Serial Story. MURDER WILL OUT.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXIV, Issue XIX, 12 May 1900, Page 866

Serial Story. MURDER WILL OUT.

By

EDGAR PICKERING.

Author of “A Stout English Bowman,’* “King for a Summer,” etc.

SYNOPSIS OF INSTALMENTS T. TO VI. Dr. Mortimer and his friend Sylvester Courtney are interrupted in a confidential talk by the advent of a patient hurt in the street. Before he lelaves the house, his howt learns that his patient has lost a pocketbook to which he attaches a hjgjh value, and the reader perceives Khat Dr. Mortimer is much angered on learning the stranger’s name. The Doctor is about to take up a lucrative foreign appoin.t}ment, for he is engaged to be married whilst his practice is worth but and his expectations from a rich uncle seam likely to be disappointed by the advent of an Australian cousin. Messrs Scripp and Morder, the eminent lawyers, are in difficulties; and their client, eccentric Squire Gifford,Dr. Mortimer’s uncle.is the unconscious means of bringing about a crisis in. the firm’s affairs. Dr. Mortimer, called to Marlhurst bj’ a letter from his uncle, meets Madge Selby, his fiancee, in pany with Dorman (the Squire’s Auustrallian nephew), whom, latter, he warns not to continue his intimacy with the Selbys. Squire Giftord tells Mortimer that he is not satisfied with Dorman, and makes a generous proposal. Mr Selby loses half his fortune in the Great Central Bank crash, and in the illness that follows he is carefully attended by Dr. Mortimer. Jarvis Dorman develops a mysterious connection with Messrs Scripp and Morder, in which their clerk, Jean Kedar, plays a prominent part. Squire Gifford makes his will, and Dorman makes love to Madge Selby. Mortimer finds Dorman insulting Madge, and the two men come to blows, Dick proving the stronger. The Squire again presses Mortimer to marry an heiress, Judith Gutch; and Dorman has a secret interview with Jean Kedar, who is the bearer of the Squire’s will. The Squire tells Mortimer that he shall be his heir if he will marry Miss Gutch; they discuss this point: Mortimer goes to see his fiancee; a report comes that the Squire is murdered! The inquest reveals nothing. By the will, which is produced by Mr Scripp. the estate is left to Jarvis Dorman. Mortimer sees Madge for the first time since the murder, and, with strange manner and hesitating speech, she says she does not desire to see him again. © © © CHAPTER XII. The investigation into the mystery of Squire Gifford’s murder, set on foot by Messrs. Scripp and Morder and the authorities of Scotland Yard, lingered on without practical result. The keenest witted detectives were baffled, and by degrees the eclat of the crime died away. There were other events to interest in the public mind following each other in rapid succession, and except to those more especially concerned in the dismal affair, the murder was of no further moment. Leaving the settlement of his affairs to his lawyers, the new owner of Whyteleas Manor had gone on a long visit to the Continent, and the Manor was closed. It was a week or two after the memorable scene in the dining room at Whyteleas that Mortimer and Sylvester sat talking one evening in the latter’s chambers,and although the two friends had had many an earnest conversation lately, this was the most serious. It was the last time they would have one moreover, or the last for some time not to be calculated, for Mortimer would leave England next day. “So I’m going to Bastia after all, old fellow,” he said with assumed gaiety. “The man who went out in my stead—you remember how I gave up the job when 1 thought 1 was to come in for Whyteleas —well, the man who went out has given notice to quit. Can't stand the climate, or the people, or the food, I suppose, but at any rate he has written to say that he’s leaving. 1 met Nicholson by accident he's Dr. Everest’s man of business, you know, and he begged me to accept the appointment.” “Yrs, I understand that.”

