THE DUKE OF ARCANUM

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXI, Issue XII, 17 September 1898, Page 367

THE DUKE OF ARCANUM

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CAPLETON LONG

CHAPTER XVIII. RETURNING PROSPERITY. The few weeks which intervened between the night of her husband’s escape and the great fire which swept away what little remained to them Imogen was in a trembling state of anxiety, being beset with constant fears for her husband's safety. Those fears were now manyfold greater than before the trial, for then there was some hope of an acquittal. But now, were he retaken there would be none. And what danger there was of such an eventuation! She fancied that she could see him prowling about at night, eluding the officers by dodging hither and thither, and keeping closely under cover by day, pinched by hunger and looked upon with suspicion by all who met him. ‘Oh, if I could only fly to him!’ she thought; then her dark eyes would fill with tears.

The children, however, were unconscious of their mother’s troubles. Their father had been absent so long that he was not missed by them now’. While playing on the floor Paget w’ould sometimes look up an see a tear on her mother’s cheek; then she would come and put her little arm about her neck and kiss it away. But she did not know the suffering that chased it from its lachrymal depths. After some weeks had passed, and she had heard nothing from Stanley, Imogen began to think that he had sought safety in some distant retreat. But then she remembered what he had said to her: ‘I shall always be somewhere near you, and see you when you least expect it.’ Nevertheless, she thought it probable that he had later seen the folly of remaining in a locality where his life was in constant peril, and had found a refuge elsewhere. Thus she wept, hoped and prayed, until the fire came. In the midst, of that tumult and excitement she waited until the flames were fairly upon them, thoroughly beside herself with anxiety and apprehension. 'Then, tying up a 'bundle of clothing selected from their scanty wardrobe, she cast it upon her shoulders, and with Paget and Geryl clinging to her skirts made her way across the Chicago avenue bridge just lufforte its destruction. She found, upon advancing, that the West. Division had not suffered extensively from the fire. Then she thought of Mrs Tiernan, and wondered if it were not possible that she had escaped the. general calamity. She determined to ascertain, for she knew’ that if the good woman was undlstnrb'ed she could find a temporary shelter with hen ..After a tiresome teffolrt she reached the place and found Mrs Tiernan safe in the unburned district ot the West Division. The story of destitution which went forth from the ill-fated city loosened the purse - strings of the civilise#! world, and sympathetic offerings were poured out amid her charred ruins and s#*enes of desolation. Mankind needed no touching appeals from those suffering thousands to stir those acts of charity. They were spontaneous everywhere, and the stream of human kinduess which flowed in seem-

ed as inexhaustible as the fountain spring’s of a mighty river among the rocks and gorges of the mountains. Imogen was one whom these merciful contributions reached. Applying to the Relief Board for assistance she received a few necessary articles for housekeeping, and a quantity of provisions. It being- impossible to procure a room to live in, except at an exorbitant rent, the good old laundress proffered her the use of one of her own until she could do better. This she gladly accepted, and, fixing it up with the few useful articles which she received from the Relief Board, they were quite comfortable again. As soon as she was settled she began to look about for something to do which would enable her to gain a subsistence for her little family. There was no lack of sewing, as nearly everybody had suffered a depletion of wardrobe, and she soon found herself with so much needlework on hand that she was compelled frequently to sit up until the small hours of the morning to keep pace with the accumulation. Paget and Geryl were each provided with a new dress and a pair of shoes, and all felt happier than foimanv months.

One evening, a few days after Imogen had taken up her abode with Mrs Tiernan, she stood by the little stove preparing supper. The children were chasing each other round and round the table in a boisterous frolic. The meat in the frying-pan was sizzling and sputtering over the fire, the teakettle humming, and altogether there was such a confusion that Imogen did not hear any sounds in the adjoining room, although she knew it was the hour when Mrs Tiernan came home from her day's work. While in the midst of her preparations she heard a raj) at the door, and immediately bade her to enter. The door opened and the old woman wearily responded to the invitation. ‘Oh, you are home at last, I see. I had not heard any noise in your room and I thought you had not returned. You look tired. Mrs Tiernan. Sit down and have some supper with us. I can give you a nice cup of tea and some fried meat.’ ‘lt smells very foine, ma'am, but I'd not be aft her throublin’ ’ye. me dear. Ye've all ye can find to widout meself.’

