Serial Story. (PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.) IN WHITE RAIMENT

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXV, Issue XV, 13 October 1900, Page 666

Serial Story. (PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.) IN WHITE RAIMENT

By

WILLIAM LE QUEUX.

Author of "Purple and Fine Linen.” "Whoso Findeth a Wife." "Of Royal Blood,’ “If Sinners Entice 1 hee. “The Day of Temptation," Etc., Etc.

(COPYRIGHT.)

CHAPTER XI. VOICES OF THE NIGHT. From my place of concealment I was able to watch the major closely without risk of detection . His presence there boded no good. He had crept slowly up the avenue until within sight of the house, and was intently scanning the gay party assembled on the lawn. Was it possible that he had walked behind me and watched me enter there?

He was scarcely so smart in appearance as on the day when he led my bride up the aisle of the church, and had afterwards handed me the cigarette, but nevertheless he retained the distinctly foppish air of the man-about-town. For a few moments only he remained there eagerly scanning the distant group, then, as though reassured. he turned on his heel, and retraced his steps towards the lodge. Determined to watch his movements 1 followed him until be gained Hounslow station, and there I saw him turn into a low-built old-fashioned inn. where I afterwards discovered he had been staying for a couple of days' past. That some conspiracy was being formed I could not doubt: therefore I set myself to keep strict watch upon him. a no easy matter, for from hour to hour I feared that he might recognise me. It was he who had petitioned the Archbishop for the special license for our marriage: he who had with some mysterious motive posed as the father of the woman I now loved. Surely she must have known that he was not her father, and. if so, she herself had taken part in a plot which had so nearlv cost her her life. But was she not dead when I found her lying there? Most certainly. I could have sworn before any coroner that she was lifeless. The puzzle was bewildering. The major's movements might possibly give me some clue. It was fortunate that we had met. At a cheap clothier's I had purchased a rough second-hand suit, and a bowler hat. much the worse for wear, and these I had assumed in order to alter my appearance as much as possible, for a well-dressed man in a silk hat is somewhat remarkable in a place like Hounslow. About nine o'clock that same night, while I stood idling about the station with my eye ever upon the inn opposite, my vigilance was suddenly rewarded: for the major emerged leisurely, carefully lit a cigar, and then strolled across the railway bridge and down the road towards Whitton. Darkness had not quite set in. therefore I hesitated to follow him: but fortunately I had explored the neighbourhood thoroughly during the past few hours, and knew that by crossing to the opposite platform of the station I could gain a footpath which led through fields and market gardens, emerging into the high-road almost opposite the gates of the park. This byway I took, and hurrying down it. arrived at a point -near the lodge fully five minutes before he appeared along the road. The gates were, however, closed. Would he ring and demand admittance. I wondered. When about two hundred yards from the gates he suddenly halted, glanced up and down the road as though to make certain that no one was watching, and then bending down squeezed himself through a hole in the wooden fencing and disappeared. He evidently knew that the gates were locked, and had already discovered that mode of entry, if indeed he had not broken away the palings himself earlier in the day. Without hesitation I hurried forward over the grass by the roadside, so that he might not hear my footsteps. and discovering the hole in the paling, entered after him. I found

myself in the midst of hawthorn bushes and thick undergrowth, but. pausing and listening intently I soon detected which direction he had taken by the noise of breaking twigs. For some ten minutes I remained there, fearing to move lest the noise might alarm him. but when at last he was out of hearing I crept forward, breaking my way through in the direction of the avenue. The night was hot. and so still that each sound seemed to awaken the echoes.

What if he had paused, and, becoming alarmed, was now awaiting me! I pushed forward as cautiously as I could. It was quite dark, and I could discern nothing in the obscurity of the copse. At last, however, the brambles having scratched my hands and face, and my clothes having been badly torn. I emerged into the drive up which I had passed that afternoon. I stood listening, but could hear no sound beyond the howling of a distant dog and the roar of a train on its way to London. I strained my ear to detect in which direction the major had gone, for a footstep on the gravel can be heard a long distance in the silence of the night. All was, however, quiet —a stillness that somewhat unnerved me. for it occurred to me that he might be lurking somewhere among the dark bushes and perhaps watching me with secret satisfaction.

With the greatest caution I crept on. walking noiselessly over the grass in the direction of the house. As soon as the old mansion came into view I saw that lights burned in many of the windows, and from the drawing-room, where rhe open doors led on to the lawn, came the lively strains of dance music.