“It was either going to the devil or Bastia with me, and I chose the latter. From what I hear of the place, 1 don't think there's much difference, but that's neither here nor there. You’ve no conception what a relief it will be to get out of this country.” “I don't want to bring up old troubles, Dick,” replied Sylvester. “But have you the slightest shadow of an idea why Miss Selby broke off her engagement? I'm using the privilege of an old friend in asking you that question." “Not the faintest," answered Mortimer. “If it had been any other woman who had acted so, 1 could have given a reason for it, but not in Madge's rase. There's a deep mystery,

some horrible misunderstanding that I can’t fathom. If you don’t mind we won’t discuss it. There are certain things that a man keeps to himself—this is one of them.” It was a late hour when Mortimer left Sylvester’s chambers, and the two friends hade adieu to each other. It would be a long time before they met again. “Perhaps never,” said Dick, “one never knows what’s going to happen.” Left alone, Sylvester sat ruminating over the fire, late as the hour was, his thoughts travelling over the events of the past few weeks. Then he got up, and took from his pocket a small package, that might have been easily covered with the hand, and from it he drew the piece of black rag that had fluttered on the wall of the dining room at Whyteleas. Spreading a sheet of paper on the table, he placed the fragment of cloth upon it, and sitting down leant his head on his hands in searching examination of the frayed morsel. “Cloth—of a fine texture,” he murmured. “It has been torn with violence, that’s clear from the ragged unevenness of it—a gardener would not have torn it to the shape of a triangle such as this is. It would not have been a convenient shape for nailing up the creeper. Ergo, it was not put where I found it by the gardener, nor for the usual purpose of a piece of rag. Next, it has been torn from a man’s coat —the material is not one that a woman wears. It has not lost its colour, therefore it is reasonable to assume that it has not been hanging on the wall for any length of time—the air and light would have given a different look and feel to it from what it has, and it has been torn from the skirt of a eoat. The nail was less than three feet from the ground, and would not catch a man’s sleeve, or any other part than the skirt. The fact that it has been violently rent proves haste and heedlessness on the part of the wearer, the haste and heedlessness of a man who has just committed a crime, and would be gone, let us say, “Now for the chances that the eoat is in existence. I’ll presume that the mail was not aware of the damage to his coat because he had other and more important events in his mind—the need to escape undetected being the paramount thought for the time. He discovers the tear in his cooler moments, when he has escaped and has not been detected. He doesn’t give the cause for the damage an instant’s consideration., but discards the garment as unwearahle, or sends it to be repaired. But it would be an ugly patch, and disfigure the coat, therefore as he is a man able to buy good clothes, judging from the fine texture of this fragment, he would disdain to wear it again. The coat has a certain value however, and such things are not destroyed. It would be sold, and is in existence —somewhere. It is a shiney black coat, made of what they call broad cloth, I believe; the cloth that a. clergyman or a profession! man would wear,. There! That will do for the present. My work is to find that coat, if it's anywhere to be found.” So Dr. Mortimer quitted England, taking up his duties in Bastia, and the world rolled on very little concerned with either him or those whom he had left behind. Madge had only spoken a few words to her parents in reference to the breaking of her engagement. and in her motherly way Mrs. Selby had not questioned ' her. ’ *Tm very sorry for poor Dr. Mortimer, I’m sure,” 'murmured the good soul. “But. when one’s prospects are, as you may say, rooted up. it’s better not to undertake* responsibilities. If the poor Squire* herd lived now ” “We* won’t talk aleout that, dear.” M/ielge* heed retpllied gen/tly. “We'll forget everything.” ~I *> sure,’ answered 'her mother. “I*’or I’m certain your father wouldn’t care about your being married just, yet. Xeet but what there’s someone wemlel have yoei tee-morrow, if you’d only hold up your finger to him. I’m not blind, my dear, and Mr. Dorman

