MY LOVE'S BUT A LASSIE.

Otago Witness, Issue 3291, 11 April 1917, Page 48

MY LOVE'S BUT A LASSIE.

THE NOVELIST.

By KATHARINE TYNAN. Author of "The Squire's Sweetheart," "Since First I Saw Your Face," "Kit," etc., etc. [All Rights Reserved.] CHAPTER V—THE NEW DEIRDRE. Some time in the afternoon.of that day, when the snow had again begun to fall steadily, the judge load a talk with Mrs Badham in her own little parlour, and was agreeable to tasting a glass of Mrs Badham's cowslip wine. Over this heady and fragrant beverage ho came to ask the questions he desired to ask. Mrs Badham was evidently bubbling over with curiosity about Simon Lee, from the "Hen-and-Chickens," being of Sir James Beauclerk's party—and was very ready, to talk. "Myj" she said, with uplifted hands, "to think o' the snow bringing lodgers to the 'Hen-and-Chickens.' You got no welcome there, I'll be bound. That German woman, she ' 'ave showed customers the door. They do say as she was' a mu'se before sho married Skerrett. Nice sort o' nurse, I should say. I remember when the 'Hen-and-Chickens' did a nice business —in old Mr Skerrett's time. He was a kindly old man and a good bit; o' property. He never would let that Tom Skerrett into the 'ouse as long as 'e was able to stand up for himself. Soon as he was laid low down they comes, like a pack o' locusts, I calls 'em, and takes possession, and none to say them nay. And no will to be found after the poor old man was laid to his rest. They do say as others 'ud have profited if so be there'd been a. will. That poor Simon Lee, he'd never have left him on the world. He was downright fond of that poor boy. They do seem to have treated him somethink shockin*. He weren't half so skearedlookin' in old Mr Skerrett's time; and his pore bones a-stickin' out through his skin."

"He'll be fat and well-looking again," the Judge said. Then he asked a question. He had been seeking after something that eluded him. It seemed to have drawn a little nearer.

"What were Skerrett and his wife doing before they came to the 'Hen-and-Chickens'?".

"Well, now, sir, Tom Skerrett's his own worst enemy, as the savin' is, unless it be 'er. I don't know where he picked up this one. They had a public somewhere in London. Tom Skerrett was married before, and this one was the nurse that nursed Mrs Skerrett number one. She were a pore thing always, and had been ailing on and off, but a good soul, I've heard tell. They say Tom Skerrett is downright feared o' this German one. I have heard as how a German woman always rules an English 'usbin."

"Why, to be sure," said the Judge, and remembered. He had found his clue. The publichouse not far from the Old Bailey. What was it called? "The Earl of Whitby." Was that it? He thought that was the name. Time and again he had noticed a fat, pale-faced woman in court during criminal trials—murder trials. He had' come to look for her presence there when some one was being tried for life. She always managed to secure a seat, even nvhen the court, was crowded for some famous trial—nearly always the same seat. For several years she had invariably been present at a death sentence. How could he have forgotten her? To be sure, she had fattened and coarsened in the years since he had seen her. She had not been the slattern of the "Hen-and-Chickens" in those days, but clean and tidy. He thought he remembered the nurse's uniform.

The Judge had condemned several men to the gallows, and one woman—the famous baby-farmer, Mrs Myer. It had been th'e most terrible of ordeals to him, and the thought of the wretch he had sentenced to die had haunted him as a sickly and dreadful memory for lonor after the thing was done. The Terror of the Criminal Classes. The few who knew the Judge intimately knew that he himself did not go unscathed by the terror he caused in others.

It had been noticed that he spoke the death sentence always with an air of painful rigidity. Only he himself knew that he was cold to the heart when he uttered it. The woman who had leant forward to hear him, not once, but many times, pale as death in the dimness of the court, a baleful light in her greenish eyes, had been abhorrent to the man who was only sustained" in the thing he was doing by a stern sense of justice. He had asked a junior counsel, little Poltimore, to ascertain who the woman was and how she came to be there. Poltimore was able to tell him. She was the German wife of the man who kept a public-house close at hand. There was a queer story. She had nursed the man's first wife. The woman had died suddenly under suspicious circumstances. But the doctors had found an advanced condition of heart disease, so that any shock or fright might have killed her. So Skerrett and Miss Schmidt were at least technically exonerated and left free to marry, which they did within a month of the first wife's death.