From where I stood I could sse the high lamps, with the'r shades of yellow silk, and now and then bright dresses flashed past the long windows. A couple cf figures were strolling up and down before the house. I could see their white shirt-fronts in the darkness, and knew that they wete men smoking and enjoying the night air. The waltz ceased, and as I listened a sweet female voice broke forth, singing to a piano accompaniment a selection from Bizet’s “Les Pecheurs de Perles” That charming song “Je crois entendre encore.” The voice was full of rich melody, ard had evidently been trained. Was it, I wondered. that of my mvsterious wife? The two men at last tossed away their cigar ends and entered the house: thus I became encouraged to approach closer, cross the lawn and peep through one of the side windows of the drawing-room. It was, I saw. a long. low. old room, comfortably furnished in a bygone s'yle. Across the ceiling were great oaken beams, dark and mellow with age. while most of the furniture dated from the early part of the century. Fully a dozen people were there, bur as I ea-ed around I was disappointed not t > see my love. I had risked de'eet’on and discovery to obtain sight of her. but she was not present, neither was her cousin Nora. Most of the guests seemed smart people, judging from the women’s toilettes, and all were lolling about with the air of laziness which overcomes one after a good dinner. Dancing had ended, and as I watched, a young, dark-haired girl approached the piano, and at somebody’s suggestion commenced to sing a song by which I knew that sh - was French. It was a song familiar to me in the days when before entering the hospital school I had lived in Paris, that ditty so popular in the cabarets of the Montmartre. “Tn t’en iras les pieds devant.” She sang merrily, and was loudly applauded. It was evident that the knowledge of French among the guests was not. as is so often the case, a pretence, for they laughed heartily at the comic-expressions and grinned when there was anything particularly “riskv.” It was certainly not the

song for a drawing-room, and the fact that it had been demandtd showed plainly that the company was not a very prudish one. But alas! Society has sadly degenerated during the past decade. Ten years ago music-halls were regarded as pa'aees of Satan, into which no respectable woman dare enter: but nowadays it is quite the correct thing to spend an evening at the music-hall, and mothers do not hesitate to take the'r daughters to hear songs calculated t> bring a blush to the face of a virtuous girl.

How is it that at the end of this century respectable women ape the dress, the manners, and even the slang of the “demi-monde”? To be fast is to be chic —a fact which is surely to be regretted by those who still hold the Englishwoman as the pure type of all that is sweet and adorable. It seems to me very much as though in the lounge of the music-hall, that carpeted promenade of Aspaisa, the line dividing the "monde” from the “-demimonde” is so fine as to be almost indistinguishable. The smart woman of to-day is not very far removed from those unfortunates of her sex whom she calls “creatures.” yet whose modes in skirts and millinery she is so fond of imitating: whose career she will devour in fiction, and whose argot, the argot of the bar. the restaurant, and the night-club, is fast creeping into her vocabulary. Smartness is almost invariably a synonym for the manners of a “cocotte.”

I peered in through those windows, eager for a glimpse of Beryl. Sureiy she was not like those others? No I recollected her calm dignity and sweet grace when I had spoken to her. She. at least, was high-minded and womanly. I was glad she was not there to hear that song. The singer sat down, having finished amid roars of laughter, and then the conversation was resumed: but at that instant I became conscious of someone passing near me. and had only just time to draw back into the shadow and thus escape observation. It was one of the guests, a man who lounged slowly along, the glowing end of his cigar shining in the darkness. Alone, he was apparently full of reflections, for he passed slowly and mechanically onward without noticing me. Unable to see his face, I could only detect that he was rather above the average height. : nd by the silhouette I saw that he stooped slightly. The encounter, however, caused me to recede from the house, for I had no desire to be detected there and compelled to give an account of myself. I was in shabby clothes, and if found in the vicinity might be suspected of an intention to commit a theft.

