No. 7 SAVILLE -- SQUARE.

Otago Witness, Issue 3348, 15 May 1918, Page 47

No. 7 SAVILLE -- SQUARE.

THE KTOV.RtIST.

[axl Rights Reseeved.]

By WILLIAM QTJEUX. CHAPTER XXVI.—THE RECONCILIATION. In the evening, Temple took the poor girl, horribly afraid of all that was going to happen, but still wonderfully sustained and cheered by their reunion, to a little Italian restaurant in the north of. London. He did not want to leave her too much to brood by herself. He had assured'Smeaton that she would not run away, and as long as he kept closely in touch with her, he felt he could vouch for her resolution to see things through. But if she were left alone, who could tell what awful visions might assail her? She was, no doubt, very frightened of George Rathbum, but she had run away from him. Once removed from his comforting and protecting presence, she might fun away and hide herself again, to escape the fearful punishment that she fancied would await even the innocent associate of criminals. So he did not leave her for very long to her own company. They had a nice little dinner at the small Italian restaurant, consisting of wonderful dishes of strange ingi*edients mixed with cunning and piquant sauces. And, by the time they got to the coffee and liquers, Ellen Deane was chatting away as merrily as if she had never known a care or trouble.

"How good you are to me, dear old Dick," she said, and there was just a suspicion of moisture in her eyes as she spoke. "Even a good girl would not often find such a friend as you, and I have done nothing to deserve such good fortune."

"Don't torment yourself, little girl," he answered kindly. "You said good-bye .to the past when you left that infamous uncle and resolved to earn an honest living." "But can we ever undo the past?" she whispered in a tearful voice. "Men may, but women, I fear me, never."

* "What" is the use of being Christians if we believe in such a wretched creed as that? Is not the whole spirit of Christianity founded upon this fact, that we can atone for the past and find regeneration?"

"In the next world, Dick; not in this, I am afraid."

But the stout and optimistic spirit of Richard Temple, writer of mystery stories, and least conventional of mortals, revolted at these misgivings. "Tut, tut, Nellie, you are too young to be morbid. What age are you now? Tell me that?"

"I shall be twenty-three in September," she answered truthfully. He laid his big hand on the slender one resting on the table. It was a small and pretty hand, with shapely fingers, on which reposed a few very simple and inexpensive rings.

"Suppose I were to tell you that in five years hence you will be a happy woman, married to a man you care for, perhaps a happy mother; and that by then you will have forgotten all the nightmare of the past. Would you believe my prophecy?" She shook her head. "It is sweet of you to say all this, my kind old Dick." She shuddered and added, w ßut I could never forget the past. .And if I did succeed, where should I find the man who would forgive, or if he forgave it for the moment, would not fling it in my face at our first quarrel?" "Listen, _ Nellie. You did care for me a little bit in those old days, did vou not?" J

"I loved you very dearly, Dick—oh, do you remember those few hours at Boulogne? But I had not the courage to tell vou the truth because I knew it would drive you away from me. And yet, I might as well have told you, for Fate drove you away from me' in the end."

"And do you still care a little bit for me?" he asked in a voice of deep emotion.

She hid her face between her hands, and the slow tears fell through her slender fingers. "Oh, yes, I love you better than then, because I have proved how kind and generous and thoughtful you are. I do not think there can be another man in the world quite like you."

And Temple had n "meant to speak so soon. But the old passionate love was surging in his heart, and would not be stayed. "And if, -when all this is over, I -were again to ask you to marry me, what would be your answer, jSTellie?" She lifted her tear-stained face and looked at him steadfastly. "A thousand times, no, Dick. Would I be so base as to link vour honourable life and career with one so stained as I am ? Would I expose you to the scorn of your friends and live to know you cursed the hour when you had yielded to your foolish fancy, to your chivalrous feeling for a helpless, betrayed girl?" She wept silently, and Temple watched the heaving of her slim young shoulders as she uttered her passionate repudiation of his suggestion. "There,* there, do not give way, dear heart." he said soothingly. "We have spoiled rather a pleasant evening by my precipitate blundering. We will say no more about it now, but we will speak of it some time hence, when all the clouds are rolled away and the memory of those dark davs hardly hurts." He was Tound again by ten the next morning to see if there was any telegram from Smeaton. But that excellent detec-

tive had made no sign; he was evidently meditating. He took her out to lunch and dinner the next day. She was in a very morbid frame of mind, and he dared not leave her to brood in those dull rooms.