Poltimore reported further, on the authority of Inspector Gamble, of Scotland Yard, that the woman was a perfect museum of knowledge of crime and criminals. She had described to him the contents of the museum at Old Newgate before it was demolished, particularly the collection of death masks. Everything of the k*ind in London she knew by heart.

"A very -well-defined typo of the crimi-

nal neurotic, I should say, Sir James," Poltimore said, and added that she was known to the court policemen as "In-at-the death," and that she secured her place in the cnirt by a judicious distribution of free drinks. A horrible woman! The name Skerrett had quite passed from the Judge's mind. "While the old man lived," Mrs Badham went on, "Simon was as blithe as a lark, for all he was soft. When that there basilick came to the 'Hen-and-Chickens' she fair frightened away what wits he had. Tom Skerrett warn't cruel to him—at least so folks say. I don't go that way myself not once in a blue moon. The 'Eath have a bad name, Sir James, because of two highwayman hanged there as may be heard o' nights creaking their chains."

Sylvia Trehearne was making friends with every one at the "Admiral Benbow." She was very friendly. The pretty darkeyed waiting-maid, Rose; Fred the boots; Ada, who scrubbed and did rough work; George, the ostler and coachman on occasion, were agreed with Mrs Badham in calling her a sweet, pretty creature.

Everything was an interest to her. She was like a curious and delighted and delighting child. She assisted at the feeding of the fowls and the calves, at the milking of the cow, at the toiletes of the horses, like a child newly escaped from London to the country, to whom everything* is a marvel. Pier uncle dozed by the fire in the private sitting-room. He had caught a cold from the exposure in the snow. When" he was not sleeping he fretted to be off, to continue his journey. The snow still lay very deep, and it was thirteen miles to the junction at Radleigh, so Mrs Badham told him cheerfully to be patient, while she doctored his cold, giving him hot drinks of mulla in tea and black-currant cordial, and other such homely remedies. One afternoon of sharp frost, ■while April still borrowed days from December, Mr Trehearne had consented to go to bed in a warm room for better treatment of the chill he had contracted. The Judge and Sylvia went across to Houndsmead Rectory to pay a visit to the Judge's old school and college friend, the Rev. Arthur Greville.

Sylvia' was wearing her furs and the pretty frock of green and crimson shot-silk which the Judge had admired. She complained that she had only the clothes she stood up in till she could get home and recover her lost property. The little bonnet she had been wearing when she came to the inn was very charming. It was green' silk with a 'touch of rose in the lining-—just such a bonnet as her grandmother might have worn —with rosettes at either ear and a gauzy green veil covering her hair. Her little shoes were very strong. By this time the snow where it was deep had been cut into trenches for foot-passengers and cart traffic, so that movement was easier.

It might have been December except that the unfolded leaves were on the trees. The sky was red-frosty, with purple banks of cloud on the northern horizon which would bring more snow unless the wind changed. They tramped along briskly, walking at times in single file where the way had been dug out in the snow. Where it was lighter they went side by side, the snow crunching under their feet. Sylvia was an excellent walker. She walked as though she loved it. The green veil of her quaint bonnet flew out behind her radiant face and shining red-gold head as a little wind blew. The Judge had had misgivings about the walk to Houndsmead. It was five good miles. He was reassured when he saw how Sylvia stepped out. Her appearance of fragility was deceptive. The delicate rose of her cheek was the rose of health.

She was a sympathetic and delightful companion. The Judge learned much of her way of,life* at Cam Gluze during that afternoon walk. They lived in complete loneliness. Cam Gluze was a grey stone house, within sound of the Atlantic breakers. It was lashed by the spray and the rain and wind. It sounded a desolate place for young beauty. The girl acknowledged that she had found it very lonely after she came back from her convent school near Paris. The Paris convent interchanged with another house of the Order in Rome. The young ladies wintered at Rome, if desired by their parents. They had a season in the Swiss Alps. A very advanced convent, apparently. Everything necessary to the education of a young lady of family and position was there imparted.