‘lt's no trouble at all: we have plenty to eat. ami you can help me wash the dishes if you like. That will save, you making a fire. I know you are very tired.’ Mrs Tiernan sank into a chair by the fire, rubbing her hands and holding them close to the stove. She did not ap|>ear to In* as talkative as usual, and seemed to have something on her mind. ‘Are you ill, Mrs Tiernan?’ Imogen asked. ‘No, ma'am: but it's a quare thing Oi was think in' of.’ ‘A queer thing you say? Does it trouble your mind?’ ’No, no. not at all. ma'am: but didn't ye tell me that the officers said ver husband had dhrowned hisself in the lake?' Imogen started at this sudden ami unexpected allusion to Stanley, and

looked at the woman in amazement: ‘Why, yes; certainly they did, and they brought me his clothes, with a farewell letter pinned to them, which they found on the beach. 1 saved them from the fire and brought them here with me.’ ‘D'ye think, ma'am, if he intinded for sartin to kill hisself by dhrownin' he wild hev tuk off all his clothes?' *1 don't think he did take them all off. They only found his coat, vest and hat.' ‘Ah. indade! Well, if yer hnslxind Im* did or alive. O'im sartin Oi seed 'im this mornin'.' ‘Saw my husband to-day!' gasped Imogen. ‘Why. what do you mean?' ‘Yes, Oi seed 'im, and if it wa.n't 'im in the mate it was in the spherit, sb.ure. He seemed to know me, ah' act like as if he didn't want me to see 'im. for he dodged away an' was out o' me soight lief ore Oi could git me wits about meself.’ Tm possible! Mrs Tiernan, you must, have seen someone else who looked like him.' ‘Oh. no, no, no; but it was Misther Edgcumb, as share as me name is Bridget Tiernan.’ ‘But I don't think you would know him.' ‘Och. indade Oi would. It’s ’im Oi've seen many a toime when Oi done the wash in' in the good ould days Ixffore the police kem and tuk ’im awa v.'

‘But, Mrs Tiernan, that was a long time ago. Indeed, it seems a very long time to me. Poor boy! But if he were alive you would not know him now. His long imprisonment changed him very much. Come, sit down, and I will serve the supper, and you can tell me all about it.’

Mrs Tiernan was only too glad to accept the invitation. The supper smelled so good that a refusal was quite impossible in her tired and hungry condition, so she drew her chair to the table, while Imogen seated Paget and Geryl. The food being served. and the tea poured, the conversation was renewed. ‘But you haven’t told me where you saw this counterpart of my husband?’ ‘When Oi was on me. way to Mrs Hawley’s to wash for the lady this morn in’.’ Then, after taking a sip from the cup which she helo to her lips, Mrs Tiernan added: ‘Oi’m shure, dear. Oi don’t remember the sthrait.’ ‘How did he look, and how was he dressed?' ‘Very gentlemanly, ma'am, in a dark suit. He looked loike he used to before the throuble was come to yez.’ ‘Well. Airs Tiernan, you don’t think my good and innocent husband, if he were living, would have, kept away from me all this time without letting me know a word concerning himself, do you?’ ‘Oh. ma'am, but he. moight have been away, and when he he heard of the great foire that has mint so many people, he kem back to sarch for yez.’ ‘But he would be running a great risk in doing so.’ ‘An’ it’s a brave man he is. ma'am.’ ‘Well, it is strange, and you seem so confident of it. but I should have to see him face to face to believe that it was Stanley. You washed at Mrs Hawley's to-day. did you?’ ‘Yes, ma'am.’ ‘She is the button-hole maker that I have, heard you speak of?’

‘Yes, ma'am: Oi’ve. talked to her so much about yez and the little tots that she says she's kernin' down to see yez. Oh. she's a foine lady; ye'd think a hape o' her Oi know. She earns eighteen dollar a wake, ma'am, think o’ that.’ ‘She must be smart. Does she earn that amount making buttonholes alone?’ ‘Oh, yes. ma’am: that's a great trade, you know. You niver saw anything loike the way she makes ’em—so illigant and parfect; ivery stitch jist aloike. and so fast, too. Why. ma'am, before the foire the great sthores' down town si nt her the most illigant robes to have the buttonholes worked because the dressmakers couldn't make 'em. It's a regular trade loike washin' an' oirnin', only it's more 'ristocratic, ma'am.’ Imogen, smiling at Mrs Tiernan's remarks, replied: ‘I wish I had some ingenuity. If I could only exchange my musical talent for sonic substantial profession like that I should like it. I have not. touched a piano or guitar in so long I have forgot ten what I knew, lias Mrs Hawley a piano?' ‘Oh, yes. a foine one, ma'am.' ‘Does she play?'

