The Moseley Mystery,

Pelorus Guardian and Miners' Advocate., Volume 17, Issue 51, 29 June 1906, Page 7

The Moseley Mystery,

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AS TOLD BY A LADY EX-DETECTIVE.

v:C| By John K. Leys,

Author of “Dark Doings,” “Th< Black Terror,” “The Lindsays,” “The Sign of the Golden Horn,” &c., &c. PART 8. CHAPTER XX. I SEEK HELP FROM DR. FRASER As soon as I found myself again at Cumborland-square I went up to Lady Farrell’s room, and told her what I had learned from Frank’s landlady.

I expected tha-t Lady Farrell would reproach me bitterly for not having acted promptly, as soon as the suspicion about the cigars crossed my mind. But she did nothing of the kind. To my surprise she was plated rather than discouraged by what I told her.

“Ah, we have hit upon the right track,” she exclaimed. “My boy shall be avenged yet !” “But if the cigars are destroyed, as I have no doubt they are, how can we bring home the crupe to Miss Troup, or any one else ?” : “The very fact of her going to Mrs. Naylor, and securing possession of the cigar-case is suspicious,” said Lady Farrell. “Besides, if we can find out the name of the poison that was used, and find the shop where she bought it “Ah, that would be some proof! I exclaimed. "But how are wo to discover even' the name of the drug? “Perhaps the Scotch doctor who attends Frank could tell us that,” suggested Lady Farrell. “He might, at least, give us a hint that would put us in the way of learning the name and nature of the poison. I will go to him at once! ’ I cried, starting to my feet. “It is getting late,” said Lady Farrell. “I had better go now,” I returned “I shall be certain to find him at home ; and he is more likely to be communicative after dinner. Lady Farrell smiled ; but the smile soon faded, and a grave look came into her face. She came close up to me, and laid her hand on my arm. “Sometime*, I think I am doing very wrong, Miss Hamilton, in making you my confidante, and accepting your help in tills affair,” she said, looking earnestly into my face. “You may be running into danger. ,We‘ (believe that there is a woman living in the house who is (at least, in intention) a murderess. If she suspected that you were trying to bring her crime home to her, she might kill you. Are you not afraid ?”

“No, Lady Farrell, I am not afraid,” I answered, looking her straight in the.face. ‘‘l believe you are bound to do your best to find out who it is that has tried to take your nephew’s life, and has reduced him to the state he is now in. And I believe I am justified in giving you all the help in my power. My only doubt is, whether -you should not put the matter in the hands ol the police.” “The police !” echoed Lady FarreH, with disdain. “Do you suppose that the police would have discovered that Miss Troup had altered that cheque, as I have no doubt she did ? Do you suppose the police would ever have suspected that poor Frank might have been poisoned by means oC cigar. No, no, Miss Hamilton. •The ordinary .constable is a very useful and capable person, no doubt; but the so-called detectives ! what crime of importance did they over detect—except in the case of habitual criminals, or of exceptionally stupid people, who left traces behind them that a child might read? If my poor nephew had died, they would no doubt have made, an effort to discover his murderer. Dut he is not V 'ad ; and they would find it more yx "enient to believe that he was jt~- ,c down by paralysis without A'cvi.y been poisoned at all. You V-wur';er the doctor did not say .■•vonr!*' /ely that he had been poisonbJ.’

“I believe you are right,” said I, after a moment’s hesitation.

“I know I am. right,” said Lady I -11. “We must do the work ourseT ■, if it is to be done at all.”

• I sent for a cab and drove off at cnee to Ur. Fraser's* whoso address i' bad found in the directory. The famous surgeon had just finish--1,, ' dinner, and his wife absolutely re•v ] his after-dinner nap to be disi ,Y " you like to wait for an hour r- so, ma’am,” said the servant, i' you can see. Ur. Fraser, for he ali - takes a cup of tea about nine ” I said I would wait, and presently ■Jj ”0 came a message from Mrs. ,so r asking me to join her in a cup of lea in the library. I found the surgeon’s wife, a little, ’ ;-i, old lady, with snow-white hair s\i a complexion like satin. Not a r y- tie crossed the fair smooth ,kV ; and a smile that would have become the ;face of a girl in her teens shone from he* mild eyes as she ted me. I afterwards learn--41 t. ' Mrs. Fraser was sonic years older than her husband. She had . vet had any children. They had u attached to each other, as I •a - ) 'afterwards to. know, long bc- ■ the doctor had come to London, raw Scotch laddie, to seek his fornine. They had climbed the hill hand in hand ; and hand in hand they were cheerfully setting their faces towards the setting sun. My ‘ "t went out to this benignant- woman almost before she spol<o to me. In her speech the Scotch acc *it was not harsh and unpleasant, , A it L. at least to southern ears ,