doesn’t come here so often simply to see your father or me, though never a kinder man breathed.” “Please don’t mention his name to me,” exclaimed Madge, flushing. “He has had my answer —he asked me to marry him. Yes, he has been kind to my father, and I’d thank him for that, if he wanted my thanks, I’m not ungrateful.” “Of course you’re not,” replied Mrs. Selby, soothingly. Meanwhile those worrying money troubles were harassing Madge. Her father’s income had been reduced by one half, and she dreaded that he might be running into debt unknown to her, for there was no diminution of household expen'ses. Madge puzzled over the problem, quite unable to understand it, and looking forward with dread to some crisis in her father’s affairs, forming plans to meet whatever might be coming, and preparing for it, until one day the problem was solved. Mr. Dorman called one morning, on his return from the Continent, and after his departure Mr. Selby in moving from his chair, dropped some papers out of his pocket. Madge picked them up, and amongst them was a cheque signed “Jarvis Dorman.” ’ “Father I” and her eyes were blazing as she held out the cheque. “If you'll let me explain, my dear,” replied her father, “you will see that “We haven’t come so low as that, yet,” cried Madge. “This must be sent back,” and she folded the paper hastily. “I didn’t intend you to know anything about it,” he said hesitatingly. It was at that moment that Madge decided upon something that had been in her mind for some time. Mr. Dorman’s cheque was returned without a word of explanation, to be received angrily. Mr. Dorman recognised Madge’s act in it. “I’ll bring her pride down yet,” he muttered. “I’ll force her into marrying me. ’Gad ' I love her ten thousand times more than I ever did, for her spirit. But I’ll break it and win her.” He let a week elapse before paying Mr. Selby another visit, and when he did so there was no mention of the returned chequg. But he showed more solicitude than usual for Mr. Selby’s health, and listened patiently to Mrs. Selby’s talk, which was an act of pure heroism on his part, for the good lady was exceedingly Wearisome in her speeches. “It is not with my consent, nor her father’s,” remarked Mrs. Selby, “that Madge will go.” “Go !” exclaimed Mr. Dorman. “I thought I’d explained,” replied Mrs. Selby. “Yes, she is quite determined, Mr Dorman, and so headstrong. Madge is looking out for a situation.” “In what capacity ?” “She has an idea of being companion to a lady, or something or other in somebody else’s household. I’m rather confused as to what it is exactly, and don’t like the idea of her becoming a lady help. It’s neither one thing nor another.” “There can be no possible need for Miss Selby’s leaving her home,” replied Mr. Dorman.” “No indeed,” went on the other, “and we’ve almost come to words over it. but I never knew such a determined child as Madge. She insists, and has been answering advertisements.” Something interrupted the conversation, but on his way back to the Manor Mr. Dorman recollected every word of it. “Madge would make the best companion ever known —but not a woman’s. She’s to be mine,” and he laughed in his disagreeable fashion. Mrs. Selby had spoken truly enough, for Madge had resolved to ease the burden which her father's straitened means had involved. She would be one less to feed, she reasoned in a matter-of-fact way, and her wages would provide her with dress. So she searched the columns of the daily papers for a suitable situation, and

answered several advertisements that proved eminently unsuitable. By this, Mr. Selby found it quite useless to object to the plan, and entered into it with cheerfulness. “Here’s another answer,” said Madge one morning, showing her mother a letter, “There are eight children whom I should have to instruct : I shall be expected to make myself useful in the house—whatever that may mean—and Mrs. Biggin says I am to be treated like one of the family.” "What does she offer to pay you ?” “In addition to being treated like one of the family,” replied Madge somewhat demurely, “which is rather a risky advantage, I’m offered six pounds a year—and a seat in church, gratis : I’d almost forgotten that.” “Does she say anything about laundering ?” asked Mrs. Selby anxiously. “Because washing is such an item.” “Not a word. But remember that I’m offered a seat in church for nothing.” “ I’m sure I don’t know what to say to it,” murmured her mother. “ I do,” said Madge, as she put the letter in the fire. “ But I won’t say it out of consideration for Mrs Biggin.” Next day Mrs Selby received a newspaper by post, and in the “ Situations A acant ” column, was an underscored advertisement which offered everything that either she or Madge desired. The paper had evidently been sent by a friend, for Madge’s purpose was known to many of her acquaintances, and she read the advertisement convinced that the situation was the very one she had been searching for. A widowed lady required a bright cheerful companion. The salary would be a generous one, and applicants would be reimbursed their travelling expenses, iru giving the advertiser a personal interview. So Madge sat down and wrote at once, receiving in the course of post an answer stating that Madame Ange Duval, would be very pleased to sec her, and: if possible to engage her services as companion. “ Merton St. Jude ” was the name of the place wherein Madame Duval lived, and with some difficulty, Madge found that Morton St. Jude was a small village, a few miles from Winchester. “ She’s a. French lady, I suppose,” remarked Mrs Selby, “’it’s very good of her to pay for your journey to this 'Outlandish place, my dear.” “I shouldn’t go if she did not,” replied Madge. “ It’s a long way and an expensive journey. I wonder what ‘ generous salary ’ means ?” “ Whatever she offers you, my dear,” exclaimed Mrs Selby, ' “ insist upon having your laundering paid.” It was a few days later that with a brave heart, Madge started for Morton St. Jude, Mrs Selby sobbing through her tears that the laundering must be insisted on, and then for the first time, mother and daughter were seoarated.

