A DAUGHTER OF MIDIAN.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXV, Issue XIX, 10 November 1900, Page 860

A DAUGHTER OF MIDIAN.

Ser I*l Story.

(PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.)

By

JOHN K. LEYS.

Author of “ A Sore Temptation,” “ The Thumb-print,” “ The Broken Fetter,” “In the Toils,” “ A Million of Money,” etc., etc. COPYRIGHT.

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. CHAPTERS I. & ll.—Professor Zucatti, an Italian palmist, is consulted by a lady, Miss Grant, as to an undertaking on which she is about to embark. He has met her previously at a garden party at Spezzia. He consults her hand ana tells her that her future is fraught with great danger, and in a magic crystal she sees a murder enacted, and a man thrown over a precipice, and a person representing herself standing near. She promises to consult him again. After she has left, a couple of Sisters of Bethany take refuge in his doorway from a thunderstorm, and he assists them in their charity. After they have left he remembers that he will write to his old friend, and sits down and writes for two hours. CHAPTERS 111. & IV.—The professor, writing to his friend, explains that he has again met Miss Grant in England, and has shown her the crystal, which he had manipulated by means of slides previously prepared. Miss Grant visiting the professor again, asks him to help her to discover the secret of her.birth, her earliest recollections being of the deck of a vessel. He prepares a bogus letter in which a situation is offered her, on her furnishing proofs of her birth ,etc., and tells her to present it to Mr Gregory, the lawyer, who up to a few years ago had remitted money to her, but had for some reason desisted from doing so. CHAPTERS V. & Vl.—Miss Grant has an interview with Mr Gregory, and he consents to forward the letter she presents to his client, and let her know the result. Next day she sees, whilst waiting for Mr Gregory, a letter in a letter book enclosing her communication. At the foot she sees the address, “A. E. Mitchell. Esq., Inveroran Castle, Perthshire, N. 8.” © © ® CHAPTER VII. THE PLAN OF CAMPAIGN. “I have won! I have won. I have won!” was the cry that echoed in Sybil’s heart and almost forced its way from her lips as she went down the street after parting from Mr Gregory. No doubt as to her ultimate triumph assailed her. It did not so much as occur to her that she had only taken the first step in the prosecution of her resolve and was in reality very little nearer her goal than she had been the day before. She stopped a hansom and got herself driven to the house of her ally, Professor Zucatti. He had not expected to see her again so soon, and feared that she had come to tell him that she had already abandoned her enterprise. But his first glimpse of her face toid him that that at least was not true. “I have succeeded!” she cried, before she so much as bade him good morning. “I know the name and the address of the man who has acted as my guardian all these years, and abandoned me as soon as 1 was able to earn my own living. “Did the lawyer give you a hint, then?” “Not he! I simply stole the information I wanted. As a last resource I begged him to send the letter you wrote for me to his client, to see whether it would have the effect of softening his heart. He said he would, and as we were speaking of the letter he was going to write I saw the door of the waiting room standing open—a room in whieh, as I had seen while I was waiting there, copies are kept of all the letters written by the firm. So it occurred to me then and there that if I could manage to get left alone in the waiting room next morning I would find there a copy of the letter Mr Gregory had promised to write, and ten to one I would find in it the name and address of the person he was writing to. So I went down before the office was open this morning and my industry was duly rewarded. The person who has acted as my guardian is Mr A. C. Mitchell, of Inveroran Castle, Perthshire, N.B. Sounds well, doesn’t it?” “It does sound well,” said the Italian gravely, “and I need not say

PART I.—THE LADY’S QUEST.