and her manner was so genial and iiatural. that before half an hour •had passed 1 found myself talking to her as if wo had been old friends. I told her that I was an orphan, that ray only near relative was a sister who was still at school, and that I. was earning my living as companion to a lady. “Yon must conic and see me sometimes when you have, nothing better to do, and let me give yon some good advice. I'm real fond of preaching to young folks,’’ said Mrs, Fraser, with a smile. lf And now I’ll just go and see if (tie doctor s not awake by this lime.” The doctor, it turned out, was ready to see me. I bade his wife good-night, thanking her for her hospitality, and followed Dr. Fraser into the consulting room. “Just sit down,” said the doctor, turning up the gas as he spoke. .“What was it you wanted to see me about ?”■ “About Mr. Moseley’s illness—the ■gentleman living in Crozier-street.”

The surgeon nodded, and his face became grave at once. “I remember you were there the night I was called in,” he said. “You are a relation of his ?” “I believe I am distantly related to- him,” I said, remembering poor Frank had declared this to be the case ; “but I have come as representing his aunt, who is his nearest living relative.” Dr. Fraser bowed, and waited for me to proceed.

“What I want to ask you,’’ said I “is whether there is any poison that could produce'such an iWness as Mi. Moseley’s which could bo administered by means of a cigar ? The doctor started perceptibly as I uttehed these words. “What makes you ask that?” he inquired, leaning forward, with his arms on the table. “Because there are only two things Mr. Mos-dey touched that night in his aunt’s house that the rest of us did not partake of. These were a decanter of port and a bottle of liquor. Lady Farrell sent them both to an analyst, and he has declaied that they show no trace of poison. The cabman who drove him home declares that he stopped nowhere on the way. And another circumstance that

“How do you know that the patient was poisoned at all ?” interrupted the doctor. Dr. Fraser had answered one of my questions, Scotch fashion, by asking another. I determined to follow his example. “Do you think that Mr. Moseley's illness is natural ?” I asked. “Do you ask this ho began, slowly. “I ask-it as speaking for Lady Farrell.” “Then I am bound to tell you that I do not believe it to be natural.” “Do you think it may have been caused by a drug smoked in -a cigar ?’’ “1 think it is possible.” “What drug could have that effect ?” “My dear young Lady,” he said, “you must really excuse my not answering that question.” “Why ?” “Because it is a professional, secret. You have heard of the standing contest between safomakers on the one hand, and burglars on the other ? Well, we doctors and chemists consider it to be our duty to regard the whole of the outside world as being possibly poisoners. We should regard it as a grave dereliction of duty to speak openly of a new poison until wo had discovered —not an antidote for it, indeed, but a certain test by which its presence could be detected. Now you understand my reticence.” “But I am not going to poison anyone !” “No, but you would mention the name of this drug—the one I have in my mind, whether it was actually used in this case or not—to Lady Farrell ?” “I suppose so.”'

“And she would mention the matter (in confidence/ of course)to—anybody !’-

I did not abandon the attack for some time, hut it was useless. Whatever Dr. Fraser suspected, he would not share his suspicions with me.

I rose to go, “Dy the way,” said the doctor, as he also rose from his chair, “you were about to mention a suspicious circumstance of some kind when 1 interrupted you, rather rudely, I am afraid, a little while ago.”