It was a long- tedious journey but ended at last by a rattling fly depositing Madge at the door of a small house, which stood on the outskirts of the straggling village of Morton St. Jude. She had been driven there from the railway station at Winchester, the distance being some three or four miles, and the flyman, after assisting his venerable horse to turn the ramshackle conveyance, having driven away, a sensation of being- cut off from every tie, and quite alone in the world, assailed her. All the events of the past year seemed to come crowding into her mind —thoughts of her lover, and the happiness that had fled for ever—but she drove the memories back fiercely, as she waited for her ring at the bell to be answered. A wondering-eyed little maiden opened the door, and gave Madge a stare, saying in a timid, hesitating way, that Madeline was at home, easting a glance over her shoulder as she spoke. She explained that she was not the regular servant; her aunt was that, but Madame had been angry, and — whereupon Madge stepped into the passage, bidding hfer tell Madame Duval that Miss Selby had come. With an intuition that it was the proper thing to do, the girl asked Madge to stay in the drawing room, opening the door of it as she did so, whence came the indefinable aroma of apples, dead rose leaves, silence and disuse. The windows were shielded by curtains of muslin, their folds w> long undisturbed that the dust had given an air of solidity to them. A piano stood open, its uneven yellow teeth proclaiming its antiquity, and scattered on the floor, lay some music,

as though thrown down hastily, a French song being on the stand above the discoloured keyboard. A row of untended flowers drooped on the window sill, adding a dismalness to the room beyond every other token of neglect, and sitting down Madge tried to imagine the personality of Madame Duval. Then the door was opened abruptly, and there entered one of the strangest, quaintest creatures she had ever beheld. It was Madame herself, smiling, shoulder shrugging, and sparkling, arrayed in laces and silks, with a toupee of raven blackness, and an air of the extremest delight. With her claw-like hands outstretched, whereon glittered rings to the second ■joints of her fingers, she advanced with a quick, mincing step to Madge, and imprinted a kiss first on one cheek and then on the other before she could be prevented. “ And at last then is Mees Sel-bee come ' ” exclaimed Madame Ange. “What happiness! So expected also. Ma foi, how long a journey. One must be dead of it 1” Madge had to recover from her surprise before answering, and Madame went on volubly : “There shall be no conversation of business until you are refreshed,” she cried. “Poor chaile! I am in despair that you are wearied to death. And it is for me that you are come so far. How gracious to have answered so quickly too. But allons, we will go to a—nother room. Come, follow me, my chaile,” and they went together into' a back room, where a meal was already prepared—a meal which proclaimed that Madame s means were ample, and that her nature was generous, for there were choice wines and delicate viands that seemed somewhat out of keeping with the small house and its appointments, so far as Madge could judge of them. And Madame—Madge tried to fix the face and person of her entertainer in her mind, but Madame was so volatile, so gesticulatory, so altogether different from anyone whom Madge had ever seen, that the attempt was in vain. Madame Duval was powdered and rouged, her brows were pencilled, and there was the glint of gold, as her reddened lips moved in quick speech and smiles. She was dressed elegantly, and yet withal there was a soupcon of personal neglect about her, an air which in a man would have denoted recklessness and something more, but all was so strangely mingled that it proved rather confusing. Of her kindness and thoughtful consideration, however, there could be no question, and in a short time Madge was joining in Madame’s sprightly talk and smiles too. It was impossible to resist her merriment, and as the fatigue of her journey wore off, Madge had formed a favourable opinion of Madame Ange Duval. “We shall love so much each other, dear chaile,” said the latter. “I have the true belief of this. Is it not so? Already we are no longer strangers, a.nd my life —ah! my life is to be no more desolate. I am a widow since ten years, and before then —Mon Dieu, but it was happiness the most supreme. Henri—my husband know you, he worship my feet, but alas! so mad to gamble. We were very rich, but poor Henri he lose thousands millions!” and the beringed fingers were waved, “before he die. So sudden also did he die—in a mo—ment, and I was devoured with grief the most horrible. After that I travel, being still rich, and at last reach England and here. It is repos that I desire, but a village gives me too much repos: there is no companee that regard me, and the ‘Padre,’ your Eeng lish pastor, is of the most dull, then I adver —tise for a companion, and they come. Mon Dieu! they come,” and Madame gave a shrill laugh, leaning back in her chair. “Did you have many answers to your advertisement?” asked Madge. “You ask me, my chaile,” cried Madame, “do they answer? Ciel! I have a tall one come, who chill my blood, so austere and triste was she; a short one who shall be what you call ‘sharwoman’ in her home, doubtless; another who have the look of crying al—ways in her face, understand you, and twenty more, thirty more, that shall be companion. Yes, companion to a gravedigger, to a nun, to a reeluse. per—haps, but not to Madame Duval. I desire merriment, beauty, sympathy, is It not so? And I find it in you, my chaile. I am content.’ Madge watched Madame, who spoke so rapidly that it was hard work to follow her, and then approached the subject of terms.