Fortunately, he was not very busy just now, not so busy that he could not get through his work by stealing a few hours from the night. He left the northern suburb fairly early, and went on to his club. Being a man of methodical habits, with a great gift of turning time to the best advantage, he had written a short stovy in Ellen's 6ittiiig-room between ten o'clock and lunch-time.

In the smoking-room, which was very empty, he discovered his friend Bravington smoking a pipe, filled to the brim with some very strong and evil-looking tobacco. Bravington usually smoked cigars of a medium flavour. When he chose a pipe, filled with more than usually strong tobacco, it was a sure sign that he was subjected to severe mental strain. Temple was a very acute observer. He noticed other signs in his old school-fellow that suggested a different attitude from the usual one of calm complacency. The cherub-looking face was marked with a stern expression. Deep lines of thought had engraven themselves upon the ordinary placid brow. It was evident that Bravington's attention was engaged with weighty matters. "Sit down, old chap; I want to talk to you," he said briefly. The words were rapped out in a voice that seemed to convey a command. Temple thought he had a glimpse of his friend as he would appear on his own ship when a battle was imminent.

There was something in him different from the easy-going young member of the "Junior Scribes" and the humble lover of the elusive Lilian Paske. Temple pulled out his own pipe and proceeded to fill it.

' 'Fire away, old man; I am all attention. ''

The gallant young lieutenant spoke in a deep and almost tragic voice. "I can tell you what I could tell no other man on earth. First, because we are old schoolfellows and friends, and secondly, because we have both been in love with women who did not return our affection."

I was on the tip of Temple's tongue to reply, that, for his own part, this had not proved correct, that Ellen Deane loved him as much as he loved her. But he could tell him this later. Bravington was bursting to 'talk, and the sooner he got it off his chest the better. "Well, you know I have loved Lilian since I was a little nipper. I cannot honestly say she ever gave me actual encouragement. As soon as we were grown urj she rather made a point of going on the sisterly tack." "There was nothing to complain of in her conduct, so far. Of course, it was disappointing for you," said Temple with that nice appreciation of a freind's situation which is so common to a logical and judicial mind. Bravington hardly noticed the comment, so absorbed was he in his own special grievances. "You were with me at the Washbuirns' the other night, and you heard that gushing little woman—mind you, I believe she is awfully good-hearted, and all that—tell me the story of Lilian and that bounder Jay, her father's solicitor." "Yes, of course, I heard all that. I thinu. she is quite good-hearted." "I have admitted that," said Bravington a little testily. "I am not concerned with her at the moment, but with Lilian. A young girl goes and engages herself in an underhand sort of way to a married man on the chance of his getting a divorce from his wife. She does not consult her fo.ther as to the advisability of such an entanglement, but arranges secret meetings, and drags the Washburns—the woman, of course, from pure friendship—■ into acting as go-betweens. Now, tell me —speak as plainly as you like—l shall not be offended—what is your opinion of a girl who acts like that? Is she a girl to be trusted?"

Temple considered a minute and then spoke quite seriously. It was no time for jest or cvnicism. Bravington had been deeply wounded, and the wound was still open and smarting. He spoke very kindly. "Jim, old chap, we are such opposite temperaments that we should never think Quite alike about anything. Where you would be lenient, I should be hard; where you would condemn, I should acquit. I rather thought the other night that vou were going to adopt Mrs Washburn's suggestion, that you would forgive and go in and win." "I might have conveyed that impression at the moment," said the lieutenant a little shamefacedly, "but I have been thinking a great deal over the matter since."

"And during the period of the reflections you have hardened your heart more and more against your old sweetheart, till you find you don't care for her any more.''

"You are quite wrong." Bravington's voice and face suddenly softened. "I have always loved Lilian; I shall never cease to love her. She will always have been the one woman in the world for me—but, bat " He could not finish the sentence. His voice broke and he pulled violently at his pipe. And Temple spoke very gently and kindly. "Let me finish the sentence for you. " You invited my opinion, and promised not to be offended. You ask me if such a girl is to be trusted ? What is in your mind is this: the daughter who deceives her father may, when she becomes a wife, deceive her husband under similar temptation." Bravington nodded: he could not trust himself to speak for a moment. "It would not have been fair to resent her not being able to care for me, and if she had chosen a worthy man, I would havo wished her every happiness. It is the deceit that stings and rankles." It was some time before Temple spoke. There was a terrible force in Bravington's remarks. To a man of his upright nature such duplicity must seem unpardonable. And yet his friend knew he would snatch

at any excuse to resume the old relation. And Lilian would have been chastened by her disastrous adventure into the realms of ill-starred romance.