that I hope your relations —if this Mr Mitchell is a connection of your—will be willing to acknowledge your kinship.” "Thank yx>u,” said Miss Grant, in a more serious tone, “but I am not particularly anxious for this man’s patronage. I want to make him tell me the truth about myself. "And what do you mean to do?” "That is what 1 don’t know yet. It seems to me that if I went to this place, this castle, and demanded that Mr Mitchell should teli me who and what my parents were he would meet me exactly as Mr Gregory did—deny all information—and 1 should be no further advancer! than I am now.” “I should say That, judging from the past, that is precisely what such a man would do.” “What would you suggest, then?” "If you approve of the plan,” said Signor Zucatti, .after a short pause, “I am willing to go down to Perthshire in the first place and spy out the land for you. 1 wouid put up at an inn somewhere in the neighbourhood, and by putting- a few questions here and a few there I would find out what kind of man this Mitchell is—whether he is young or old, rich or comparatively poor, married or unmarried. I would ascertain what relations he has, what his past life has been, and what his character is. Sueh knowledge would be of some use to you, would it not?” “Indeed it would,” cried the lady; “but how can I ask yon to take all that trouble on my account? No. It will be better for me to go to Scotland alone. The sooner I begin to face .the difficulties I have to meet the better. It is exceedingly kind of you to make the offer, but—” “One moment, please,” interrupted the Italian, in his soft liquid tones. “In the first place the wiork that I propose doing could scarcely be done by you—a lady travelling alone, or attended only by* a maid—certainly not without the risk of the fact that you were making enquiries coming to Mr Mitcheli’s ears and provoking him to make enquiries about you. You must get the work done by someone, unless you make up your mind to walk into the enemy’s camp blindfolded, so to speak. Then, since you must employ someone to do this work, why not me? You spoke of my taking trouble, but in reality there would be none. The season is nearly over. I must go somewhere for a holiday, and what more invigorating scene could I choose than the Scottish Highlands? I will settle down at some quiet inn all that is generally known about Mr or farmhouse, and when I have learned Mitchell and his family I will write for yon. Then we will together devise some means of getting admission for you to Iveroran Castle—” “Admission for me? What do you mean?” “My dear Miss Grant, do you not see that unless you mean to confine yourself to asking questions that you know beforehand will not be answered, the only means of success is to get admission to the Castle on some pretext or other? Yoji must become a. member of the household, and live within the walls of* the Castle—or. if that is impossible, you must get to be on visiting terms with some member of the family. In what other way would it be possible for you to penetrate into the secrets of the family, and make yourself mistress of the knowledge you desire?” For a few seconds Miss Grant said nothing, but continued to gaze steadfastly at the Italian’s smooth inscrutable face. Then suddenly a new light burst from her eyes, and she impulsively seized her companion’s hand as it lay on the table before him. “Yon are right. Signor; you are

quite right! I did not look at the. thing in a sensible way. I fancied that I had nothing to do but to discover those who knew the secret of my birth, and that I could compel them to tell me all I wished to know. I see now how foolish such a notion was. I must become a member of the household at Inveroran Castle —in the character of a housemaid if necessary. Once there, I will keep my ears and eyes open, and soon I will know as much about the members of the family as they themselves know. I will discover the family skeletons, and by degrees I will get Mr Mitchell into my power. Then my turn will come. I swear to you, Signor, that I will do this, and I am grateful to you for having shown me the way to accomplish my purpose.” A little more conversation followed between the two conspirators, chiefly relating to the details of Miss Grant’s past life. The Professor questioned her closely, without, however, eliciting anything of importance that she had not told him already. He advised her to leave the hotel, where living must be expensive, and take furnished apartment in one of the suburbs; “for,” said he, “you are likely to need every penny you have got before you see the end of your journey.” This was sensible adviee, and Miss Grant resolved that she would follow it. They then arranged that the Professor should start for Scotland at the beginning of the following week, and she promised to send him her address as soon as she had fixed upon lodgings. She succeeded in finding comfortable rooms in the neighbourhood of Finsbury Park at a moderate rate, and by the end of the week following she received her first letter from her ally. “My dear Miss Grant,” wrote the Italian, “I have been staying three days at Inveroran, and I think it is time that I report progress to you. This is a beautiful region, most beautiful—lofty hills, purple with heather, valleys full of pine woods, -and farstretching lakes. It is a. Paradise; and though it is in truth very different from my own beloved Italy, yet in some way it reminds me of that land of sunshine more than any other country I have visited. “I am fortunate in finding a bedroom at the hotel at Inveroran, which is indeed a mere country inn, but more pleasant to stay at than many more . pretentious hotels. I enjoy the advantage of living just outside the park or, as they call it in these parts, the policies—of Inveroran Castle. And I have seen the master of the Castle, Mr Mitchell himself. “But first let me describe to you the surroundings. “Imagine a high hill, wooded almost to the summit, overlooking a fresh water lake—they call it loch here—of at least seven miles in length. On a promontory overhanging the loch stood the ancient Castle of Inveroran. It is now in ruins, only the gatehouse and part of a tower remaining, with some portion of the great wall. But when Mr Mitchell bought the estate, which he did eighteen years ago, he caused to be built lower down the hill, but within sight of the old ruin, a very large house, with towers, turrets, battlements, narrow casements, and everything else, exactly in the style of an old baronial castle, all as fine as money could make it. In a way it is absurd this building of houses in a style suitable for an age that will never return; but it is possible that in the twentieth or twenty-first century the owner of Inveroran may be glad that his ancestor chose so" picturesque and noble a style of architecture. At all events, Mr Mitchell has built a house of which a monarch need not be ashamed.