“I can’t decide to accept the situation,” she answered after Madame had stated these and described the duties that would devolve upon her, which were in nowise irksome, “until 1 have consulted my mother.” "Who will let you come to me, dear chaile,” exclaimed her hostess. “I beg you to say that she have no fear of your happiness. Is it not so?” “1 am sure that you would do everything for my comfort, Madame,” replied Madge. “Comfort! Ah! but yes. We will travel together for a time. For I am weary of this village. Also of my house that is so disarranged at this hour. I have a servant whom I treat too well, and she is an Ingrate. At a mo—ment ‘Saran’ fly from me,” and Madame’s beady eyes shot out a flash of anger. “The ingrate Saran,’ she continued.

“I pay her well, she rob meal—ways and I do not complain ever. I give Saran of the finest food, and the work is not ha,rd. But Saran has so quick a temper, and of so much fire, that she quarrel al —ways. Then she depart—pouf—is gone. But she come back in a day—two days with tears, so grieved. She weep for pardon, and I forgive.” From this explanation Madge gathered that the little maid’s aunt, by name Sarah Ann, and her mistress w-ere accustomed to have disagreements, and that she would return in due course. It added amusement to the conversation to hear Madame’s story, and finally Madge decided to come to her. The salary that was offered was beyond all her expectations, being fifty pounds a year, and when the time came for her to leave Morton St. Jude, in order that she might return to Marlhurst the same day, Madame took her purse out, handing Madge a five-pound note. “ I can’t take all that, Madame Duval,” she said, shaking her head. “It is too much.” “So foo—lish,” laughed Madame shrilly. “ But yes. lam rich—five pounds—bah J What are they when I gain so much from you, sweet chaile ? Take then this money.” “ I will take two pounds.” replied Madge firmly, “ and no more.” “ Foo—lish one,” laughed Madame again. “But it shall be as you wish.” Madge took the two pounds, and the fly having been brought to the door, she departed, leaving Madame waving her be-jewelled hand from the cottage, and after another tedious journey reached Marlhurst to give an account of Madame Duval and Morton St. Jude to her mother. “ I shall accept the offer,” she said. “Think what we can do with fifty pounds a year !” “ I hope you mentioned the laundering,” replied Mrs Selby, but Madge was fain to confess that this subject had been quite forgotten.