"Women act more from impulse than we do, Jim, and perhaps they are not always so scrupulous in mind matters as we are," exclaimed Temple presently. "With regard to the contention that a girl who throws a little dust in the eyes of her parents will continue a career of deception in more important relations, 1 hold it a profound untruth." "The capacity for intrigue is there," objected Bravington sternly. Temple smiled in his whimsical fashion. "Desdemona's father instilled that poison into the mind of Othello, with the result that he killed his wife on evidence that seemed sufficient to him. And yet we know that Desdemona was innocent."

Bravington ; fidgeted a little under his friend's detached treatment of the subject. What analogy was there between the two cases ?

He pulled out a letter from his pocket. "I had this yesterday" : "My Dkar Jim, —Maud Washburn tells me she has acquainted you with the history of my miserablo folly. I have confessed everything to my dear old father, and he was very kind and patient, but he appears to blame me much more of the two. There seems to have fallen a cloud between us, and I fear he will never trust me again. I deserve it, I admit, but it makes me feel very sad and lonely. I wonder if you will still be my friend; I do hope you will. Would you come down to lunch any day this week and cheer me up?" Temple leaned forward and spoke very earnestly. "That settles it, old man. You say she is the only woman in the world for you. What is the use of sulking? It's a very humble letter, and regrettable as the episode is, it may prove to her a blessing in disguise. It may make her into a woman."

"You woujd go, then?" asked Bravington in an irresolute voice.

"Of course I would go. Swallow your pride, Jim; after all, she has suffered plenty of humiliation. Go to her and make it up." Bravington was evidently very much relieved. "I think I will take your advice. Dick. I will wire her in the morning to expect me." "I think you will act A<erv wisely. If you have nothing better to do to-morrow night, drop in here after ten o'clock and let me know if you have made it up satisfactorily." He smiled to himself as he spoke. He knew it was a foregone conclusion.

And the next day Bravington went down and found Lilian waiting for him on the platform, a \*ery humble and subdued Lilian. It was a beautiful morning, and she suggested that they should walk. For a long time there was a sense of restraint between them. The lieutenant was still nursing his grievances, and in consequence, carried indifferent politeness to the point of exaggeration. Lilian bore it uncomplainingly for some time, but at last it got on her nerves. Half-way up the steep road that led to the house she suddenly stopped, and looked Bravington full in the face. She spoke to him with a flash of her ancient spirit. It was evident that the old Lilian was subdued, but not reduced to inaction.

"Now, Jim, we will just have it out here, once and for all, if you please; there's not a soul in sight. If you are going to forgive me freely, say so, and have done with it. If you are going to be kindly polite and aloof, like father—then I tell you frankly, I don't want your friendship on those terms." There ensued a very animated conversation, in which both parties occasionally lost their tempers, and immediately apologised. Anyway, the conclusion arrived at must have been satisfactory, for when they entered the house Bravington's countenance had resumed its cherublike aspect and [Lilian was radiant. Just before they reached the house he had said to her: "And your father, you say, will not dismiss that bounder? 'He is still keeping him on as his solicitor." A burning blush spread over Lilian's cheek. "Yes, he said he was not going to let the man know how much he had humiliated him through my wicked folly. If he did choose to get rid of him he would find some other pretext."

"And, by Gad, I think he's right," cried Bravington heartily. At a quarter past ten that evening the lieutenant walked into the club, and found Temple waiting him. He had stayed to dinner with the Paskes and caught an earlv train back.

Temple looked up and saw he had no need to ask questions. "Tell me all about it, Jim." "She was very miserable and humble, Dick, and it has been a lesson to her." He turned away for a moment in a sheepish manner, and then added, "We are engaged." "A thousand congratulations. But, of course, I knew you wouM be." "And by the way, Dick, she knows how interested you are in the Saville Square murder. She told me to give you a piece of news that might interest you." He gave it. .and before he was half-way through Temple leaped to his feet. "By heaven, man, this is what I was hoping would happen. Smeaton has left Scotland Yard, but I will ring him up at his home."

In his fervour he wrung the hand of the bewildered Bravington and rushed to the club telephone.