The Judge made the delightful discovery that the girl was blessed with a fresh sense of humour. The description of the visits to picture and sculpture galleries, the concerts and lectures, under the prim supervision of the nuns, was triumph of roguish gaiety. He watched her with a growing affection and pleasure. She was suddenly grave midst of her laughter as she spoke.

"The others went home to such enchanting things—or they thought they did." The latter clause was added with a little smile which had a touch of sadness in it. "I came home to Cam Gluze. There was no one, no society at all. Sometimes the old vicar came. My uncle did not even encourage him. He did not like me to writ 6 to my schoolfellows, so I have given it up. Poor Uncle Laurence, he is devoted to me! He aska me if he is rot enough for me. He gives me everything heart could desire—except friends. Staunch Protestant as he is—l have often wondered at him sending me to the convent, —I think he would rather like me to be a nun. He said one day that it was a good life and a sheltered one." "Your uncle is a sick man, my child," said the Judge. "Sick people have often oueer fancies. Perhaps he loves you so much that he feels he cannot trust anyone else with your happiness when he is gone." "Ho is so indulgent naturally," the girl

went on. "I had moped a bit during the winter. The vicar, Mr Ogilvie, a kind old man, suggested to him that he should take n:e away somewhere for a change. 'He called me Deirdre. You remember Deirdre'; I have a play about her by A. E., the Irish poet. Uncle Laurence did not like it, I could see. For a few days he said nothing, but kept watching mo all the time. At last he made up his mind. We have had a delightful time. We motored across the Continent, stopping at all sorts of little out-of-the-way places. Uncle would never make friends with anyone we met. He has no friends. Now and again he says something which tells me that he once had friends. Whenever, at our halting-places, I began to make friends with anyone, it was the signa for departure.'' "Poor child!" said the Judge. "But I hope that wb are going to be friends." He thought of Giulia—how her tender, motherly heart would go out to this lonely child. Giulia would be in London by the time he got back. It was pleasant to think of being in London. And little Ida. Ida might not like his new friendship. She had always been jealous, or pretended to be, of his noticing other girls. Still, Ida was tender-hearted. And, of course, at 19 she was a child no longer. She, wHo had so many gaieties and pleasures, would surely be sorry for the girl condemned to so lonely and friendless an existence.

The Judge diagnosed Mr Trehearne's case as one of mania, induced by the drug habit. He had had go many odd experiences that few vagaries of human nature could come to him as a surprise. He had known strange jealousy in a father of his girl-child. How many instances there were in his knowledge of men who could not agree with their sons-in-law for this reason. And the pale, quite man stood to Sylvia as a father. Obviously he adored her. He loved her so well that he could not endure to give her to another man. They reached the vicarage and had an enthusiastic reception from old Greville, as the Judge called him, the prenomen indicating pure affection. Presently Mrs Greville, a placid, rosy-cheeked lady, who smiled at her boisterous husband and the Judge exchanging memories, recalling places and people, indulgently, as though they were a pair of schoolboys. She was short-sighted, and the vicarage drawing room was dark. "And this," she said, "is, of course, Miss Venning. And where, then, is Rupert?"

Her husband corrected the error,

"This is Miss Trehearne, not Miss Venning," he said. "I have just been telling Beauclerk that he has no business to turn the heads of ou* boys by bringing such pretty people to tea." He laughed over the speech as though it were a great jest, while Mrs Greville told Sylvia not to mind her husband, as he was always joking.

S. There was a great deal of talk about Rupert and what Rupert was doing. Apparently they were very fond of the Judge's son at. Houndsmead Vicarage. Mrs Greville brought over Rupert's latest photograph, which stood in a big, silver frame on a side table. He was in the undress uniform of the Coldstreams, and his head was bare. He was very handsome and debonair, with a beautifullyshaped head and a charming look of race, of spirit, and fire. Withal,' there was gentleness. Little Sylvia looking at the picture, and listening, as Deirdre might have listened when her, nurse sang the praises of the Sons of Usna, thought of a young racehorse. There was something as fiery, as gent'e, about Rupert Beauclerk's face.