‘Only a trifle, and when Oi told her of yer music lamin' she said she must kem an' see yez.’ ‘Perhaps we. can exchange music for buttonholes and buttonholes for music.’ ‘Oi think she wild l>e very glad to, ma'am, and its a sinsible one for yez. Eighteen dollars a wake wild be a great lift to yez—l'll hev another cup o' tay if ye plase, ma'am.' ‘Certainly,’ said Imogen, taking the cup which was passed to her. ‘When L can make eighteen dollars a week you will come and live with me. won't you ?'

‘Oh. ye hev yer hands full wid out me. darlint.’ ‘But you could take care of the house and the children while I made buttonholes, then Imogen burst into laughter, in which she was joined by the washwoman. The children, catching the infeedion, also laughed ami clapped their hands. The meal being finisheel, Mrs Tiernan assisted Imogen in clearing up the table, and washing the dishes, after which she retired to her own room. Then the children were put to lied and Imogen was again alone with her thoughts and needlework. The subject of her thoughts, it may lx* readily ima-gined, was the strange story Mrs Tiernan had told her in regard to her husband. She did not doubt its corrw'tness in the least, and it was pleasant to think that Stanley was searching for them, as Mrs Tiernan had suggested. But how would he ever find them? She must devise some means of making her location known to him, and, further, she must also search for him. The work lay in her lap almost neglected. Now and then she would take a few stitches, but becoming so absorbed with her thoughts, they gradually grew less and less frequent, and finally ceased altogether. It troubled her exceedingly to thing that Stanley was so near and yet knew not where to find them. She would not dare to inquire for him, nor he for her. Perhaps in his search he had even passed her door. But she knew his perseverance, and this gave her hope that he would yet find them. It was the only hope she had. and a. slim one at that, for it seemed now that only a

chance wind could drive their barks together again. For the few succeeding weeks before winter came, when the weather would permit, Paget and Geryl were allowed to play much of the time on the walk before the house, it being thought possible that Stanley might pass and recognize them. Moreover Imogen went daily for a long walk herself, and invariably ujioii different streets, making up for the loss of time by toiling later at night, but she saw nothing of him.

A few days after the conversation at the supper table between Imogen and Mrs Tiernan. Mrs Hawley called upon the former. As she seated herself in one of the cheap, uncomfortable chairs in the one little room which constituted parlour, sittingroom, dining-room, kitchen and bedchamber she said, with a pleasant smile: ‘That gcxxl old soul. Mrs Tiernan. has told me so much of this interesting little family, and of your sorrows and troubles, that I felt a. desire to come and see you. I am Mrs Hawley.’

The lady, who was about Imogen's own age. seemed so friendly and so much at ease that the latter felt at once, that she should like her. ‘You are so kind, Mrs Hawley, in coming to see me; and 1 am very glad to know you. Yes; Mrs Tiernan has often s|x>ken of you. I think the desire for acquaintance must, have liven mutual, for when she told me. that you were coming 1 felt greatly pleased, but feared that you would not care to visit our miserable home. The fire burned us out, and what you see are. the few things furnished us by the Relief Board to commence housekeeping with again on a small scale.' ‘You have had a great deal of trouble, 1 know. We all have more or less of it; but it does seem as if you had had more than your share.' ‘I have had a great, deal, I assure you.' Imogen replied, in a sad tone. ‘No one knows what it is who has not experienced it, but I am feeling brighter and happier now than at any time since my troubles bega.n. I have lx»en so successful of Into in having plenty to do.' ‘But you look weary. Mrs Tiernan tells me that you sit up and work half the night.'' ‘lt is true I have to work quite late.'

*1 am afraid you will break down. You must think of that, ami Im* more careful of yourself.’ ‘I do think of it very much.' "Is there no easier way by which you can make a living?’

•1 am afraid not; I am so out of practice in music.’ ’Mrs Tiernan tells me that you are a tine pianist. I am very fond of music myself. I have a piano, but I cannot play much. 1 wish you would come down and try it. You may use it all you wish. T should think that you might easily get some pupils.' ’I thank you. deeply thank you. Mrs Hawley, but I am afraid that in the present condition of affairs in Chicago, following such a terrible calamity, from which nearly everybody has suffered more or less, that we would starve while I was struggling to obtain a class.’ ‘Perhaps so; but you could rely on me for one of your pupils.’ ‘Then you are anxious to have instruction ?’ ‘Yes; I should like to l>e one of your class.’ ‘And I am also anxious to be taught.' ‘You! What are you anxious to be taught, pray tell?' ‘The trade of a button-hole maker. That is something which would be of far greater utility to me than music.’ Mrs Hawley smiled. 'You are tin ambitious little mortal. I should be delighted to do anything I can for you. If I could be the means of assisting you in a way that would render your work profitable, or less burdensome. I would gladly do so. But buttonhole work requires close application and considerable skill. I do not fear that you lack either of these qualifications.’