There is a good sized house, large enough to be the residence of a country gentleman, about a mile from the Castle, close to the shore of the lake. Like the Castle it is built of stone, and looks wonderfully white and clean, as if it had but yesterday left the hands of the builders. It is a thing of gables, and turrets, and picturesquely shaped windows, like its great neighbour. This is the residence of Mr Duncan McPhail, land steward, or, as they call it here, factor, to Mr Mitchell. This Mr McPhail is an immense man, with a great hairy face and limbs like those of a colossus. His expression is sullen, and I could imagine that when roused to anger the factor would look positively ferocious. He wears the roughest and thickest cloth ■ I ever saw on the back of a human being, and his stockings—he invariably wears knickerbockers, even in church—resemble the hide .of a grizzly bear. On his head he wears a bonnet about the size of a target, crowned by a thing like a small orange, and adorned by two black ribbons hanging down behind like twin tails. “This giant speaks in a voice that reminds one of the conversation of two infuriated bulls; and he has a trick of speaking to himself in unintelligible mutterings which are like the rumblings of thunder before the storm bursts. “I have been able to describe this gentleman with more detail because he is a frequent visitor at the inn where T am staying. He comes in for ‘a glass’ in the forenoon, ‘a mutchkin’ —that, is, half-a-pint, I believe—after the mid-day meal, and he generally shares a bottle with an acquaintance in the evening. But you must not imagine that the man is a drunken sotSo far from this, Mr McPhail boasts that he was never ‘o’ertaken,’ that Is to say. tipsy, in his life; and I think it possible that the boast may be true. Such is the man’s physical strength, so abounding is his vitality’, that an amount of liquor that would prostrate nine men out of ten seems to have no effect upon him, beyond making him, perhaps, rather surlier than he was before. I can see that people here stand greatly in awe of ‘the factor.’ He is the local tyrant, wielding, in the name of his employer, all the power of a despot. The hills and valleys, for 1 know not how many miles in every direction, are the absolute property of Mr Alexander Craig Mitchell. “And now to give you some idea of the appearance of this gentleman himself. “The owner of Inveroran Castle and the adjacent country is a short, wizened, consequential little man, with a mean face and an underbred manner. He dresses always in grey’ cloth of a hard texture, and is never seen without a tall silk hat. This attire, unsuited for the country, gives the man the appearance of a grocer out for a holiday. He is seldom seen in the village of Inveroran, and so far as I can learn he cares nothing personally’ either for shooting or fishing—the universal amusements of gentlemen In this part of the world. His only occupation seems to be endeavouring to make his enormous fortune a. trifle larger. At least, he goes to Glasgow to transact business every Monday' and Wednesday; and he has a private wwe carried at great expense over the hills from Dunolly, so that he may be able to read the latest quotations of stocks at any hour of the day, and-speculate in stocks and shares, if he has a mind, without leaving his fireside. “Everybody here can tell you how Alexander Mitchell made his money. It was by speculating in Australian gold mines. One of the richest mines in the Antipodes belongs to him, anjd he has large holdings in other great companies. “For all his wealth Mr Mitqhell is a hard lanullolrd, and is not by any means popular among his tenantry. I fancy that he will find this out—if he does not know it already—when he stands for Parliament next year. It is said that he cherishes the ambition to found a family, and that he would sell what little soul he possesses, to be made a peer, or even a baronet. “A Miss Dalrymple lives with Mr Mitchell, and is nominally the mistress of the establishment. She is a niece of the laird. Of her I have seen nothing, but folk speak of her in a smiling, half-pitying fashion that makes me believe that she is either very clever or a great fool. “In spite of his wealth and the gran-