"Not tired of soldiering yet?" asked" Mrs Greville.

"Rupert is going to disappoint me'" said the Judge, with an air as though he said an unbelievable thing. "My plan for him was a few years of soldiering, then politics, with the life of a country'gentleman thrown in."

"An early marriage, I suppose," put in Mr Greville. "There is nothing for keeping a man young like having his grandchildren about him in good time." The Judge waved away the remark. Privately he thought it indecorous in the presence of a young lady. Some of his ideas were rather old-fashioned.

"Rupert is not thinking of marriage," he said. "All in good time. He has begun to take his soldiering seriously. He says we'll be into the Germans within two years at the outside." "How absurd!" said Mrs Greville placidly. "The Kaiser would never attack the country over which his beloved grandmother reigned so long." "I don't know. There are a good many pessimists." The tea-bell rang, and there was a move to j.he dining-room, Mrs Greville explaining that she had to have a sitting-room tea for the boys, since they were always so hungry. 'You'll spoil them," said the Judge. "More, you deprive them of the boy's privilege of grousing over food. You remember Cathcart's, Greville, and how Miss Cathcart used to collect the bits of butter from our plates and serve them up next day oddly mingled with jam and honey and marmalade and bloater-paste?" "The trimmings supplied by the schoolshop when the tucker had run out," added Mr Greville. The boys consisted of half a dozen young gentlemen who had been out snowballing and had arrived flushed with the ioy of battle and splendidly hungry. The hot tea-cakes and cold tea-cakes and sandwiches and bread and butter vanished like a dream, with many cups of tea from the big urn over which Mrs Greville presided. They did not forget, however, to wait assiduou-ly on the two ladies, and presently the whole group of boys waa gathered round Mrs Greville and Sylvia. The Judge, talking to his old friend, watched the little scene. Presently the two cronies went away into Mr Greville's studv for a quiet talk. When the Judge came to retrieve his

charge, Mrs Greville was no longer there. She had been called out to see a poor woman. Sylvia was the centre of Mr GreviUe's pupils. One was showing her Rupert Brooke's Poems, asking if she had read them. The others wore an impatient air as though the poetic one was a bore. H« watched the scene for a second, unobserved. Sylvia would not allow Martingale to absorb her. She was distributing her favours with a sweet impartiality. Even the shyest of the boys, Lester, was at ease, and was holding'in his arms a P U PP V > evidently for Sylvia's inspection. The Judo;e smiled. How little Trehearne would have relished the scene. CHAPTER VI.—SHIPS THAT PASS. The snow departed as suddenly as it had come. The third morning at the inn the Judge awoke to the singing of birds, the running of streams, the shining of the sun; the soft life and gaiety of a midApril morning had come to the latefvozen world. He could hear the lambs bleating in the fields and the plover calling. There was the cuckoo. The. air smelt deliciously of the released flowers emerging to the sun from their cold prison.

He had slept late. He arrived downstairs to an imminent and surprising departure. Mr Trehearne, wrapped up in his fur coat, though spring had returned, his head between his shoulders as if he lacked strength to hold it up, his eyes sunk in the sockets, was paying his bill, standing by the table in the dining-room. Sylvia, also bonneted and cloaked, looked round eagerly as the Judge came in. and ran to meet him.

"I was so afraid we should have to go without seeing you," she said, thrusting a chilly little hand into his.

The Judge's bJaukness showed in his face. He had not expected them to go so soon. Not that he cared about Trehearne —a stup;d, ha'f-witted fellow, he called him in his sudden irritation. But he was going to mi3s Sylvia. She was so frank, so simple. She had been revealing her heart and mind to him in a very fair and sweet revelation. He was disappointed, put out, that his little friend should be snatched from him like this.

"What is the meaning of it?" he asked. "There was nothing about it last night?" "No," said, the little girl, and blinked as though tears were not far off. "Uncle was awake early and he knew the thaw had come. He thought it best to start for an early train, so he called me at seven o'clock. I am so sorry we are going." "So am I," said the Judge grimly. Mr Trehearne had finished his business and turned about.

