John Smith got up and came over, to her. "I am a man of few words. Will you marry me?"

The girl jumped un with an exclama tion. She could not hide her amazement "I?"

"Yes," he answered, smiling and confident. "You." She backed away from him. to the fireplace. "You don't mean it. You —howdare you!" she cried, catching hold of the mantelpiece to steady herself. " I don't understand. Is that the condition on which you are going to give me the papers?" " Perhans." he answered deliberatelv.

She looked at him steadily, mastering her emotion. "I see it all now. You never meant to give me the papers " She laughed scornfully. "Your price is too high, thank you. Oh. I quite see we are in your hands. When I wrote to you to ask you to give us time to pay the last instalment, and so save my mother from penury, I thought I was dealing with an honest man. Now I understand." She caught her breath. A proud look came into her eyes. "Very well, then, sell us up. Expose to the world that my poor father could not pay backdie rest of the sum owing on these bills from which we have never had a penny. Expose how he put himself in your hands in order to get money for someone else who needed it. I don't know about business, but "

" No," he interrupted, and something in his tone struck cold to her heart. " You certainly do not know much about this particular business. One of the signatures in this little affair,* he touched one of the papers, "is forged."

•'Forged?" "Yes; and by your father." "You are lying!" she gasped fiercely

Anger almost uncontrollable seemed to ba welling up in her brain against thia common, sneering man, who stood there reviling the memory of her dead father. She needed all her strength to control herself as he went on :

" It will be proved if I choose to sue for the amount owing. I can prove it qu : .te easily." He took a step towards her. "Now, don't you think you had better be reasonable?" " Reasonable?"

" Yes—marry me." "How dare you! You insult me!" The girl's self-control was deserting her, "I have only known you as a moneylender ; you presume enough when you, suggest we are on social term?, but when you insinuate that my father was a criminal. Oh! I loathe and despise you move than ever. My answer is 'No—no—no!' Now let me go!" Two crimson spots burned in her cheeks, and she quivered with scorn and rage. John Smith sprang forward and gripped her arm.

"No!" he shouted. "You shan't go; at all events not yet!" He laughed. "Don't make a fuss. There's nobody in the house to hear you."

A stifled scream escaped her lips. A deadly fear Avas hammering at the back of her brain. She summoned all her courage, and, with a mad strength, freed her right hand from his grip. The effort over-balanced her, and she slipped on one knee, stumbling into the grate. She pufc down her hand to save herself. Something heavy and round lay beneath it. Her fingers closed upon the massive steel poker. Whether the man stepped forward to help or again to grasp her, she never could recall. Terror and rage aroused the primitive instinct of defence, and lent force to the slender hand as she struck cut blindly.

It was with a sort of blank surprise that she saw him fall heavily forward, his hand scattering the fire-irons which clattered on the glittering hearth. She staggered to her feet and stood for a moment swaying, ghastly white, with hands pressed to her eyes. She looked down at the prostrate form and gasped. A sudden shudder seized her. She turned weakly away. Her eye.; fell on the papers lying on the tab'.e. Mechanically she took them in her hand and looked at them. For a moment she couldn't remember what they were. She looked as if she were going to laugh, as, indeed, she nearly did, for she did not realise what had happened, and she was a little hysterical. She feared rousing him from his unconsciousness. She bent over him, and then drew back with a little cry. She had killed him! Some how she felt no remorse. It rather horrified her to find; that she was still angry with him. With pitiiess logic her brain told her that he was better dead. She felt like an instrument of a higher power, and though ifc shocked her to find that she did not even feel sorry in a conventional way, eha suddenly "felt a little frightened. She glanced at the papers in her hand. She had saved her father's honour—and her own! There was a sound outside. Footsteps cf someone on the path hesi* tating to come in. With a backward look, which she could not help, at tho huddled figure on the floor, she ran from the room. Her brain was working quickly and clearly. She knew that she could not go out the front way. At all costs she must not be seen. He had said that there was no one in the house. She ran to the kitchen; there she might find a way out. Luck favoured her. The doors leading to the back yard and garden were open. Like a flash she ran across tho grass and through the gateway into tho lane between the houses, and disappeared into the night. Out?ide the hoire a young man was listening intently. Seeing a policeman coming along, he beckoned to him. 'I hrard sore funny noises going on in there a moment ago; fire-irons and things being pushed about, I should say. Sounded queer, too. Someone fell. Hadn't you better have a look?"

They went slowly up the path, looking at the windows curiously. The constable rang. There was no answer. The lights were full on. "Let's go round to the back and have a look." suggested P.O. 668. They found the doors open, and walked through the empty kitchen into the hall. "This was the room they were in," raid the young man. The policeman knocked and they went in.

"Hullo!" He bent ever the post rate man. "Dead! Murdered, too! Look at that poker. That's what you heard fall a moment ago." He looked round tha room. "Nothing disturbed. Shouldn't say it was robbery. Got out the way we came in, I suppose. We'd better go and look round."