I considered. The doctor heel been reticent with me. AVhy should I confide in him ? Yet was it not possible that if I showed him what grave reason I had for suspicion he might be willing to help me ? “Only this,” I said at length. “I found that Mr. Moseley’s cigar-case, with its contents had been removed.” Again the doctor was startled out of his composure. “How do you know that ?” he asked, sharply. “I tried to got the cigar-case, but I found that someone had been before me.” “Indeed ! Mr. Moseley’s cigar-case and its contents had disappeared ?” “Yes.” “Do you know who took it ?” “Yes. Do you not think now, doctor, that you might safely confide to me the name of the drug which you have in your mind ?” Dr. Fraser had been .pondering something, his eyes fixed on the carpet. As lie hoard my last words a curious smile came into his face. But he only shook his head by way of reply, and said .something of a polite nature, to which I hardly listened. He sent a servant for a cab, and in a few minutes I was on my way back to Cumberland-square. When I came to reckon up the results of my night’s work, I came to the conclusion that Dr. Fraser had got considerably more information out of me than I had got out of Dr. Fraser. CTTADTER XXI. I HAVE ANOTHER INTERVIEW WITH MR. GIBBON. L Dr. Fraser refused to tell me the name of the drug which ha 4 so

nearly killed Frank Moseley no otneiy physician, J argued, waS likely to give me the information. Besides, no one else could do so ; for he alone (except the young practitioner, who did not pretend to understand the case) had observed the symptoms which the poison had at first produced. Lady Farrell was compelled, therefore, to make her inquiries in a general way. She instructed Weeby and Turner to send an intelligent man to the various druggist s shops and try to discover whether a lady answering to Miss Troup’s description had purchased a poison which would act by inducing paralysis. This process, however, was tedious and uncertain. I had no hope, for my part, that it would lead to any result.

It may be imagined that the attack on Frank Moseley’s life had driven Mr. Harvey Gibbon and everything connected with him, out of my head. T bad literally forgotten that ho had made mo a serious offer of marriage, and that he was still waiting for my answer. But one morning I was unpleasantly reminded of it. I received a letter addressed in a strange handwriting from one of the servants. It was from Mr. Gibbon ; and I at once concluded that ho had not sent his missive through the post, lest Miss Troup should happen to see the letter and recognize his handwriting.

The epistle was full of high-flown sentiment. Mr. Gibbon declared that he could not live without me, and wound up by begging to meet him near the park entrance that morning at eleven.. I thought it best to go and have the matter ended at once.

Mr. Gibbon came up to me with a smile on his face like that of an accepted lover, .This I resented. I was vexed, with myself—vexed that I had allowed my curiosity with respect to this man to carry me away as it had done. I was excessively annoyed that I had given him the right to look at me as he was doing, And, somewhat unreasonably, I suppose, I felt inclined to make, him the victim of my self-condemnation. It was evident to me- that the sooner we came to a mutual understanding the better, so I allowed him to accompany me within the gates of the park. “I have' been, expecting to hear from you for the last day or two,” said Gibbon, when we found ourselves alone ; “and I could not bear the suspense any longer. So I thought I would save you the trouble of writing your answer.” (Again the odious smile overspread his features) “My dear Miss Hambley—you have never yet told me your Christian name ! —take pity on your poor slave, and put him out of his pain ! My dearest, only say you will be mine !” “I fear my answer must be exactly the, reverse, Mr. Gibbon,” said I. “Oh,; no; surely not,” responded Mr. Gibbon with another assured smile. ' “Do pause a moment before you decide. Some people say one ought never to take the first ‘No ’ from a lady’s lips. But I am sure you are not one to give the answer out of mere coquetry ; and for my part, I am free to confess that I could not bring myself to ask a woman—not if she were a princess—a second time. Don't let ns be precipitate.” Ho paused, and my indignation was so great that I could not trust myself to speak. “Why should you reject me?” he went on, his manner becoming bolder every moment. “Surely I have given you sufficient proof of the honourable nature of my attachment ? I admit that our acquaintance has been but a short one ; but you should blame the power of your own charms—and t' ; uncertainty of my future movements—if I have spoken before the lime that would conventionally bo thought correct. What reason have we for delay ? None. Now please, Miss Hambley, take pity of me and say yes.”

“1 don’t know what I have said or done that; justifies you in speaking in this way to me,” said 1. “I allowed you to speak to me and make my acquaintance, it is true. Hut marriage is a very different thing. I do not intend to marry you. I would die first.”