"Good morning, Sir James," he said. "A beautiful morning—is it not? It is a long journey into Cornwall. Come, Sylvia, it is time to say good-bye." Sylvia glanced at the Judge—a damped joy. He was nearly sure there were tears under her eyelashes. "Good-bye," she said in a meek, sorrowful voice. "You have been good to me. ] am so sorry it must be good-bye." The Judge held her little hand in his big one. He did not like this sudden parting, when they had become such great friends. He was accustomed to having his own way, and felt indignant with Mr .Treheariie.

"It must not be good-bye, child," he said. "Cornwall is not out of the world. I have a dear friend, a lady, with a daughter of your age, who would be very kind to you. I should like to bring you together." "You are very kind, Sir James," Laurence Trehearne said stiffly. "My niece and I live very quietly. We prefer our seclusion."

Sir James's fingers itched to issue a warrant for his arrest, to commit him for contempt of court. He merely said in a voice as stiff as the other man's:

TTour niece is young, sir.' You should not tie her to your age." They were gone. The Judge sat down to breakfast in a very angry mood, all his qurxoti m aroused in favour of the girl who had goi'e away smiling through her tears. He vowed in his own mind that he was not going to lose sight of her. Poor little thing! The ogre uncle! He was an ogre, even though he was fond' of her, to shut her up in his Ogre's Castle. ,Carn Gluze—the Grey Rock. He thought* of it as of the place where a favourite heroine of his, Mary Pendarves, afterwards the charming Mrs Delany of the Letters, was shut up by. her husband, gross and elderly. The grey stone castle, beaten by the winds and the sea, away from human habitation—a grim fortress—such a cage for such a bird! Cam Gluze must be such another. - , Common sense told him that he could not walk into a man's house and demand the enfranchisement of his niece against his wil', especially seeing that the man was obviously kind and loving to her. He was resolved that he would keep his eye on her. If he knew anything, Laurence Trehearne would not be a long liver. At the thought a faint pity, a faint comprehension of the man who wanted to keep the thing he loved from -being plucked from his grasp, moved him for a moment. He had intended remaining some days at the "Admiral Benbow." It was another matter when Svlvia had gone. He was puddenly imoatient to be off. Giulia Venning would be in town. He heard her ah-end- crying out on the cruel caprice of the English climate. She would have the atmosnhere he loved. Most of the frets of the day fell from him when he could sten out of the muddv or the dusty street into Giulia's little house in South Audley strpet. , ... There would be Tda, too, with her ridiculous French bulldog, who turned a satin nose superciliously to Spunk's friendly advances. Perhaps they could all go down to Windsor for a day or two and see something of Rupert, who was in barracks there. There was Simon to be considered. Before he thought of pleasant things for

himselt ho must place Simon in safe keeping. He was so glad he could trust Simon to Dowie. He thought Mrs Dowie would not. be repelled by the boy's odd appearance. She and Howie had a big house, quite big enough to take -in boarders. There was something lovable' about Simon that grew as one knew him better. George, the ostler, had said that you forgot the poor chap's queer looks, he was so 'armless. The Judge said it in another way. He was a God's Fool. He and Simon travelled third-class up to town together. He felt the. necessity of protecting his charge from rude or disagreeable fellow-travellers, and of reassuring lady passengers who might be alarmed by the poor boy's looks. There was really nothing incongruous in the judge's travelling third-class when he wore his old homespuns. He often did, and made friends with his fellowpassengers. He remembered more than one occasion when he had absent-mindedly gone on towards a first-class carriage, only to be pulled up sharply by an official — ,f Hi, you! This way to the thirdclass I"

H* stayed t"he night at Holmehurst and dressed himself decently before going up to town to present himself to Mrs Venning. April was atoning for her wicked caprice by a most gentle behaviour. He had' left Simon working happily under Dowie in the gardens. The Dowies had no children. Something in the way Mrs Dowie spoke of Simon's gentleness, as though she would champion him against a rude and scornful world, made the Judge happy about his protege, whose scrawny little kitten lay in Mrs Dowie's basket chair before the fire, as though she had never been' chivied and had things thrown at her by Mrs Skerrett. Simon's well-being had increased visibly as the distance lengthened between him and the "Hen-and-Chickens,"

As the Judge went up to town, once more looking like a Judge, his thoughts were divided between the conversation of some soldiers in the carriage and the question of what he was to do about Mrs Skerrett.