'Then we can exchange ideas if not talents.' suggested Imogen. ‘1 should, in return, be happy to teach you all I know of music.’ ’But. Mrs Edgcumb. you cannot spare the time. It will take you some time to become an exjiert buttonhole worker, and after giving such Ineecssary time to instruction and practice ns you will require, you will find that you can ill-afford to spare any for music. So 1 will agree to pay you for my instruction. ‘Oh. no; but I will spare it. It is only a fair exchange. I am more desirous of learning your trade than you tire of learning my art. I will practice of evenings, and do my regular work during the day.’

’But you cannot make buttonholes at night, it would ruin your eyes; moreover, it requires the best of light to make them nicely.’ ‘Ab. T did not think of that.’ ‘But you can come ami teach me music of evenings, though.’ •Yes. so I can. I can put Paget and Geryl to bed early, and Mrs Tieman will be willing to sit here with them, I know.’ ‘What a good old soul she is.’ ‘I don't know what would have become of us had it not been for her. She so kindly shared her rooms with us when we had no place to go, after the fire had driven us out and destroyed what little we had. And when our little boy died she was the only one to come to us. I hope 1 shall live to repay her.’ I think you will. You are full of pluck and "energy. I see. Misfortune some times pursues us until we lose all hope, but if we continue to battle against it, the tide is sure to turn. I have been interested in you ever since Mrs Tiernan first spoke of you, and 1 feel more so now that I have seen you. If there is any way I can assist you, do not hesitate to make it known.’ Imogen was touched by these kind words, coming from one she had never seen before, ami her eyes filled with tears. Her lips quivered with an emotion which she could not suppress, and gathering her apron to her eyes, she wept. A moment of painful silence ensued, which Imogen herself broke with an exclamation which was choked and spasmodic: •Oh. Mrs Hawley, if you only knew bow glad I am to have such a kind friend! Everybody has seemed to turn against me.' 1 once had friends, but when trouble came they deserted me.’ Mrs Hawley came to Imogen, and. putting her arm about her, said: ‘lt's the way of the world—with most people, nt any rate. But. you will not find it so with me. my dear.' ‘I do not doubt it in the least,' an-

swered Imogen. Then, drying her eyes, she said, apologetically: ‘They are tears of joy and gratitude. It has been a long time since they were shed for such a cause. I hope you will pardon my weakness, Mrs Hawley.’ ‘Say nothing more: let us be friends. And now tell me when you will come and take your first lesson and play for me.’

Imogen hesitated for a moment, glancing at the quantity of work lying upon the table. ‘Let me see; this is Wednesday. I don’t think that. I can come before Saturday—Saturday afternoon. Will that be agreeable?’ ‘Perfectly,’ replied Mrs. Hawley, who, after a few minutes further conversation, took her departure. The mutual instruction thus so auspiciously arranged for was begun on the following Saturday, and continued regularly twice a week during the winter and spring. When summer came Imogen hail made such progress with her trade that Mrs Hawley declared she could work buttonholes in the finest of fabrics as skillfully as she could herself, though not so rapidly. and frequently when there was a rush of work she gave her a large share to do for her, paying her the same price which she herself received. In a short time it proved quite a revenue, and then she decided to find a more comfortable home. The one little room, which she had occupied for so many months, was cramped, and. as warm weather approached, she found it very uncomfortable. Moreover. Mrs Tiernan needed it during the summer. The latter, however, was loath to have them go. They had made her surroundings so cheerful that she dreaded the thought of being alone by herself again. Their companionship was so agreeable that it far overbalanced the inconvenience which she sustained by the deprivation of her .'scanty room. Finding some pleasant rooms near Mrs Hawley’s. Imogen engaged them and took immediate possession. She had saved some money, the proceeds of her new trade, and with this and a credit which she obtained she bought some articles to embellish her new home.