CHAPTER XXVII.—CLOSING ROUND

In a couple of minutes Temple got into communication with the detective at his private house. Originally, he had intended to tell him the news throtigh the 'phone, but on second thoughts ho had arrived at the conclusion that it would not bo tho best plan. It was too long a story. "I am Temple. You are Smeaton? I

am speaking to you from the JuniorScribes Club."

A rather tired voice replied : "Ah, how arc you? I have had an awfully hard day, and was just going to bed. Is it, anything of unusual importance?" "I think so; and I am afraid I cannot tell it you over the 'phone. My friend Bravington has just been in with remarkable news. 'Sorry you aro fagged. Can you hold up till I get to you in a taxi? It won't take long." Mi' Smeaton lived in the unromantio neighbourhood of Lambeth. It was about as near as ho could get to Scotland Yard. The voice was quite alert now. "Yes, come along as quickly as you can. I will wait for you." Temple went back to his friend. "Jim, I hope you won't think me rude in leaving you. But Smeaton is at home, and I don't want to loot a minute. The information you have given me is priceless."

"Awfully glad,'old man." Bravington did not, it is hardly necessary to say, understand the value of the news which he had handed on from Lilian Paske. They were both very unconscious actors in tho drama, of which they formed a quite subordinate but essential part. For without their unconscious interference tho conclusion might not have been successful. And then, while they were shaking hands, a sudden thought occurred to Temple. "I say, old man, you have been in this job from the beginning, from the night when we set out to hunt 'spooks.' Would you like to be in at the finish? Will you come on to Smeaton's with me? He lives in Lambeth, a salubrious neighbourhood. We shall be there in a taxi before you've time to think."

Yes, Lieutenant Bravington would com* willingly. It was cmite early yet, and ha was so happy, he did not feel he wanted to go to bed for a week. A few minutes later they arrived at the door of a small house in a dingy street, where this important officer of tho civil power spent his leisure moments. He had heard the hum of the taxi, and was on the sten to meet them. He had expected only Temple, but he did not betray any surprise at the advent of Bravington. The latter gentleman had been in the Sayille Square mystery from tho beginning. "Come in, gentlemen, come in," he said heartily. "Everybody's in bed but myself. What about the taxi? Had you not better keep it if you won't be too lone. Taxis; don't grow on gooseberry bushes in this part of the world." Temple hesitated a second; he was generous in the main, but he.was not addicted to throwing his money away. But Bravington suddenly interposed with something of what his friend was wont to describe as hia best "quarter*-deck" manner.

"Thanks, Mr Smeaton, we will keep him, of course. Wait here, please, chauffeur. Wo shall bo going back directly." Smeaton ushered them into the small sitting-room. It was an interesting and typical apartment. Tho sofa, and chairs were covered in horsehair, very worn ia corners; on the back of the two armchairs were arranged somewhat dingy anti-macassars. In the centre was a small round table with a faded green cloth, on the top of which, at judicial intervals, were placed half-a-dozen books of the giltedged and prize variety. On a small stand in the window reposed the inevitable case of stuffed birds.

Temple looked round -with a twinkle i« his eye, taking in all the obvious features at a glance. The exquisite harmonies of this delightful apartment could only be attributed to feminine influence. Mrs Smeaton, and she alone, was responsible for the striking result. Wedged somewhere on the round table, between a gorgeous Shakespeare and a gilt-edged Milton, were a bottle of whiskj. and' some syphons of- soda. Temple de> voutly hoped that no accusing spots on the faded green cloth would be discovered' by Mrs Smeaton in the morning following this orgie. The men filled their glasses, and then Smeaton, the man of hard facts, got to business at once.

"And now, Mr Temple. What's in the wind? You have some good purpose in. coming here, I'm sure?" But Temple was rather a provocative person. He sipped his whisky and soda slowly before he answered, Smeaton'a small, beady eyes watching him closely. "I want to carry your memory back a very few hours when you interviewed Ellen Deane. and she cleared up a fewapparent mysteries for us." "I remember everything she said," interjected the detective sharply. In a way he' liked Temple, but he felt a certain antagonism towards him, the dislike of the professional for the amateur. "Do you remember one little thing she let slip" rather in the nature of a suggestion than a statement, which, if it hanrjened, would very materially help us?"