deur of his abode Mr Mitchell lives in very simple style; and this makes me fear that you will find it a very difficult thing to force your way into the Castle. Miss Dalrymple keeps no maid; neither the laird nor his son keeps a valet. The servants are few in number, and even if you were willing, and thought it worth while to humiliate yourself by entering the Castle in the capacity of a eook or a housemaid, 1 see but small likelihood of your finding any door open. “In the meantime I think you had better eome down here as soon as possible. You can stay a night at the inn, and spend the next day in making inquiries as to lodgings; but I think it safer, in view of what we may wish to do afterwards, that we should not be seen in one another’s company, so I will leave the place when you arrive. Please let me hear from you as to this by return of post, and let me know when I may expect you. The coach passes the inn once every day, going south, and once going north. These are our only links with the outside world. When Mr Mitchell goes to Glasgow he drives seven miles down the glen to the railway station. You will see from this that a lady of your age, and—pardon me —of your striking appearance, could not very well come and stay at a little country inn such as this, certainly not without making some sensation, or at least attracting some attention. This, 1 have no doubt, you will think very undesirable. But at present I have not been able to hear of any suitable lodgings. The village is a mere hamlet; and, the farms being large, farm house lodgings are not to be had. I find some difficulty in advising you as to your next step. Shall I return to London and confer with you there ? “In any case, believe me, madam, your devoted servant, “Antonio Paccelli Zucatti.” PART 11. THE NARRATIVE OF SYBIL GRANT. CHAPTER VIII. THE CAMPAIGN OPENSI have no pretensions to be a writer of-tales, or of anything else, but I have been told that some parts of my life history will come better from my own lips —or rather, from my own pen. So I have agreed to be in part my own biographer. And having made up my mind to do this I will write without concealment—and without excuses. I suppose I am what the World calls an adventuress. It is not a pretty word. But—yes, I suppose I must plead guilty. If to be without home or friends, if, above all, to be nameless and poor, is to be an adventuress, then I am one. If to wage an unequal war with the rich, the powerful and the unscrupulous is to be an adventuress, then, once more, no one has a better right to the ugly name than I have. That is understood. And now to my story. The moment I had read the last word of the professor’s letter I made up my mind. I would go at once to Scotland and open the campaign on the spot. It was plain to me that I must get into that house —the big castle standing among the Perthshire hills—some day, and the sooner the better. It was equally plain that 1 would never attain that object by staying quietly in London. That very evening I went off' by the night mail. As for Signor Zucatti’s suggest ion that we should be careful never to be seen together, I thought it quite superfluous. No one in Scotland knows either the professor or me. What matter if the people at the castle know’ that we are friends? My journey north seemed very long, and at one point it was marked by a rather unpleasant incident. At some station in Lancashire—Preston, I believe it was—l was looking out of the carriage window when my eye caught that of a tall, well dressed man, whlo stared at me somewhat rudely. I at once fell back in my seat, thinking no more of the matter, when, just as the train was moving off this man, to my intense annoyance, jumped into .the carriage and seated himself opposite to me. He at once proceeded to make himself comfortable, arranging his belongings in the rack overhead with small consideration for the convenience of his fellow passengers, and every now and then turning his bold eyes upon my face. I pulled down my veil and turned aside my head, but