Where was the major? He had c r tainly entered there, but had escape I my vigilance by passing through the thicket. I had been there nearly 1 af an hour yet had not been able to rediscover him. The lawn on one i le was bounded by a light iron fencing, beyond which was a thick wood, an 1 upon this fencing I mounted and s it to rest in full view of the house and the long windows of the drawi grooni. In the deep shadow of the trees I waited there, safe from detection.listening to the music which soon recommenced. and wondering what had become of the man whom I had tried

to follow. He seemed to have avoided the house, and gone to the opposite side of the Park. Not far away lay the great lake, tranquil in the gloom, mirroring the stars upon its unruffled surface, and disturbed only by the rustle of a rat along the bank, or the plaintive cry of a teal as she made her way among the dry rushes. Although I eould actually see into the circle of the assembled guests, yet I was so far off that I could distinguish the women by the colour of their gowns. Had Beryl returned to join them. I wondered. I was longing for a single glance at her dear face, that face sweeter than any other in all the world.

A woman in a cream dress, cut low at the neck, came suddenly to the doorway, and peered forth into the night, as though in search of someone, but a moment later she disappeared, and again the piano broke forth with the pretty minuet from “Manon.” I had, I felt certain, been there almost. if not quite, an hour; therefore I was resolved to make a tour of the Park in an endeavour to find the man whose suspicious movements had so interested me earlier in the evening. With that object in view I leaped down upon the lawn, crossed it until I reached the edge of the lake, which I skirted until I gained a rustic bridge which crossed the tiny brook that rippled over the stones and fell into the pool.

Of a sudden I heard a sound. It was quite distinct, like a half suppressed cough. I halted in surprise, but no other movement reached my ear. Could I have been mistaken? The noise seemed very human, yet I knew that in the darkness of night the most usual sound becomes exaggerated and distorted. Therefore reassured. I continued my way by the narrow unfrequented path, which, leaving the lake side, struck across the park and led me by a stile into a dark belt oi wood. Scarcely had I entered it. however, when I heard human voices distinctly. I halted and listened. An owl hooted weirdly, and there was a dead silence.

I wondered whether the persons I had surprised had detected my presence. I stood upon the narrow path holding my breath, so that I could catch every sound. A couple of minutes passed. To me they seemed as hours. Then again the voices sounded away to the left, apparently on the edge of the wood. Noiselessly I retraced my steps to the stile, and then found that from it there ran a path inside the Iron railing, whither I knew not. But somewhere down that path two persons }vere in consultation.

Treading carefully so that my footsteps should not be overheard I crept down the path until of a sudden I caught sight of a woman’s white dress in the gloom. Then, sufficiently close to overhear, I halted with strained ears.

I was hidden behind a high hazel bush, but could just distinguish, against that reddish glare which shines in the sky of the outskirts of London on a summer’s night, two silhouettes, those of a man and a woman. The former had halted and was leaning against the railing, white the latter, with a shawl twisted about her shoulders, stood facing him.

“If you had wished you could certainly have met me before this,” the man was grumbling. “I’ve waited at the stile there a solid hour. Besides, it was a risky business with so many people about.”

“I told you not to come here,” she answered, and in an instant I recognised the voice. They were the sweet, musical tones of the woman who was mv wife.

“Of course,” laughed her companion. sardonically. “But, you see, I 'prefer the risk.” And I knew by the deep note that the man who stood oy her was the major. “Why?” she inquired. “The risk is surely mine in coming out to meet you!” “Bah! Women can always make excuses,” he laughed. “I should not

have made this appointment if it were not imperative that we should meet.” ‘•Well?” she sighed. “What do you want of me now?"

“1 want to talk to you seriously.” "With the usual request to follow,” she observed wearily. “You want money, eh?”

“Money? Oh, no,” he said with bitter sarcasm, “I can do without it. I can live on air. you know.” “That’s better than prison fare, I should have thought,” she answered grimly.

“Ah. now, my dear, you're sarcastic,” he said, with a touch of irony. “That doesn’t become you.” “Well, tell me quickly what you want and let me get back, or they will miss me.”

“You mean that your young lover will want to know with whom you’ve been flirting, eh? Well, you can mislead him again as you’ve done many times before. What a fine thing it is to be an acomplished liar. I always envy people who can lie well, for they get through life so easily.” He spoke in a familiar tone, as though he held her beneath an influence that was irresistible.

“I am no liar,” she protested quickly "The lies I have been compelled to tell have been at your own instigation.”

“And to save yourself,” he added, with a dry, harsh laugh. “But I didn’t bring you here for an exchange of compliments.” CHAPTER XII. THE MORNING AFTER. “Then why have you compelled me to meet you again?” she demanded fiercely, in a tone which showed her abhorrence of him. “The last time we met you told me that you were going abroad. Why haven’t you gone?” “I’ve been and come back again.” “Where?” “That’s my business,” he answered quite calmly. “Your welcome home is not a very warm one, to say the least.” “I have' no welcome for my enemies.”