A. grandfather clock caught their eyea

"Five minutes past eleven." said the constable. "That clock's wrong." Ho took out his watch. "It's eighteen minute*" past. I was down on the front at eleven.^ The young man pointed to the body. "That makes this done at 11.15 then : i*. was the moment before you came up I heard him fall. You had better have my name. It's Cyril Kynaston, and I am living at present in Bungalow Town, Shore!; am." CHAPTER 111. The storm that had driven Doris into the empty bungalow did not Inst long. About midnight it abated, and a few stars began to glimmer through the racing clouds. Presently footsteps could be hearc 1 approaching through the darkness along Vne sandy road, accompanied by the sound of a cheery whistle. A young man came striding along, lie reached the gate of the bungalow, and as he did so his whistling ceased abruptly. He saw a light shining through the crevices of the shuttered windows, and dimly he cculd discern a bicycle, leaning up against the verandah. He stood there watching and motionless, not knowing quite what to make of it. As noiselessly as possible he crept over the shingle to the back of the

house, and made his way into the kitchen. Then he flashed a little pocket electric torch, and fluding v.o one, with a quick movement threw open the utting-room door.

On the threshold ho stopped still, staring in blank amazement at the girl lying on the lounge. On the tabic a small but expensive-looking little dressingcase lay open. The man smiled. Evidently this was not a burglar, he thought whimsically, burglars didn't bring dress-ing-cases, nor did they slop the night if they could avoid it. * He tip-toed round the* table to get a better look at his visitor. .She was evidently dead tired. There was an abandonment of fatigue in her attitude. ■ Her skirt and shoes were dusty. Quick to notice things, he remarked that she had ridden without gloves, for there was a little smear on her hand evidently made by the bicycle lamp. She had probably therefore ridden off in a hurry from somewhere. But why was the there? He looked again at the hand lying 0:1 the cushion. Evidently she was not in '.rant, there was no mistaking those diamonds. Carefully he went a little nearer, to that he could tee her face. She looked very lovely, lying there: her even delicate profile softly framed by the red gold anrec'f3 of hair. For a few moments the man stood in frank admiration. Then the humorous look came back into his eyes, and he took out a fairly large ncte-book and calmly made one or two sketches of his unknown visitor. Next, very gently, so as to make no noise, he tore out a sheet and wrote on it. This lie left -on the table, and then, with a rather mischievous backward glance, went quietly out of the room, through the kitchen, and out of the bungalow.

It was already day when Doris awoke, and the early rooming sunlight was struggling through the shutters. The lamp had burnt out. She started up and looked around her wonderingly. Then it all came back to her. She took a hurried glance round the room. No one had been. in. Then she laughed to herself. Why, of course, no one had been in: who should, in an empty bungalow that was to let ? There was nothing to mind, and she might as well make herself at home. She went into the little kitchen, and,'throwing open the door, drank in the lovely morning air which came blowing to the sea from the downs. Her little bracelet watch told her that it was only six o'clock. It was too early to go to the station. She dashed some cold water over her face and hands, and made as good a toilet as she could. Glancing hungrily, but rather hopelessly, round the kitchen, her eyes fell upon a. tea caddy. She opened it, and to her sunrise found it fairly well stocked.

"Evidently the last tenant was careless and wasteful," she said gratefully. "1 do hope they've left something else." She opened the only cupboard, and in a corner found a tin of condensed milk, biscuits, sugar, cups, and saucers. Joyfully she fell upon them, for a very healthy hunger had taken possession of her. Breakfast was now only a matter of moments.

"I suppose this is stealing, really," Doris said aloud, laughing as she filled her cup. "But I can't help it, I'm to hungry. I'd pay, only I don't know who the owner is."

An idea came to her. She ran into the sitting-room, and, cautiously opening the front door a few inches, 'looked at the other side. On it would be, at least, the name of the bungalow. She gasped, a "iittle taken back, as the read :—"J.E. His House."

It was an extraordinary name for a bungalow. His house, too ! The idea that the bungalow might belong to a man had not occurred to her. Somehow she had taken it for granted it belonged to a family. J3nt "J.E. His House," absurd as the name might be, was prettv plain in its meaning. V\"hat ought she'to do? She shrugged her shoulders resignedly. After all, it couldn't be helped, and "J.E." whoever he was, certainly wasn't there. It couldn't heln things if* she left her breakfast unfinished. He wasn't likely to disturb her. Probably he wouldn't be back till next year, when the summer season commenced.