By this time, affairs in the burnt city had begun to assume an air of activity. Buildings were appearing like everywhere. Thousands were coming to the city of such wonderful recuperative energy, and every one seemed full of business and enterprise. In a short time after her removal Imogen found herself firmly established in Ker new occupation. Her work was so much admired that she was engaged exclusively by a larg’e establishment.. But. to take this situation, she was obliged to go to the store daily. However, this inconvenience was readily removed by persuading Mrs Tiernan to come and make her home with them, and care for the children in her absence.

After two years of privation, poverty had at last disappeared from the little household. Their home, to lie sure, was not as comfortable as the one which they had possessed at the time of Stanley’s misfortune, for it had taken several years to aeenmulate what they then possessed, but they were comfortable, and not incessantly pinched for the necessaries of life. There was but one factor lacking to make them perfectly happy—the husband and father, of whom they hail heard nothing in so many months. There seemed to be a void without him, and Imogen felt herself to be constantly upon the point of expectation. They never gathered around the little table without something being said concerning him. Imogen bad not encouraged the children to believe that he was living, or would /ever returiy Oi« the contrary she spoke of him as being forever lost to them, for she knew the trouble that their innocent little tongues might cause if made to speak by the catechising of designing persons. She merely alluded to him tenderly, and expressed a wish that he were again with them. Secretly she cherished a belief that he would some day be restored to them, but it was a silent indulgence of hope, without expresion. and sometimes she almost feared without sufficient warrant. When ever reference was made to him, Mrs Tiernan would persist that she had seen him on the morning descriliert while on her way to Mrs Hawley's, but Imogen treated the matter in conversation with the utmost incredulity.

CHAPTER XIX. CHLOE. 'I can’t stand it any longer at that house, and I won’t.’ ‘The devil you won’t! What’s the matter with you? What did you follow me in here for anyway?’ T came here to talk to you. Jack, and, furthermore, I say that I am not going to stay in that house any longer.’ This asseveration came from Chloe, and her dark eyes flashed with indignation as she stood before the door of Coulter’s room, whither she had followed him. Coulter’s lip had a contemptuous curl as he pushed open the door to admit her. and it was evident that there was about to be an angry scene between them. ‘What's the reason you won’t stay there?’ ‘Because I can’t stand it; isn’t, that a sufficient reason, sir?’ ‘Why can’t you stand it? If you weren’t so infernally quarrelsome you would get along well enough.’ ‘Jack Coulter, you know that’s false. I have always got along with Madame Renaud better than anyone else in the house; but since the fire she has been so steeped in drink that there has been no living with her. It has grown worse and worse, until it has become unbearable, and I can’t stand it any longer.’ ‘You had better hunt up some other resort then.’

‘I shall do nothing of the kind.' 'You are very virtuous all of a sudden. 1 see.’

‘I might always have been but for such lecherous creatures as you.' "Take eare how you talk to me. Chloe.’ •Well, who brought me to this life of degradation ’You know you are the man who is responsible for it. When I left my father’s house for that unfeeling and deceitful libertine, I might easily have been persuaded to return, and my father would have pardoned all, but I fell into your clutches while wandering about, almost distramed, after being abandoned in a strange city, where I did not know a soul!’ •Well, what did you run away from home for?’ ‘Don’t ask me such a question. You have been told all the circumstances a hundred times. I may ask why did you take me to such a den to lead a life of prostitution?’ 'I supposed that you wanted to make a living, and I thought that would be the easiest way for you. What did you follow me here to-night for? I suppose you want some more money. Well, I haven’t any.’

T am not after money, 1 am a fter you.’

‘Me? I don’t want you. I expect some friends here in a few minutes to have a game of cards.’ ‘Well, I’ll stay and take a hand, then,' and Chloe began to remove her shawl and bonnet in a cool and unconcerned manner.

Coulter regarded her with astonishment. ‘You take a hand? You haven't any money.’ •Well, you can put up for me. It’s time for a little gallantry on your part.’ Chloe threw her wraps on a ehair, while Coulter scowled, fairly turning black with rage. Advancing to where she stood he took her arm and said in a sharp tone: ‘Come, put on those duds; do you want to disgrace me?' ‘You had no scruples about disgracing me; why should I care about you? Moreover, I hardly think I could disgrace you. If your friends knew Chloe as well as they do you they would have no hesitation in saying that she is the more respectable.’ Coulter, still maintaining his hold, made a feint as if about to coerce her, but Chloe looked defiantly at him. •Release my arm, sir,’ she demanded. Seeing that he could not rid himself of her presence without a scene. Coulter began to change his demeanour. ‘But what are von going to do here?’ he asked. ‘I am going to stay here. I tell you. I am not going back to “French Anne’s” any more.’ •Chloe, you can't stay here; you might as well get out first as last without, any trouble. You have been dogging me long enough. 1 thought for awhile after the fire that you had cleared out anil I had got rid of you. but I soon found 1 hadn’t. Xow, this matter has gone far enough. 1 don’t care anything for you—l don’t want, anything more to do with you—l want you to keep away from me. It will lx* the ruination of me if you don't; and, by the gods, if I can't