At the junction he had changed from his comfortable first-class carriage into a third for the pleasure of travelling with the soldiers. He loved a red coat, and • not only for Eupert's sake. After he had dispensed cigars all round the soldiers Boon forgot his presence, and fell to discussing their superior officers with a freedom which delighted him. In a little while he was standing at Mrs Venning's green hall door, its brass knocker and plate polished to an extreme of shinyness. When he had rung the bell he" stood back to look up at the house-front' all so spick-and-span, with the prettily draped windows and fresh window-boxes filled with dwarf hyacinths. It was a charming morning. The air was full of sweetness. The west wind was blowing the country sweetness into London. At .the end of the street he could see a waving mass of most delicate light green. With the sudden warm weather all the • trees were coming into leafage. The maid who opened the door received him with a welcoming smile. It was a theory of the Judge's that he could tell what a service .was by the behaviour of the servants, and by this test he had often discovered an unsuspected tyrant or niggard. Certainly, if his theory was correct, the beaming smile on the maid-Eeryant's face spoke well for Mrs Venning's establishment. It was a small establishment, of two ladies and three or four maids. Mrs • Venning did not care for men-servants; and her maids stayed so long that they became as old friends -to a visitor as intimate as the Judge. Yes —Mrs Venning was at home. Mary took the Judge's hat—he never wore an overcoat, even in the coldest weather—and laid it away in a corner of the square hall. She even expressed her delight in the basket of lilies-of-the-vailey the Judge carried as an offering. He had often remarked that Giulia's servants were human beings, unlike the servants at other houses.

Mrs Venning, a beautiful, dark "woman with a delicate, dreamy 100k —her small, dark head always had an air of being surrounded by clouds—stood up from her writing table as he came in, to welcome him. In this room the Judge was more absolutely at home, at his heart's ease, than anywhere in the world, except, it might be, at Mrs Venning's little cottage in a tangled garden of richness amid the Surrey hills. Giulia Venning was a woman who carried "home" with her wherever she went. She met him Avith both hands extended. "You are especially fortunate," she said. "What, those beauties for me!" She buried her face delicately in the flowers. "You kind man! Rupert is in town. He and Ida have gone shopping together. They will be back-to lunch."

"Good!" said the Judge, with boyish heartiness. "Then I shall have all I care for most within four Avails."

He stood with his hack to the fireplace. Warm as the day was for April, the small, bright fire was not unpleasant. The room had many big bunches of lilacs in pitchers and vases. There were growing violets somewhere. The room was full of feminine things. A bit of fine sewing, a fan flung down carelessly, a half-written letter—he noticed the lavender shade of the paner and the dainty monogram enclosed within a tiny circle in one corner. Everything about Giulia Venning was feminine. Her face was like a delicate little Roman cameo. She had the eyes of the South, the impassioned eyes by which insular eves are cold.

The Judge looked down at her, wellcontent. He was always content in Giulia's presence. It had never occurred to him that he might make her his "own. So long they had been friends, their hearts meeting over Rnpcrt and Tcb, that the thought of a clc~i r tie had never occurred, to him, at least. She was sitting in the big arm-chair, her silken dark head against the r o=es

of the chintz. The Judge glanced from her around the room. A photo of himself faced him across the room. There were half a-dozen pictures of Rupert—in his charming babyhood—Rupert riding his pony —Rupert an Eton boy—Rupert in flannels —in uniform. It occurred to his father suddenly that the room might be dedicated to Rupert as a temple. They had just got back. Mrs Venning always wintered abroad. She could not endure darkness and rain. She had been with her mother at Genoa most of the winter, and had spent a month in Rome before returning. It was a coincidence. The Judge mentioned the Trehearnes. They had been at the Beausite together for a few days. The two girls had looked at each other with shy invitation. Mrs Venning had made advances to the beautiful child with the flaming hair. Then Sylvia had been carried off to a pension in the hills. "That' ghostly man," Mrs Venning called Laurence Trehearne. The Judge acknowledged the fitness of the adjective. Trehearne did not seem altogether of this world.