CHAPTER XIII. In the shaded room of a small house in the upper part of the town of Bastia, Dr. Mortimer lay back in his hammock chair, smoking. On the left of the house, which was situated in the distiict known as the Terra Nuovo, loomed up the Leone fortress, and above it were vineyards and olive gardens, and before the open windows a big fan palm swayed in the gentle breeze against the brown black cypresses that divided the garden from the road. The warm air had made him diowsy and the waving palm seemed lulling him to sleep, when he was aroused by the patter of bare feet on the stone floor of the passage leading to the room, and he looked up to see the brown face of a lad, who panted as though he had been running. “ The English doctor is wanted at once,” said the boy. “ Cesario Paoli is dying. The Signor will know Cesario’s house ?” and Diek got up fiom his chair. “ I’ve heard of it,” he answered. “It’s somewhere up in the mountain. What has Cesario been doing ?” “ He met Fabiano,” explained the lad hurriedly. “ They fought. Cesario was wounded.” “Vendetta business,” muttered Dick. “ They’re a bloodthiisty lot about here.” “ I will guide you,” continued the boy, “ but come quickly for the love of Our Lady.” Staying only to provide himself with such things as might be needed, Mortimer and the lad left the house, going upward through the olive gardens, and along narrow paths over-

hanging- dizzy depths until in about an hour's time a little hut was reached, whieh the lad pointed out as belonging to Cesaiio Paoli, who was a goat-herd and reported down iu Bastia to be the last member of an ancient family, which had once been wealthy and powerful. All that Cesario had inherited however had been the family vendetta, that had involved him in several conflicts with the members of the Arrighi clan, one of whom, Eabiano by name, he had met that day with fatal consequences to himself. This Mortimer learnt fiom Teresa’s lips. Teresa was Cesario’s niece, and Mortimer, coming quickly into the hut, started in surprise at seeing her calm beautiful face and neat dress amid the sordid surioundings of the rough couch upon which lay the wounded man, who had been badly hurt. With her quiet aid he did what was possible for her uncle, and when Cesario fell into a troubled sleep, they moved to the doorway conversing in undertones. She told him that a messenger had come down to Bastia with the news of her uncle’s injury and she had hastened to his aid. Then Teresa nai rated her simple history. She was seventeen years old, and had been brought up in the convent of Sante Ursulo where she was taught the art of lace making, by which she earned her living, having neither father nor mother to provide for her. Standing there in the blight moonlight, Teresa seemed to Mortimer to present one of the most beautiful pictures he had ever seen. Iler face was perfect in contour, tinted with the bloom that only youth possesses or health can give, and her eyes had a coy smile lurking in them, for ail that they could flash at a story of wrong, or soften with tears at another's misery; whilst, added to these charms, were pearly teeth and the sweetest lips that ever tempted a kiss. Her convent education had been a good one,

and her speech betrayed none of the roughness such as Mortimer had often noticed in her countrymen, having a eharm mid sensibility that gave her a marked distinction. “ Who is this Arrighi ?” asked Mortimer, after a little pause, and Teresa's eyes sent out a flash. They were speaking in French, and hers was as fine as a I’arisienne’s. “He is an olive grower,” she answered. “It is an old quarrel. 1 have been taught that it is a sin to hate, but 1 hate Fabiano Arrighi.” “Because of the family feud?” “I do not think of that, although it has brought this calamity to Cesario. No, it is not for that. Fabiano would be my lover,” and she made a gesture of impatience. “He is rich, they say, and he often comes into Bastia. And 1 would not listen to him, so he has sworn to be revenged and I fear his anger.” “Where is the fellow now?” asked Mortimer. “Hiding among the mountains. The gendarmes will search but they will not find him. Then the atlai. ...i forgotten.” “More Corsican customs,” murmured Mortimer to himself, and then he spoke again. “And what is to be done with you, Teresa?” “1 can defend myself,” she replied. “But I warn you against him. He will discover that you are here, and will do anything to prevent himself from being captured. Beware of Fabiano Arrighi.” “But I haven’t a family vendetta,” he laughed, “or at least 1 haven’t brought it to Corsica, so Mr. Arrighi and 1 won't fall out.” “He is jealous too,” said Teresa. “One’s life is not valued up here in the mountains,” and then they went into the hut, for Cesario was calling faintly. It was some hours later, and Mortimer sat alone by the goat-herd’s eoueh. There was hope now that the unfortunate man might pull through, and it would lie needful to send him