The detective, for a moment, looked nonplussed. Then he recovered himself. "Would you mind being a little more precise;"

Uut Temple was still in his tensing mood, and, in addition, he took a delight in scoring over the professional. "Give me time, please, Smeaton. W« both pursue the common goal. But 1 •would really ask yon this plain question. When you left us that afternoon, aftef vre had cleared up the really very easy outstanding mysteries—did ifcj or did it not, occur to you that if a certain something happened, of which she had flung out a hint, the task of securing the Rathburn gang -would be made very much easier?"

Smeaton gulped down his drink hastily; he did,,not like to be caught at a disadvantage, especially by an amateur. Then he swallowed his annoyance, and spoke quite frankly. "Candidly, it did not. As you say, she threw light on the apparent mysteries, the mysterious lights, the half-dressed woman running up the square in the early morning ; and, of course, we got the confirmation of the various people—Jay and Rathburn and Grimes."

Temple half-closed his eyes. "No, I looked at you when she dropped that careless suggestion, and although you made an observation on it, it did not appear to sink into you —I mean, the importance of her suggestion." Smeaton poured himself out another drink, and spoke a little sulkily. "Well, sir, can you now tell me what she let fail that made such an impression on you?"

"Willingly', because I think it scores one to me. She told you that Raymond Jay had an idea of getting No. 7 at a low rent, on account of. the reports that had been circulated in the neighbourhood that it was a haunted house."

"Of course, I remember it distinctly now," said Smeaton hastily. "I said that his idea was to use it as a warehouse for the stolen property which his gang had secured."

"Quite right, Smeaton. Well, the unexpected has. happened. My friend here, Mr Bravington, has heard from Miss Paske this afternoon that Raymond Jay has offered to take over No. 7, Saville Square, for a year certain, at a very reduced rent."

He turned to Bravington. "Jim, old man, you have only taken a very passive part in this show; but as far as I am concerned, I should never have been in it but for you. And it's about time you spoke up. Toll our friend Smeaton the details of what you gathered from Miss Paske to-day."

Bravington was by no means one of those men who like to have greatners thrown upon them suddenly. He fidgeted a bit, cleared his throat, with obvious symptoms of embarrassment, and then addressed the detective.

"You see, Mr Smeaton, it is this way. I was spending the day with the Paskes down in Surrey—Miss Paske is my fiancee, you know. Well, Miss Paske practically looks after all her father's affairs. A' day or two ago this bounder, Raymond Jay, wrote to him, offering to take over No. 7, Saviile Square, at a yery low rent;"

"Did you see the letter?" asked Smeaton eagerly. Temple smiled as he heard the question put. It was just one of those unnecessary queries in which Smeaton was fond of indulging. As long as Bravington, a gentleman who would not lie to save his soul, knew the contents of that letter, was it not enough? 'Yes, Miss Paske showed it to me, and I have a fairly good memory. I think I can give it to you verbatim " "Reel off, Jim," ' cried Temple encouragingly, "reel it off." Thus abjured, Bravington resumed. "It ran thus:—'Dear Mr Paske, —The house next d-'jor, No. 7, is, I fear, likely to be unlet for some considerable time, on account of the murder. I wonder if I could help you' in the matter. I don't think 1 have ever told you that one of my hobbies is the collection of curios and antique furniture. I have now a somewhat considerable amount of these stored away in a rather inaccessible warehouse. I should like to get this collection more immediately under my own control. I would suggest taking over No. 7 from you for twelve months certain at half the usual rent, with the view of warehousing my valuable properties there. By the end of that period I expect things will have been forgotten and you may be able to let the house again at its normal rent." - "And what did Mr Paske reply?" asked Smeaton.

"He was beside himself with joy. He wrote at once, saying he accepted the offer with pleasure, and that Mr Jay could move his things in to-morrow if he pleased."

"And I bet that the collection will be in pretty soon, eh, Smeaton?" queried Temple.

The detective rubbed his hands together with every appearance of satisfaction. Once give him a solid fact and he would worry it as a hungry dog worries a bone. It was, after all, his misfortune, and not his fault that he lacked the imaginative faculty.

And then * Smeaton was moved to unwonted generosity. He had always held Temple t at arm'e length as an amateur, while occasionally availing himself of his intuition and suggestions. Now he felt he jnuat accord him proper recognition. "You have been right in front on this job all through," he said heartily.. "I take off my hat to you, Mr Temple. You have put your back into it from the start for reasons I can guess. Fortunately these reasons don't exist any longer. But I will say this, every tip has come from you." And then he looked at the somewhat stolid Bravington, and thought he ought to include him in the compliment. Smeaton raised his glass on high. Amongst his many talents he possessed a certain oratorical vein, chiefly exercised amongst various meetings in the neighbourhood of Lambeth.