He was about to embark on the tale of his adventures, when the young people came in like a fresh wind. Ida's arms were full of spring flowers. The Judge presented his offering —a new volume .of poems. He was very much interested in poetry. Ida rewarded him by a daughterly hug. He made a jesting remark about Ida sitting at the receipt of tribute. The silk coat she was wearing, of a fresh milkmaid pink, became her extremely well. Rupert had shaken hands with his father. Each knew that it was good to meet, and demonstration would have been abhorrent to these Englishmen. ' "Your father has been having adventures," Mrs Venning said as they went down to lunch, "and, Ida, just fancy, he has met that flame-headed Miss Trehearne who was snatched from us at the Beausite and her weird uncle." ** "Do tell us about her," said Ida. "Was she not perfectly beautiful?" Rupert settled himself to enjoy his lunch—he had motored up from Windsor that morning and was healthily hungry. "The pater has so many adventures," he said, "that I sometimes think he mistook his vocation, and was surely cut out to be a sensational novelist. Mr William Le Queux wouldn't be in it with him." "Do you impugn my veracity?" asked the Judge, with pretended heat, helping himself to an excellent omelette. "These things don't happen unless when you're alone," Rupert said, with a laughing eye. "When I have been with you the proceedings have been usually quite tame. Except for the episode of Mrs O'Mara do Oourcy on that Irish trip of ours two years ago, I cannot remember anything/out of the way." However, Rupert listened with rapt attention to the' tale of the sojourn at the "Hen-and-Chickens" and the further tale of Rapunzel in her tower. He looked from one face to the other as they chanted Sylvia Trehearne's praises. "By jove!" he said, "she must be worth seeing. But the Duchy of Cornwall -is a long way off." They were interested in the rescue of poor Simon. The Judge described how he had left him in the kindly care of Dowie and Mrs Dowie.

"Now it occurs to me,' 1 he said, "that he is very like S'mike in Boa's illustrat.ons to 'Nicholas Nickleby.' With such tender treatment as he will receive, I am sure he will become much more normal. He would have gone into consumption if he had been much longer at the 'Hen-and-Chickens.' "

"What will you So about the place, father?/' Rupert asked. ' "I shall give a hint to Scotland Yard. I am not at all sure that there may not be more than one murder to the account of the Skerretts. I am sure the woman is a homicidal manaic. And the poisoned meat for Spunk certainly looked as though come one meant to get rid of my sleepless guardian. I meant to have had it analysed, but we stayed too long at the 'Benbow,' so I dropped it in the fire." He stopped and patted Spunk's head as he spoke. The only place toSvhich Spunk did not follow his master was to church.

"But," said Rupert gaily, "her purpose cannot have been booty as far as you were concerned. You always look like a tramp on those walking tours." "And am taken for one, too, when you are not there to betray me," the Judge said with a grim enjoyment. "No, boy — do not tell the story of the* honest working man who walked 'with me from "Oxbridge to Stratford Place! I am tired of the story." "Tell it yourself, then. How you said : 'Well, good-bye, my friend. I live here.' And he responded, 'Garn! Tell that to another!' "

"I had a queer idea," said the Judge, "that the woman knew me. She was very insolent at first. Spunk seemed to give her the clue. I saw her start when she discovered him. Spunk is at least as well known as I am to the criminal classes."

"And if she knew .you she would know you carried money," Mrs Venning said with a quick shudder.

"She might have a special grudge against me, ' said the Judge, "being, as I take it, a criminal lunatic. The criminal classes do not always bear me a grudge, even when I have sentenced them. You remember the two burglars, Rupert, who came to my rescue when I was being hustled by a gang of pick-pockets at Victoria, on Derby night. 'Gam!' said they. 'Don't you see it's old Beau and 'is little dorg?' I was beginning to see red, for one of them had kicked Spunk on to the line. There's a good deal of kindly human nature even in the criminal classes." (To he continued.)