up a nurse from the town. Mortimer was considering this when a sudden cry sent him running out of the hut. At a short distance from it were Teresa and a dark visaged man whose grasp was on her wrist, and at a glance Dick took in the situation. The man was Fabiano Arrighi, and he ran towards them. “Let go your hold, you villain!” he cried, and at this Fabiano scowled in an ominous way. He relaxed his hold on Teresa, however, and held his ground hesitatingly. “The English doctor,” he muttered between his teeth. “Sacristi! He will betray me.” “If this' wasn’t Corsica,” exclaimed Dick angrily, “you shouldn’t have another hour’s freedom, my friend. Do you know that you’ve nearly killed Cesario?” “Who would have killed me.” retorted Fabiano calmly. “Who has already killed my cousin Teodor. The quarrel is an old one,” and he shrugged the goat skin that covered his shoulders. “It does not extend to defenceless women, if it’s as old as Corsica itself,” replied Dick. “You speak of Teresa Brasco,” was the hissed-out answer. "Yes. I see that you and she are friends. Perhaps you are more? You are lovers.” “We haven’t reached that stage yet, but 1 won't have her molested,” and he said this in a mixture of Corsican patois and French, so that Fabiano laughed, although the laugh was not a very pleasant one. Teresa had escaped into the hut, standing watching the angry men from the doorway. “I understand,” said Fabiano slowly, his eyes being on the girl, and his hand stroking the hilt of a dagger which was stuck in his waist band. “It is quite plain to me. Teresa and I will meet again.” “Not if I can prevent it,” cried Dick. “And so be off. You risk a great deal by remaining here.” “The gendarmes never hurry,” replied the Corsican coolly. “But 1 have other business than to speak with you. Signor, —-adieu,” and he swung away, disappearing amongst the rocks and trees. It was mid-day before Mortimer thought it safe to leave his patient, and there was a little lingering in parting with Teresa. She professed no fear, however, and presently Dick began his descent through the vineyards and olive gardens, out on the mountain track, on which the burning sun beat down unhindered, and along the side of a huge rock, thinking over the scenes in which he had just takeu part. Then his thoughts wandered back to the old times in London and Marlhurst, until the remembrance paramount above all others came. It was his deathless love for Madge, the never ceasing hope that some day all the clouds of mystery which parted them would be cleared away, and thinking thus he came to a part in the road that wound dangerously near the edge of a precipice, a thousand feet deep. On the other s’de of the path bulged the massy shoulder of the mountain, and he suddenly stopped. For not a. dozen yards in front of him stood Fabiano Arrighi, beetlebrowed and sinister, with a gun lying across his arm. “We have met once again,’ he said, “planting his feet firmly. “The Signor doctor must not return to Bastia.” “Oh. indeed,” replied Diek. “And why not, pray?” “For many reasons,” went on Fabiano coolly. “I mistrust you. Signor, 1 would not have you speak of me to my enemies, and T have many in Bastia. Therefore, your road must be in ti different direction.” The cool effrontery of the fellow rather amused Mortimer, and he took a step closer to him, but in a moment Fabiano’s rifle was presented point blank at his face. Dick stooped and and ran in. upon him, seizing him by the hip and shoulder. There was a fierce struggle, and it were as if a flame had scorched his arm: Fabiano had stabbed him, and with a cry Mortimer went staggering backward, nearer and nearer the edge of the path, beneath which yawned an awful death. Suddenly his foot slipped, and as he slid over the brink, a scream reached his ears Fabiano, whose scowling face had been glaring into his, vanished, and then, conscious that the next instant might be his last, he was grasping some brambles that grew on the edge of the abyss, holding thus with fast waning strength, helpless to save himself from being whirled into space when his hold Ahould relax. (To be Continued.)