“Oh, I'm an enemy, eh? Well,” he added, “1 have always considered myself your friend.” “Friend!” she echoed. “You show your friendliness in rather a curious manner. You conceive these dastardly plots and then compel me to do your bidding, to act as your decoy.” “Come, come,” lie laughed, his temper quite unruffled by her accusation. “You know that in all my actions 1 am guided by your interests —as well as my own.” “I 'was certainly not aware of it,” she responded. “It cannot be to my interest that you compel me to meet you here like this at risk of discovery. Would it not have been better if our meeting had taken place in .London, as before?” “Necessity has driven me to make this appointment,” he responded. “To write to you is dangerous, yet I wanted to give you warning so that you can place yourself in a position of security-” “A warning—of what?” she asked, breathlessly. “La Gioia is here.” “La Gioia!” she gasped. “Here? Impossible!” La Gioia! It was the name I had found written upon the piece of paper beneath her pillow. “Unfortunately, it is the truth,” he responded in an earnest voice. “The contretemps is serious.” “Serious!” she cried in alarm. “Yes, it is serious, and through you I am thus placed in peril.” “How do you intend to act?” “I have no idea,” she responded in a hoarse tone. “I am tired of it all and driven to despair. I am sick to death of this eternal scheming, this perpetual fear that the terrible truth should become known. God knows how I have suffered during the past year. Ah. how a woman can suffer and still live! I tell you.” she cried with sudden desperation, “this dread that haunts me continually will drive me to take my life.” “Rubbish!” he laughed. “Keep up your pluck. With a little ingenuity a woman can deceive the very devil himself.”

“I tell you,” she said, “I am tired of life, of you. of everything. I have nothing to live for, nothing to gain by living.”

Her voice was the broken voice of a woman driven to desperation by the fear that her secret should become known. “Well.” he laughed brutally, “you’ve certainly nothing to gain by dying, mv dear.”

"You taunt me,” she cried in anger. "You who hold me irrevocably in this bond of guilt, you who compel me to act as your accomplice in these vile schemes! 1 hate you!” "Without a doubt,” he responded, with a short laugh. "And yet 1 have done nothing to arouse this feeling of antagonism.”

“Nothing! Do you then think so lightly of all the past?” "My dear girl,” he said, "one should never think of what has gone by. It's a bad habit. Look to your own safety —and to the future.”

"La Gioia is here,” she repeated in a low voice, as though unable fully to realise all that the terrible announcement meant. “Well, how do you intend to act?”

"My actions will be guided by circumstances," he replied. “And you?” She was silent. The stillness of the night was broken only by the dismal cry of a night bird down near the lake.

"1 think it is best that I should die and end it all,” she replied in a hard, strained voice.

“Don't talk such nonsense,” he said impatiently. “Y’ou are young, graceful, smart, with one of the prettiest faces in London. And you would commit suicide. The thing is utterly absurd.”

“What have I to gain by living?” she inquired again, that question being apparently uppermost in her mind. “Y’ou love young Chetwode. Y’ou may yet marry him.” “No,” she answered with a sigh, “1 fear that can never be. Happiness can never be mine—never.”

“Does he love you?” inquired the major, with a note of sympathy in his voice.

“Love me? Why, of course he does.”

“Y'ou have never doubted him?” “Never.” “And he has asked you to marry him?”

“Y'es, a dozen times.” “When was the last occasion?” "To-night—an hour ago.” “And, of course, you refused?” “Of course.” “Why?” “Because of the barrier which prevents my marriage with him.” “And you will allow that to stand in the way of your safety?” “My safety?” she echoed. “I don’t understand.” "Cannot you see that if you married Cyril Chetwode at once La Gioia would be powerless?” “Ah!” she exclaimed, suddenly impressed by the suggestion. “I had never thought of that.”

“Well,” he went on, “if you take my advice you’ll lose no time in becoming Chetwode’s wife. Then you can defy your enemies and snap your fingers at La Gioia.”

A deep silence fell. The woman who was my wife was reflecting. “Y’ou say that by marriage I could defy my enemies, but that is incorrect. I could not cut myself free of all of them.” “Why? Whom would you fear?” “Y’ou yourself!” she answered bluntly. “I know you too well, alas!” she went on desperately. "I know that I could never be safe from your ingenious plotting, that just at the moment of my happiness you would cast upon me the black shadow of the past.” “Y’ou have no confidence in me,” he protested with a dissatisfied air. “I can have no confidence in one who holds me enslaved as you do.”