An angry light gleamed in my companion’s eyes. “You have done nothing to justify my speaking •to you !” he echoed. “Indeed, it seems to me that when a lady consents to meet a gentleman as you have met mo, she hardly need affect surprise if he asks her to marry him ! And I rather fancy the world, whoso opinion you profess to be guided by, would say the same tiling. You have led me on deliberately—now you stand back and profess to bo surprised that I should venture to address you as J. have done. The veriest flirt could not be more untrue !”

This was my punishment, and I submitted to it in silence. The accusation was unjust ; but there was sufficient truth in it to make it appear plausible, and in any case, 1 felt that to bandy words with the man would be useless. So I remained silent.

“Would you kindly tell me, Miss Hambley,” ho said, with a sneer, “why you asked time to consider your answer to mo, if I was so presumptuous in putting the question?" Something prompted me to (ell him the exact truth in reply. “I wanted to know what, your object was in proposing to me,” said I. I fancied (hat a certain indefinable change came over Mr. (Jibbon's face as ho hoard these words ; but if it was so, he immediately recovered himself.

"My object. !” be repeated. “Why, my object was to marry you—(o have you always at my side, to bask in the sweet sunshine of your presence. Ah ! Miss Hambley ’’—and here Mr. Gibbon heaved a troubled sigh—“l fear you have never known the meaning of true love, or you would never ask such a question ! Hut let me try to teach you how sweet it is to love, to know that (o one fellow-mortal yon are the fairest and sweetest and best and noblest being in the whole world—to have that worshipper for your slave—let me try to make you understand it ! Let me at least offer vou a love as

nTrueT "as~sVet r " inspired the' heart of man.”

I may be wrong, but I, have always believed that Nature, who seldom leaves the feeblest of her children without some protection, has given to every girl an invisible talisman by which, if she frill only use it, she can discern between true, love and its counterfeit. The straight-forward, and simple-minded lover is not given to turning tine phrases. He does not protest too much. There is an air of deference and modesty about him which the counterfeiter seldom thinks of imitating. His looks are shy; he suffers rather from paucity of language than from a superabundance of words. At any rate I had no doubt in my own • mind about the value of Mr. Harvey Gibbon’s protestations. I thought it better to end the scene at once ; and therefore I said quietly, but in as decisive a tone as I could command : “Mr. Gibbon, if I have led yon to entertain any hopes of that nature by consenting to meet you hero, and by, going with . you 1° the Museum, I can only say that I am very sorry for it. I never expected to hear any proposals from you>of the kind you have made to mo. I am bound to believe, however, that you arc sincere in asking for my hand. I thank you for the honour, and T beg to decline it. My mind is quite made up ; and as I see no use in prolonging the conversation, you must allow me to bid you good morning.”

“One moment, Miss llambley,” answered Gibbon, still walking by my side though I had quickened my pace “I have a proposal to make to you, a perfectly honourable, though, 1 admit, an unusual one. Will you listen fd me, while I put it before you?”

I saw that my readiest way of getting rid of the man was to hear what he had to say ; and I therefore slackened my pace. “I see that I have not succeeded in winning your affection,’’ began Mr. Gibbon. “I have been too precipitate. But, you see, I may have to leave the country at any time on business ; and my fear was, that if I delayed speaking to you some one else might step in and secure the prize of your hand before I returned to England. If I could only make you my wife, in name at least, before I go— No, Miss Hambley, do have patience and hear me to the end. What I most dread is to lose you. If you were even nominally my wife, I should set myself to win your love after marriage.; and if I could not succeed, I should pledge myself to leave you absolutely mistress of your own life and future. Bo you understand me ? I should leave it to you to say whether you would choose to live with me or not. Jf I could make you love me, well and good ; if not, I should never trouble nor molest you in any' way. And as a proof of jny sincerity I am prepared to make a sAllement on you of a substantial annuity—enough, at least to enable you to be above earning your own living. '' Will you consider this proposal ?* I hope you are at least satisfied now of my disinterestedness.'’

I could hardly credit my own ears. I felt almo’st forced to believe that this-man loved me after all. His proposal was strange enough, certainly. But, as he said, it whs not dishonourable ; and it seemed to be as strong a proof of disinterested affection as he could show mo. My surprise prevented me from speaking for a few, seconds after Mr, Gibbon had uttered his last words ; and, not unnaturally, he misinterpreted my silence.