make you do it one way I will another,’ saying which. Coulter seized his mistress by the throat, ground his teeth, and looked savagely at her with a view of frightening her into submission. But Chloe released herself without trouble. Her face instantly flushed at such an indignity, and, shaking her fist and bringing down her foot vehemently she hissed scornfully in his ears: ‘Yes, you will murder me, will you, as you did Mancel Tewkes?’ ‘What, what do I hear?’ demanded Coulter, starting baek with a look of alarm, as he caught those words so venomously hurled at him. ‘Yes, the high-handed intimidator hears well and he trembles, I see.’ “Chloe,’ said Coulter, looking anxiously in her face. T don’t understand you. Don’t dare to impute any of the crimes hatched at “French Anne’s” to me. What do you know about the murder of Mancel Tewkes?’ ‘Enough to have sent you to the scaffold two years ago.’ Chloe answered in a firm tone, looking steadfastly in his eyes. Coulter turned and paced the floor excitedly for some moments, evidently struggling with his thoughts and endeavouring to find some plan to successfully eope with the woman. At length he stopped directly before her, and, placing his finger under her chin, said in a coaxing voice: ‘Come now. Chloe, don’t be silly. Don’t think because 1 asked you to testify at- the trial that I had anything to do with that, affair. I merely asked you to do so at the request of Madame Renaud. I suppose she wanted to strengthen I’intard’s testimony, thinking that it might have the effect to mitigate his punishment when convicted of burglary, as they had a pretty clear case against, him." •Jack Coulter, you can't hoodwink me in any sueh manner. I am clear sighted, and I know all the circumstances of that ease. I haven’t lived at Madame Renaud’s all these years without keeping my eyes and ears open. You are a murderer, and you know it.’

Coulter again startled at the pronunciation of that word, glanced nervously about as if fearing that the walls would repeat the accusation. ‘Hush-h-h-h; don’t, talk so loud; some one may lie listening in the hall.’ ‘A guilty conscience,’ said Chloe, sneeringl-y. Then reaching her shawl and hat, she asked: ‘Do you wish me to go now?’ ‘No, no. no. Chloe; no, no. don’t go. I want to talk further with you.’ ‘But I thought you expected some friends.’ ‘Oh. that was only a lie. Put down your things, 1 want to talk with you.’ and stepping to the door, he locked it, and put the key in his pocket. ‘Now sit down, Chloe, I want’ ‘ To make me talk. Yes; how very conciliatory you are. A moment, ago you had me by the throat, and were going to strangle me if 1 didn't leave; now you lock the door, and plead with me to remain. What do you wish of me now. sir?’ ‘I want you to tell me what you know about, that murder, and why you accuse me of it.’ ‘Mr Coulter, I am the ring-master, and I don’t propose, to hand over the whip. You can play the clown now, and dance to the crack of it. I’ve been one long enough.’ ‘You mean by that. that, you won't tell me what you know for fear of putting a weapon in my hands to -punish you with?’

‘No; 1 am not guilty of anything that, deserves punishment, therefore I do not fear it.’ Coidter stroked his moustache and looked vexed. He felt that he had more than a match in this revengeful woman, who had clung to him so faithfully until now, and that he had made a great mistake in attempting to east her off so abruptly. Satiety, repugnance and disgust on one hand, and lack of judgment on the other, had led him to make a fatal error; he saw it when it was too late. Chloe still maintained a cold and unyielding demeanour. She knew her part, and was determined to play it for all it was worth. She knew Coulter's nature to perfection; his strong and weak points; his resources and artifices, and what was better still she knew that she possessed a weapon which would bring him to submission. She had entered the den of the lion, which had stalked toward her with bristling mane, but she now had him cowering at hep feet.

‘Come, now, Chloe,’ continued Coulter, coaxingly, ‘there’s no use of our acting like children. We have both been rather hasty. I admit that I was out of sorts when you came in. Now, answer me, has Madame Renaud told you anything concerning me?’ ‘I shall not say how I came to know about it.’