“And yet I have come here at considerable risk and personal inconvenience to give you warning.”

“Because you fear discovery yourself.”

“No.” he laughed. “I’m quite safe. I merely came here to make two suggestions to you. One I have already made, namely, that you should marry Chetwode without delay. And the other ”

He paused, as though accurately to gauge the extent of his power over her.

“Well? Go on. I am all attention.” “The other is that you should, as before, render me a trifling assistance in a little matter I have in hand which, if successfully carried out. will place both of us for ever beyond the reach of La Gioia’s vengeance.” “Another scheme!” she cried wearily. “Well, what is it? Some further dastardly plot or other, no doubt. Explain it.” “No. Y’ou are under a misapprehension.” he responded quickly. “The affair is no dastardly plot, but merely a little piece of ingenuity by which we may outwit La Gioia.”

"Out wit her!” she cried. "The very devil himself could not outwit La Gioia!” “Ah!" he laughed. "Y’ou women are always so ready to jump to 11-formed conclusions. She has one weak point.” "And you have discovered it?" “Yes. I have discovered it.” “How?” "That is my affair. It is sufficient to be aware that she, the invincible, is nevertheless vulnerable.” There was another pause, but at last the woman I loved responded in a firm, determined tone. "Then, if this is true. 1 leave it to you. Y’ou declare that you are my friend; therefore I can at least rely on you for protection, especially as’ we have so many interests in common." “But you must assist me." he observed. “No." she answered. “I refuse to do that. I have painful recollections of what has already happened. The grim ghosts of the past are always with me." "You are far too impress’onable,” he laughed. “If I had not stood your friend, you would have fallen into the hands of the police long ago." "And you?” she inquired. , He did not respond. Possibly the subject was rather too unwelcome to admit of discussion. From his fingers I knew this man to be at least a gaolbird who had performed hard labour, and it was also certain that with the ingeniously prepared cigarette he had attempted to take my life. “No.” she went on. in a clear, firm voice. "I refuse to be further associated with any of vour schemes. Y’ou are capable of carrying out any villainy without my assistance.” “Need we use the term villainy where La Gioia is concerned?” he asked. “Y'ou know her well enough to be aware that if she finds you she will be merciless, and will gloat over your downfall.”

“I would kill myself before she discovers me.” my wife declared. “But you might not have time.” he suggested. “To die willingly demands considerable resolution. Women's nerve usually fail them at the extreme moment.” “Mine will not. you may rest assured of that.” she answered. “Y’ou don’t seem capable of listening to reason to-night,” he protested. “I am capable of listening to reason, but not to conspiracy.” she replied with some hauteur. "I know well what is passing in your mind. It is not the first time that such a thought has passed there. Y'ou would plot to take her life —to murder La Gioia!” He laughed outright.as though there were something humorous in her words. "No, no. my dear,” he answered quickly. “Y'ou quite msunderstand my intention.” “I misunderstood your intention on a previous occasion,” she said, meaningly. But in this affair our interests are entirely mutual.” he pointed out. “Y'ou must assist me.” “I shall not.” ‘’But you must. It is imperative.

We have everything to i»ain h\ securing her silence.” ‘•And everything to lose bv nivet ng her.” •’But when we meet her it \\ IU l>e in defiance. I have thought out a plan.” -Then carry it out.” she sa .L -1 will have nothing whatever to do with it.*’ -I may cornjiel you.” he said, with slow distinctness. ’’You have already compelled me to net as your aceompl ee. but you have strained my bonds until thev can resist no longer. I intend to break them. "That is indeed. very interesting!" He laughed, treating her as though she were a spoilt child. kui\^ : ’elL" Cried fUri ° Usl ' expk l ’:mt l ion ” ln<> '° "Then you would besmirch mv good name after my death!” she said turning upon him quickly. "Ah! ves You show yourself in your true' colours You would even weave about me a Of so as to prevent me takins’’ nn life. I hate and detest you.’