“You will think of it, then,” ho asked, eagerly. “You sye, it binds you to nothing—unless I should afterwards find a place in your heart You need not fear that I should break my word, 1 will give you “Mo, Mr. Gibbon,” I said, interrupting him. “It was only surprise that kept mo from Your suggestion is very disinterested, very kind, but it is quite impracticable. I could not think of it for a,moment.”

“Don’t make up your mind in such a hurry,” said my companion, earnestly. “Take one night to consider. It is, at least, a certainty of independence, of an easier life than you are leading now. I only ask you to think it "bver.” “My mind is already made up,” I said. “I cannot bestow my hand without my heart.” “But it would be a formality.” “I will not bind myself, even in name to a man I do not love. I told you my mind is made up. If you knew me better you would understand that it is of no use. to say another word on the subject.” We had gradually been drawing nearer to the gate of the park, and now I was only a few .yards from it. “Good-bye,” I said, offering Mr. Gibbon my hand and looking up into his face. He said nothing in reply, and I could read in his countenance a sullen, angry, disappointed feeling and a look that was dark and threatening, almost malignant in its expression. Little did I dream then when, or under what circumstances, I should sec that man’s face again. CHAPTER XXII. A BLOW struck: to my heart. A week passed, and 1 saw nothing of Mr. Gibbon.' Frank Moseley was making some progress towards recovery. He was still unable to speak, but he could use his hands to some exlenl, and his complexion was much .more healthy. Of Miss Troup neither Lady Farrell nor 1 look much apparent notice We were waiting for the report of the deteelives who had been sent to visit (he druggists’ shops ;»and unless their report contained something of importance—a contingency which I hy no means expected—wo saw no prospect of being able to obtain evidence against her. Lady Farrell seldom required any attendance from her secretary after lunch, and Miss Troup generally spent the afternoon sitting over the drawing-room fire with a novel in her hands, being at liberty, however, to go out if she felt inclined.

One afternoon—it was a Tuesday I remember—l noticed that Miss Troup was not in the drawing room as

usual. .The season was now so far advanced that the. afternoons were raw and chilly ; and on this particular afternoon a drizzling rain, like a Scotch mist, was falling persistently. I was surprised, therefore, to observe from one of the windows that Miss Troup was going out, equipped for a walk. I know well that she was not likely to go out in such weather for the mere sake of exercise, especially as in another hour it would be dusk.

“Can she be going out to hold another interview with Mr. Gibbon in the square ?” As this thought crossed my mind, I remembered that the last time T had Known of such an interview taking place was the very eve of the attempt- on Frank Moseley’s life. I had refrained, and rightly refrained, I felt lure, from trying to overhear any of their conversation on that occasion. Yet, had I not so refrained, it was possible enough that I might have been able to prevent the dastardly crime which had made Frank Moseley a paralytic for life. If J listened to them now, I thought, T might hear what would enable me to bring the crime home to Miss Troup ; tor I had little doubt that her lover knew all her secrets. They might even now be planning some.fresh outrage. These thoughts passed through my mind in less than a second of lime. I hurriedly dressed and went round the square to the gate which gave access to the garden, if Miss Troup and her lover were not there, 1 knew it would be impossible to find them, for she was too far in advance of me to have the slightest hope of overtaking her if she had not gone into the garden.

I reached the garden gate and entered. The enclosure was empty ; and the now leafless shrubs made me see how unlikely it was that I could have approached near enough to the two conspirators (as I deemed them) to overhear their words without being at once detected. As I was leaving the garden I thought of the summer-house. What if they had taken refuge there, I asked myself, from the thin, wetting rain ? Once before I had listened to their conversation while they were silting on a bench that was placed against the wall of the summerhouse, I being inside. If they were' there, T thought, I might accomplish what I wished to do by sitting on that bench, and learning my head against the thin, wooden wall, which was full of interstices between the planks. With soft, stealthy steps I approached the place. The bench was still th(?re. ,1 seated myself on it, and no sooner had I done so x than the startling words, spoken by Harvey Gibbon, fell on my ear : “You must manage to give him another dose then !” “Oh, no, Harvey !” exclaimed Miss Troup. “Poo. fellow ! he cannot harm me now. And, besides, I have got the money I told you of. I had to threaten to—split, don’t you call if?—before they would pay up. But they have done it at last. My share was one thousand pounds. What do you think of that ?’’ .