So she finished her tea, sitting happily on the kitchen table, and half-thyly enjoying the situation. It was only halfpast six, but she thought the might as well begin collecting her things, it was still rather rlo any in the sitting-room, owing to the closed shutters, but light enough nevertheless. Once mare she held in her hands her mother's parcel. She had still plenty of time to open it. She would at least' zee what was inside. With fingers that trembled slightly she cut the string and stripped the paper off. Opening it she found a letter addressed to her, am] her eves filled as she recognised her mother's writing. There was tissue paper covered packet, a bundle of letters tied round with faded blue ribbon, and a flat jewel-case. Dor::; sat .staring at the objects spread Mil bsfoi'o her. Now the time had come ehe half.dreaded to open the letter she held in U»v V-mi. What would this messag-j from h'.r dear- dead mother bring her?—joy or sorrow ? pleasure or pain? She gently laid it arid;: and took up the little parcel, m.wrapping the tissue paper, and. discloving an ivory miniature iu:rJOiindod by pearls. Doris examined eagerly the exquisite laughing face which the artist's ha*l had so cunningly depicted. It was not !:rr mother's face: she wondered who it might be. Thu jewelcase looked n iittle shabby and was certainly of old-fashioned style. Within i;, resting on somewhat worn and faded green velvet, were a single row of pearls and two old fashioned heavy gold brooches set with rather large stones. She took un the string of pearls and looked at it rather disconsolate!v. They were evidently not real. Pearls that size, and so well matched, would be worth a great deal, and heT mother would never have dared to keep them, from her grasping husband; but the little clasp was curious, a monogram in diamonds or paste, and unlike any she had ever seen before. Replacing

the necklace, the closed the jewel-case with- a snap and put it in her dressingcase, and then she opened the letter. It was written on odd half-sheets of notepaper. Deris dashed away her tears and

My darling Eoris, When vcu open this I shall be gone, and I think it will be soon. I think. dearest, you ought to know that you are not my daughter. Oh, you will still love n;"c a little, when I am gone, won't you? I have tried to make yon

happy, and we have been happy, haven't Ave, you and I? Listen, dear. Your father had been married before when 1 married him, and he had a little baby daughter—you. His wife—your mother, of course —ran away when you were only one year old ! she was not worthy of him. I need not go into details. Your father divorced her and we were married. We decided to bring you up as our daughter. Your dear father only lived ten years after this, and I—feeling very lonely and tad—married again. Your name, of course, is not Dolores Smith, but is the same as your father's. His name She started up. Just as she was going to turn to th.e second sheet, she heard footsteps pass the house. Cramming everything into the dressing-case, she snspped the catches to. As she leant over it, a paper on the table caught her eve. It was not there last night, of that she was certain. Who had left it there, and when? She took it up and read it. Dear Princess.—For I'm sure you are one, since cn'y princesses have glorious red-gold hair, and look lovely sleeping with their mouths open "Oh, I don't!" exclaimed Doris, furiously. "How dare he? He'll say I more next, I suppose." She read on": . so you must be a princess, and I am more than glad that my poor house has been able to afford you shelter from the storm. I wish I knew your name. Will you write it? I shall not come back to'the bungalow till 12 noon, so you needn't see me if you don't want to, but do leave a word "for me, Princess ; besides, it will really be quicker, for we are going to meet again sometime, so there's no use in delaying things, is there? Obedient to your wishes, J. E. P.S.—I think I ought to tell you, Princess, that your address is on vour bicycle, and I thought I ought to read it, as if you left anything I could send it on for you, with which weak excuse I again sign myself, your devoted J. E. Doris laid down the note with a little ge-Ture of despair. Here was a nice setout. He knew where she lived, and had seen her initials above the address. She read the note again, and could not repress a smile. It certainly was rather impertinent, but there was a note of respect in it, nevertheless, which did not escape Somehow she did not feel afraid of "J. E.," whoever he was. he was a gentleman. Hastily she tore off a scrap of paper and scribbled:—Thank you so much. One day perhaps 111 explain—that is, if we "meet, of course. 1 oughtn't to have stolen breakfast, but even princesses have to eat, and I was so hungry. She laid it on the table where it would be seen, and catching , : p her dressingcase, went boldly out of the front doo7\ Fortune favoured her. No one was in sight. She jumped on her machine, and in a few minutes was riclinn- through sleepy Shoreham to the sation. A t-ain was due for Lor:don as she arrived, and she had only just lime to get her bicycle put in aiid herself comfortably settled, before it started She Glanced out of the window. Close to the bookstall a man was standing, apparently lending the early morning paper's She looked at the tall", lithe figure indifferently Ho was ,n flannels, and had evidently bee,, bathing. The sun burnished the thick brown hair, which swept back from his temple;. She c tild not help noticing that he was exceedingly good-looking, his tace was so clean cut, and healthv ' Her somewhat pre-ocenpied stare 'ouickly altered when she found to her discomfort that he was looking at her inteiitbWhy to he staring « 0 ? Imtinctivelv fho noticed something out of the ordinary m his look. It was almost as if lie n cognised her. as if he had seen her before The red mounted to her cheeks and sue dropped her eves. Instinctively she wondered if it could be "J y" [Je moved a step or two towards the carriage ohs felt rather than saw his look, for she kept her eves obstinately fixed on the staring contents bills of (lie morning papers a, the train moved slowly out One of them especially caught lier'atten lion, ft r. ad.

IUKDER OF A MOXEYLENDFE VI BRIGHTON." ' (To be Continued.)