“That’s not the first time vou hive informed me of that fact mv dear ” he responded, with perfect coolness ' If it were not for you I should now be a happy, careless g'rl. without a thought beyond the man I love Thanks tO '?'i ’v'*'"' ho "’''“i'- one of the most "retched of all God’s creatures " “You need not be. You are petted in your own circle of fnends. and jour reputation remains unsullied.” "I occupy a false position,” she declared. “What would Cvril sav if he knew the truth?"

"A woman should never study the man who is to be her husband. It makes him far too conceited; and moreover, she is sure to regret it in after life.” He was at times shrewdly philosophical. this scoundrel who' held mv wife beneath his thrall. ”1 have you—only you—to thank tor my present position. Believed bv the world to be an honest innocent girl, and accepted as such. I nevertheless fear from hour to hour that the truth may be revealed, and that I may find myself in the hands of the police. Death is preferable to this constant, all-consuming dread.” "The unreasonableness and pertinacity of woman is extraordinary,” he exclaimed, in a tone of impatience. "U hat good can possibly result from this duel between us? Why not let us unite in defeating La Gioia?" "That 1 refuse to do." “But our position is serious— most serious.” he pointed out. "Suppose that she discovers you?” "Well, what then?” "Y’ou would be entirely at her mercy." he said in a deep voice. "And you know her well enough to be aware that once determined upon a course she never goes hack—you know the fiendishness of her vengeance." • “I know.” she responded in a voice scarce above a whisper, the voice of a woman driven to desperation. "She is your enemy.” he said. "She

would torture, aud afterwards kill you:" “She could not torture me more than I am already tortured, with my mind so full of all that has gone by,” my wife declared in a hoarse, unnatural voice which plainly told of acute suffering, “But you must arm yourself against her,” he urged. "Together we are strong enough to defeat any attack that she may make. Remember, that she is in London in search of you.” "Do you think she'll easily find me ?” "Ah! I do not know,” he responded. “She has. as you are well aware, many sources of secret information open to her. Before now she has got at secrets that were supposed to be inviolable. She may discover ours.” “Then tell me plainly,” she asked, dropping her voice until it was scarcely above a whisper, "do you, yourself, fear her?” "Yes. She is the only person who, besides ourselves, knows the truth,” he responded in a low tone. “And you would set a trap into which she will fall?” she went on, still in a whisper. "Come, do not let us prevaricate longer. You intend to kill her?” There was a dead silence. At last her companion spoke. "Well.” he answered, “and if your surmise is correct?” “Then once and for all,” she said, raising her voice, “I tell you that I’ll have no hand whatsoever in it! I will not be your accomplice in the crime. I am no murderess!” He was apparently taken aback by the suddenness of her decision. “And you prefer to be left unprotected against the vengeance of La Gioia!” he said, harshly. "Yes. I do.” she said, determinedly. “And recollect that from to-night I refuse to be further associated with these vile schemes of yours. You deceived me once; you shall never do so again.”

“It was for your own benefit—your own safety,” he declared quickly. “Enough!” she cried in anger. “You have spoken, and I have given my answer. 1 prefer the vengeance of La Gioia to becoming your accomplice In a foul and secret crime." He laughed aloud.

"And you think you can break from me as easily as this? Your action tonight is foolish—suicidal. You will repent it.”

"I shall never repent. My hatred of you is too strong!”

“We shall see,” he laughed. “We shall see!”

“Let me pass!” she cried, and, leaving him. walked quickly down the path and in a few moments the flutter of her light dress was lost m the erloom.

Her companion laughed again, a short evil laugh, then turning, hurried after her.

I emerged quickly from my hidingplace. and followed them as far as the stile. He had overtaken her, and was striding by her side, bending and talking earnestly as they were crossing the open grass-land.

To follow sufficiently close to overhear what words he said was impossible without detection, therefore I was compelled to remain and watch the receding figures until they became swallowed up in the darkness. Then, turning, I passed through the belt of wood again, and scaling a wall gained the high road which, after a walk of half an hour, took me back to Hounslow.

That night I slept but little. The discovery I had made was extraordinary. Who was this woman with the strange name? “La Gioia” meant In Italian “The Jewel.” or “The Joy.” Why did they fear her vengeance? In the morning, as I descended to breakfast, the landlord of the inn, standing in his shirt-sleeves, met me at the foot of the stairs. "Have you heard the terrible news, sir?” he inquired. “No,” I said in surprise. "What news?” "There was murder committed last night over in Whitton Park!” “Murder!” I gasped. “Who has been murdered?” (To be continued.)