“It’s a good sura. But it’s nothing to what you will > two some day if you will only be a good, girl and do what I tell you. And, believe me, it is not safe to leave such a witness as F.M. behind us. Besides he might just as well be dead as live as he is now.”

“But he is getting better. He really is. And if wo go right away it will not much matter what he may say to his aunt. I shall be beyond her reach.” “It’s confoundedly awkward !” “And for my part I’m very thankful he did not die. Let us talk of something else. I hate to think of it. When do you sail for America, Harvey ?” “I can’t tell.”

“But it must be soon. That little imp, Miss Hamilton, as she calls herself is still about the place. I believe she is ,a regular paid spy. Do you know what she is doing?” “No ; and I don't care.” “Gt)ing round after those —you know what !” “No !” “She has. Mrs. Naylor told me. If it were her you wanted to give a little dose to I wouldn’t mind. I hate the woman.” “Well, 1 don’t mind if you do, Alice.” My heart almost stood still. This man, who eight days before, had professed to love me. “Are you serious, Harvey?” “Yes, I am. Are yoii ?” “Well no, I’m not. l}vc had enough of that. I couldn’t sleep for nights and nights after—you know what !”• “But if I were to make you a rich woman, Alice ?;’ “I don’t care for money. Not in that way, 1 mean. Besides, when I am your wife, 1 shall have as much money as I want. You’ve always said so, you know.” , “Yes, of course.' But it’s time we got out of this beastly damp hole.”

“You’ve not told me yet when we are to sail. I tell you I daren’t stay at Lady F.’s much longer. I feel as if any day the whole thing might come out.” “About F. M. you mean ?”

“Yes ; and the other thing too.” “Oh, hang all that! Wo must risk it. You’ve really nothing to he afraid of. He can’t speak or write yet. and till he docs you’re as safe ijs a church. Besides, I really don’t know when I can get away.” “Yon burned the cigars, Harvey?” “Trust me for that.”

“Aral you will take me away soon from this horrid place ; if you don’t, I must run away, for I did not dare to wait any longer. The conversation, I imagined, was nearly over. At any moment Mr. Gibbon and Miss Troup might issue from the summer-house and confront me. True, they had greater reason to fear me, perhaps, than 1 had to fear them. But, 1 was only a weak woman ; and 1 dreaded being caught by the conspirators at the moment of their knowing that I had learned their guilty secrets.

I stole away from the bench, walking on the grass, that my footsteps might not be heard, and trembling in every limb. It was not until I reached.the.. that, I ventured to

look back. No one was to be seen. For a moment I felt safe ; then it occurred to mo that possibly Mr. Gibbon and his companion might have emerged from the summer-house and seeing me stealing away they might have returned to it. I wished I had been more courageous, and had kept an eye on the summerhouse as I retired. But it was .too late to retrieve the error.

I walked swiftly back to the house that I might reach it before Miss Troup came in sight of it, and went up to my own room.

I felt confused, almost stunned by what I had heard. The cool way in which the man Gibbon had talked of murdering me had shaken my nerves. I was not myself.

I threw myself on my bed, and as I lay there it occurred to me that I would take a quiet holiday in the morning, and think over the whole matter. I would take my sister with me so that I would have the sense of companionship. We would go to the National Gallery. We would be absolutely protected there ; and Nora was so fond of pictures that I knew she would leave me to my own thoughts as much as I wished. We would take lunch at a public restaurant—which is of itself a treat to young people—and when I came home in the afternoon' my head would bo deal 1 , and I should have resolved on soifie definite course of action.