‘That isn’t the question. I asked if that old drunken hag has told you anything about me.’ 'Whatever has passed between Madame Renaud and me is between us; not between you and me.’ ‘Well, if you don’t tell me I shall go and ask her. This is a serious matter which you charge me with.’ ‘You had better keep away from there if you know when you are well off.’

‘Why so?’ 'Do you know Jarmyn?' ‘Yes; I know him by name. He is a terror to the crooks, they say.’ 'Do you know him by sight?’ ‘No; why?’ ‘You had better cultivate his acquaintance then—but at a distance.’ ‘Why so? I don’t understand you.’ ‘Well, he is watching the house, and has tried to make me talk.’ ‘About what?’ ‘About you.’

‘What the devil does he want to know about me; I’m not a crook.’ ‘Hut you’re a murderer.’ Coulter frowned and looked severe. ‘lt’s a lie; I never killed a man in my life.’ ‘An accessory is as bad as a principal. You planned the crime.’ ‘Did Madame Renaud tell you that?' ‘No.’ ‘Did Pintard?’ ‘No.’ ‘Did Vitellius?’ ‘No.’ ‘Who did then?’ ‘A little spirit whispered it in my ear,’ said Chloe, with a chuckle, as she saw how Coulter was wriggling upon the gridiron. ‘Well, you are the most provoking little wretch I ever saw. I can’t get anything out of you at all. Now answer me, do you believe any such stuff —that I have ever been concerned in a murder?’ ‘Why shouldn’t I? I might hate doubted it once; but after such an exhibition as I have seen to-night, and such threats as I have heard, 1 am prepared to believe anything.’ ‘You believe it then, do you?’ ‘I do.’ ‘And are you going to make me any trouble?’

Chloe did not respond to the question, but kept her eyes fixed on tne floor. ‘Again I ask you, are you going ft> give me any trouble?’ Still there was a profound silence, and Chloe continued to gaze with downcast eyes. Coulter awaited her reply with a cool and determined expression on his face. Although it was a moment of keen suspense to him, yet he strove not to betray the evil thoughts which were rushing through his brain. However, in the stillness that ensued Chloe fancied that she could hear his short, quick respirations, and looking up she detected a sinister gleam in his eyes. 'H< win kill me if I say yes,’ she thought, but she did not manifest her uneasiness. It became apparent at once that it would be better to conciliate him than to provoke him to violence, and, thus decided, she said: ‘No; not if you behave yourself.’ Coulter felt relieved, for he saw traces of a smile about Chloe’s mouth, and her features looked softer than before. ‘lf I behave myself,’ he repeated; ‘what a generous condition! That's the easiest thing in the world for me. How do you wish me to behave?’ ‘To treat me better than you have for the last year; and to make reparation for past wrongs by acknowledging me as your wife before the law.’ ‘You mean that I shall marry you?’ ‘That’s precisely my meaning.’ ‘Marry you! Marry a woman of the town! ' Well, you've got more gall than a curbstone fakir. What do you suppose I want of you for a wife?’ ‘I don’t suppose you do. Jack, but 1 want you.’ ‘As a leech wants a bloodvessel!’ ‘Have it as you will;, but I want a decent living, and you owe it to me. I am tired of this life nt French Anne’s.’ ‘Now, Chloe, be reasonable. What do you think would be the result if I should marry you? Why. all my friends would point the finger of scorn

at me. A man may dissipate ami yet l>e thought respectable by his friends; but let him marry his mistress and they will shun him as if he were a leper. Men do not care for themselves what other men do. It is for their families they care; and when one of them takes a wife which the world thinks is not what she ought to be, every door is closed against him—every back is turned upon him and every tongue reviles him. How much respect would the hundreds of men under my charge have for me? How long would the company tolerate a man at the head of affairs who could command no respect from his subordinates? Do you not see what a sacrifice you are asking me to make?’ ‘lf I am debarred from associating with decent people who is responsible for it?’ 'You are myself. Every one is responsible for his or her own acts.' ‘No. sir. I was a foolish young girl, ruined by flattery and false promises, and you are mainly responsible for it.’ ‘Don't lie so foolish.’ ‘I am not. I am desperate, sir. I have been brought to such a plane of degradation that you even despise me, and I will have an honourable amend or your life.’ Chloe had gradually become more and more irritated by Coulter’s impudent argument, until, at last giving way to her passions, she had burst forth into this vehement threat of vengeance. Coulter, however, did not lose his self-control. He seemed to realize that the situation was becoming strained, and that it would not do for both to lose their heads at the same time. Further, he knew that Chloe had the advantage of him. that she undoubtedly knew enough to send him to the. scaffold if she felt disposed to denounce him. It was now his turn to conciliate her. or else instantly take a more desperate course and rid himself of her altogether. For the next moment his thoughts fluctuated thus between good and evil. Meanwhile Chloe appeared resolute. Her lips were tightly compressed, and she kept her snapping eyes fixed upon him, evidently determined not to allow him the least advantage if he undertook to make any violent demonstrations against her.