"Mr Temple, I drink your health. If you would join us, sir, I think you would soon be in the front rank."

Temple bowed his acknowledgments. Personally, he thought it would not be very difficult to aspire to the proud eminence his friend Smeaton suggested. On the other hand, he felt he could make more money out of creating imaginary murders than by discovering real ones. Then Smeaton, in his flow of eloquence, turned towards the somewhat silent lieutenant.

"Now, I must associate vou, too, sir, ■with the name of your friend, Mr Temple. I remember meeting you on the night in

the Square. You were present Avhen we discovered the dead body of that unfortunate girl, foully clone to death. And now you have given us jnost valuable information as to . the intentions of this scoundrel, Jay." Bravington made suitable acknowledgment. As a matter of fact Smeaton had aroused him from a delicious waking reverie. He was thinking of that delightful walk to the station, after they had received the blessing of the kind old Paske. And when they said bood-bye, she had lifted her sweet, red lips to _ his and whispered shyly—" And you will forget all this, dear old Jim, "won't you, and never refer to it again. And I will never be wilful nor wicked any more. And I will be such a good wife when we are married."

And good old Jim Bravington had gone away, all his old wounds healed, only sure ox one thing, that he had won the sweetest girl in England for his wife. "And now, Smeaton, what are you going to do?" asked Temple briskly. It must be confessed, of the two, Smeaton was the franker man; for he answered without a moment's hesitation—

"I shall put two of my best men on the job at once. And I shall get together a list of all the small jewel robberies—there has not been a big one lately. There has also, in the last ten days, been a fairly respectable haul from a bank, which has not appeared in the papers. About five hundred in gold and a thousand in notes, the notes being mostly fivers and tenners."

"They would store those, of course ; they would work them off in ones. and twos later on round the country," suggested Temple. "Yes, I think they would keep them for one year or two, till the hue and cry had died down, and then get them off in remote districts. They won't put them on the market yet, you may stake your life. They know their business."

Temple rose and Bravington followed his example. "\*ell, good night, Smeaton. You will follow the goods, and when you are ready you will let me know. I want to be in at the death." Smeaton shook his hand warmly. He had forgotten all his little prejudices and rancours against the amateur. "You shall be in at the death, sir, I promise you. And your friend shall come, too, if you like." Bravington was rather taken aback by this rather overwhelming hospitality. He could only murmur, "Delighted, I'm sure. Thanks for an awfully jolly evening."

The two men got into the waiting taxi and drove back to the club. Temple remarked smilingly, when they were about half-way on»their journey: "Good old Smeaton won't have half a wink of sleep to-night. He has got a lot to reflect on." They got back to the Junior Scribes" ; it was not so very late after all. And Bravington drew out one of his special brand of cigars, and smoked it with great gusto, sure sign of a contented frame of mind.

"You are verv happy, old chap?" asked Temple presently. And Bravington nodded, -a new look of happiness, in his rather expressionless blue eyes. "It is the day of my life, Jim." And Temple /sighed. He would have liked to tell him of his new-found happiness, of his delight in being restored to Ellen Deane. But Bravington would never understand. He would have been kind and friendly, and never have said a word to hurt his feelings—dear old Jim would not hurt a fly. But Temple would have felt the pity all through the kindly words.

And as Temple dot into bed that night he thought what a queer world it was. He was ready to marry Ellen Deane to-morrow, the child of unknown parents, an unwilling accomplice of crimestained people, little flotsam and jetsam thrown up by the rude waves for him to clutch or let flow by. And when he married her, the world, his own particular world, would laugh at him, and sav he was a fool. And yet, in spite of her past, she was as pure in spirit as many of those who would decry her.

Lilian Paske, the future wife of Jim Bravington, would not, of course, sit at the same table with her, nor take her by the hand. Lilian was now giving her lips 'to Bravington—lips that had been profaned by Raymond Jay, a scoundrel of the deepest dye, so far as he surmised, a brutal murderer. And the world would turn its back upon his wife, and take the wife of Jim Bravington to its bosom. And as Dick Temnle. the Bohemian, tumbled into his bed, he came to the conclusion that the world was very prejudiced in its judgments. (To be Continued).