It would bo bettcir I thought, to send a telegram to Miss Buncombe that night, and ask for a holiday for Nora next day, telling her the hour that she might expect mo to call for her. And so suspicious was T, so anxious that this holiday should bo entirely unknown fo any one, and free from the distracting feeling that my movements might be watched, that I went to the post-office myself with my telegram. .1 did not expect an answer to it, and I was, therefore, surprised when, during dinner, a message was brought to me that two elderly ladies had called to see me. Their cards were put into my hand, and I read their names—" Miss Buncombe " —“Miss Martha Buncombe." Lady Farrell noticed my surprise, and kindly suggested that I should leave the table, and go to see what my visitors wanted. They had been •shown into the library. 1 went there at once ; and no sooner had I entered the room than the two sisters gave a scream at the same moment. “Oh, Miss ' Hambley, we are so glad to find you are not dead “Dead ! Who said I was dead 9’ l “Thc lawyer, Mr. Curtis." I laughed nervously. “Ami Nora .was taken to your funeral. “Indeed !"

“And the gentleman; the solicitor—oh, you tell it, Martha, I can’t—he said the poor child should be provided for ; and he settled all her bills, and took her away.”“Took her away !" “Yes ; three days ago. He said ho was acting for her cousin.” A presentiment of evil came over my mind like a pall. “Where did he lake her ?” I asked. “Indeed, Miss Hambley, we can’t tell. We thought it so strange afterwards, that nobody in our house know ’’— I heard no more, I had fallen to the floor unconscious. CHAPTER XXIII. I FIND FRIENDS IN MY NEED. 'When I recovered consciousness I found myself lying on a couch in the library, upon which Miss Buncombe and her sister had lifted me. Lady Farrell was sitting beside me, sponging my face with cold water ; her maid was standing close by with various appliances in her hands; and my two visitors were sitting a. little way off, trembling and tearful. At first my brain was so confused that 1 could remember nothing, distinctly. I only knew that some great calamity had befallen me—no —not me !—it was Nora. I started up with a scream.

“I do not know what has happened,” said Lady Farrell in an authoritative voice, laying her hand on my arm ; “but whatever it is, no good can come of giving way to exccitement. Do lie down, and compose yourself.” “But they have stolen away Nora, my sister ; and I don’t know what they have done with her !” I cried, struggling to throw off Lady Farrell's linn grasp. “Nonsense! It cannot be true,*’ said my employer, looking at my visitors.

They glanced one at the other, and at length Miss Martha spoke : “We do not know. Perhaps there is sonic mistake. But it looks as if something- were very far wrong. If it had been a mistake she wmuld have been brought back by this time would she not ?”

This was so true that the gleam of hope which the word “mistake ” shed into my mind faded away. “Let me go and seek her at once, or I shall go mad,” I remember crying out, struggling to rise. “Do lie still. You are nfot in a condition just now to do-- any good," said Lady Farrell, calmly. “Simmons,” she said, turning to her maid, “take a cab and fetch a doctor at once.” “I should like to see Mrs. Fraser.-” The words had passed my lips before I had time to reflect on the strangeness of the request. But my heart cried out for sympathy—for a soft hand to be laid on my burning brow, for a word of hopefulness, for a wanner and more tender consolation than any Lady Farrell could offer. My employer looked surprised. “I was not aware that you were acquainted with. Mrs. Fraser. You had better ask Dr. Fraser to come instead of Dr. Fulton ; and you can deliver the message to Mrs. Fraser, and say if it is not very inconvenient, Miss Hamilton would be glad if she would accompany her husband.” When the girl had gone, I began putting some questions to Miss Buncombe : but it soon became evident to Lady Farrell that I was not really taking in the few details they could give, and that they were not in the best possible state of mind for answering questions, ghe there-