‘Chloe,’ said Coulter finally, in a calm and quiet manner, ‘we have been intimate friends for more than three years. You couldn't find it in your heart to sacrifice me in this way,l am sure, for either way you put. it it’s a sacrifice. If I should marry you I would sacrifice my friends, business and honour, and if I refuse, and you carry out your threats, then possibly I might lose my life, for I see that Madame Renaud has told you all about that Mancel Tewkes affair. Come now, could you sacrifice an old friend like that?'

Receiving no reply Coulter then took one of Chloe’s hands and was about to press his appeal further, when she abruptly withdrew it, saying: ‘You cannot play fast and loose with me any further. I want to know what, you are going to do. for I am not going baek to Madame Renaud's and if I must be on the town I want to know it without further quibbling on your part.’

'I can’t, marry you, Chloe, for it would be suicidal, and if I must commit. suicide I would prefer to do it now with a revolver.’ ‘You had better do it then,’ suggested Chloe, indifferently. Without making a reply Coulter went to his bureau drawer, took out his revolver and returned to Chloe’s side. Anticipating his purpose Chloe unbuttoned the bosom of her dress and drew out a small pistol saying: ‘Come now, coward, do it; I’ll dare you. I've nothing to live for without you. I’ll agree to die with you—blaze Finding that his scheme would not work. Coulter returned the weapon to the drawer; then, striving to look pleasant, he remarked: ‘Well, you have more sand than I thought you had. I’ut up your gun and we will talk it out. A contemptuous sneer accompanied the action as Chloe's pearl-handle<t pistol disappeared. It did not irritate Coulter, however, as he was labouring with a new idea which he thought would effect a compromise. 'Chloe,' said he, ‘if you are going to leave the Mtudnme's, how would you like to return home?' ‘Nonsense; never! I shall never look my father in the face again.

No; 1 would stay at the house and sell whisky behind the bar, rather.

'Capital idea! Barmaid, beer-slinger, et cetera! Can you mix a vermouth cocktail? Now, if you could only play the banjo and pirouette in infinitesimal tulle, you would make quite a success of it. Ha, ha!’

Chloe turned up her nose. 'But. seriously, Chloe, 1 was going to say that if you wish to go home I will give you the necessary means.' ‘You need not trouble yourself about that; you know what I want.'

‘That 1 can’t do—just at present, anyway; but as a compromise I'll tell you what we will do. We will make iq and be good friends again; then you shall be my old-time Chiu' my mistress, you know. I will lurnisli a nice r< oui foi you, pay your expenses, anil come to see you as often as I can.' 'Do you mean it. Jack?* asked Chloe, glancing at b m doubtfully. ‘Yes; to be sure I do. Does that suit you?’ 'And won't you get married and desert me?' 'Married! By jingo!. I don't think there is an honest woman in the world whc would have me. Married! No." ‘Tin it 1 am satisfied; but remember, if you don't keep your promise; remember, 1 say’—and she shook her finger admonishingly at him. ‘Remember what?’ ‘ Thai an injured l>ee will sting, even though the sting is fatal to its own life.’ ‘Very well, I will bear it in mind; but as long as I keep my part of the compact you will never cause me any trouble, wi.l you?’ 'I will pinmise you that.’ Coulter then kissed his mistress, and they appeared to be reconciled. Each had gained a point without a complete surrender. Seeing ;hat lie was in a trap Coulter had struggled by threats, persuasion, and every artifice known to him to make the terms of his capitulation as easy as possible. Ou the other hand, well knowing Coulter’s anxiety, Chloe had determined to gain all she eoul 1. Her life at the bagnio was loathsome in the extreme, and she could think of no better way cut of it than to compel Coulter to support her. She did not. expect to become his wife, nor did she care tc: hi nee the compromise was very acceptable to her.

(To lie continued.)