lore insisted on my going to bed, and trying to get a good night’s rest. But in the state of mind I was in, this was impossible. I was, in truth almost distracted. One moment I begged Miss Buncombe not to leave me, and asked her if she would go with me, and help me find my sister; and the next I was reproaching her for allowing Nora to go out of her sight on any pretence whatever, i hardly knew what 1 said ; and 1 was becoming wilder in my talk every moment (as Lady Farrell told me afterwards) when Dr. Fraser and his wife arrived. In a few, words Lady Farrell told them what had happened ; and the Misses Buncombe, seeing that their presence would be of no further use, quietly left the house. Br. Fraser felt my pulse, and went out of the room, taking Lady Farrell with him. As soon as I was left alone with Mrs. Fraser, I rose, and threw myself on the floor at her feet, hiding my fage in her lap. I was shaking from head to fool; and at last the scalding tears poured down my cheeks. Mrs. Fraser said nothing, but held one of my‘hands in one ot hors, and with the other she gently stroked my hair. . “My poor lassie," she said, after a while, “my poor lassie ! Take, some comfort to yourself. Wo’ll* find your sister yet." ' C ', “They may have murdered her ! I shall never see her again !” I cried. “Oh, that’s not reasonable ! For what should they murder her? Many a one would steal a wean that wouldna murder her. You’ll just have patience, like a bravo lass, arid put your trust in the mercy o’ God. There's aye a white lining to a cloud if we would but look for it. Why should you lose all hope at the very outset. Ye mind Christian, in the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress’? When Giant Despair had . him laid by the heels, ho didna make much progress on his journey ! It’s hard if the marauders haveiin left some clue that wo can trace them by. Ye'll want a good night’s rest,'so as to be lit for your work the morn ; and as nothing particular can be done the night, I think the sooner you arc between the sheets the better.” I .suffered the doctor’s wife to lead mo upstairs, and in a few minutes the sleeping draught which her husband had prescribed for me, ■ arrived. I swallowed it instantly, and I did not.wake for twelve hours. When I opened my eyes Lmly Farrell was bending over me, and a.tray with my breakfast was on-a table beside her. “Do you feel better, dear?” she asked in a softer tone than 1 had ever hoard from her. “Yes ; much better. I am ashamed, of having given you so much trouble' last night.’’ Lady Farrell made an impatient gesture. “That is nothing," she „said, quickly. “And I wish you to understand that my purse is entirely at your disposal, to help you to rccovcr your sister. No expense Shall be spared. But are you able to talk •yet ?’’

“Oh, yes, thank you. My head is ' quite clear, though my heart is heavy enough.” “Mrs. Fraser seems a very nice old lady,” said £ady Farrell. “She* certainly proved herself a friend in need last night. And this morning, another helper has turned up. You know him already, I believe—Mr. Lister.” “Mr. Lister !” I echoed. “Yes. He is < downstairs, in the breakfast room ; and he is anxious— I may say very anxious—to serve you, if you will let him ” “If I will let him ! What help would not be welcome to me just now. And I have not yet thanked you for your kind and generous offer. It is more than good of you, for of course I have very little money and I ” “Hush, Miss Hamilton, not another word about that. Perhaps it was through your devotion to my interests that this blow has fallen upon you.”- ; “But Mr. Lister ? How is he here at this hour ?” “He had missed Frank from the club, and after intending to call upon him, and failing to do so several times, he went to his lodgings this morning on his' way to the Temple. He was dreadfully shocked at finding Frank in such a state, for ho. and my nephew are very intimate and close friends. And as he has been at my house several times with Frank, ho came on here at once to learn what it was that had befallen his friend. Of course I told him something of our suspicions ; and then I mentioned your loss. Ho jumped up at once, and in the kindest way, ho offered to do anything ho could to help you. What shall I say to him ?” “Tell him I am very, very grateful to him, Lady Farrell.” . “Well, I shall leave you to eat your breakfast and dress. Don’t hurry ; Mr. Lister and I are verygood friends, and we can entertain one another till you come down. By the way, I may as well tell you that I have made up my mind to get Miss Troup out of my house. I am only sorry that she has been here so long.” “You have not spoken to her yet?” I asked. “Not yet.” “Then pray do not do so, dear Lady Farrell, until we have taken Mr. Listcr’.s advice about it. If I am not mistaken, Miss Troup is not our most formidable enemy. And I don’t think she has anything to do with Nora’s disappearance. Of course I cannot be sure—l do not know—but that is my feeling.” “I will do what you ask, Miss Hamilton,” returned Lady Farrell, after thinking a moment. “Certainly it can do no harm to take Mr. Lister’s advice; He is not an old man ;• and I have great confidence in his judgment. You are lucky in finding so good a friend just when you needed one most,” ,she added, with a smile, as she pushed the Iftth table with the tray on it, close to me, and left me alone. To be Continued, (998,) _