the sensation of being watched, and in so open a manner, was most unpleasant, and almost involuntarily my eyes wandered round the compartment as if seeking some way of escape from my tormentor. Somewhat to my surprise and a little to my confusion a young man sitting at the further end of the seat on the other side of the carriage answered by his look my mute appeal. I had supposed that no one had noticed the impertinence to which I was being subjected, but 1 was mistaken. This young man had seen it and had apparently resolved to constitute himself my protector for the time being. Rising with great deliberation he crossed over to my side of the carriage and seated himself by my side. From this post he kept up a persistent retaliatory’ stare upon the gentleman opposite, who paid not the slightest attention to him. “I think I have surely seen you somewhere before,” said my ally, leaning across towards my antagonist. The latter glanced disdainfully at him, but made no reply. The young man at my side coloured and drew back. He had apparently noticed only now what I had been aware of from the first—that the stranger’s dress was that of a man who belonged to the higher, or a least the wealthier, classes of society. It was tolerably evident that though he was sitting in a third-class carriage he had a first-class ticket in his pocket. Realising this my champion made no further attempt ‘ to engage the gentleman cad in conversation. He turned sharply round upon me and said without any preface in a tone loud enough for anyone to hear, “May I ask if you are traveiling far?” I hesitated and the speaker did not wait for my reply. “Because if you are,” he went on, “I will ask the guard to find you another carriage at the next station so that vou may be relieved from this fellow’s impertinence.” “Thank you. I shall be glad if you will,” I replied with a defiant look at the man opposite. He was glaring savagely at my friend, and burst out in voice hoarse with passion, “What the devil do you mean, sir?’ If you say another word to me or refer to me in any way I will thrash you within an inch of your life.” There was little doubt that he could have carried out his threat, for he was twice as powerful as the man who had undertaken to defend me, and I was really afraid that there was going to be a scrimmage. But the young man beside me only smiled and taking out his card case handed one of his cards to his enemy. “A pettifogging attorney! Might have known it, by Jove!”' cried the other, and said no more. My protector’s smile died away, and the hand that lay on his knee was suddenly clenched. My fear that there would be a row sprang up again; but nothing more was said, and for the next hour there was nothing to be heard but the rush and rattle of the train. As soon as the train drew up at Carlisle the young lawyer put his head out at the window and shouted for the guard; but his antagonist, shouldering his way past .him. leaped down upon the platform and strode away. 1 turned to my champion with a smile and a word of thanks, which he received, as I thought, very modestly. He made one or two attempts after this to engage me in conversation, but I di<l not encourage them, and he soon relapsed into silence. When he left the carriage finally at a junction where the Glasgow carriages left us, 1 gave him my hand with just another word of thanks, and that was the last I saw of him. A few hours later I walked into the coffee-room of the inn at Inveroran. Signor Zucatti looked up and saw me, and gave such a start and such a stare of amazement that 1 burst out laughing in his face. “My dear Miss Grant," he said in that solemn voice of his, “do you think this is wise?” “What? My coming here?” “No—your coming now—your greeting me in public.” 1 gave a hearty laugh. “My dear friend." said I, “don’t let us be melodramic. If we are in a sense conspirators, that is no reason why we should creep about the stage in masks and slouch hats. I am all for playing an open and above-board* game. But there is no necessity for your staying on here, unless you like. For my part I mean to find lodgings

somewhere in the neighbourhood, and make myself an expert in the family history of the Mitchells.” “Hush! Speak lower, I lieg of you!” he cried, with a frightened glance over his shoulder; and indeed one or two farmers who were solemnly eating boiled beef and pickles at a table by the window looked up on hearing the familiar name, and glanced at us with a certain curiosity. “I promise you that I won't compromise you again.” 1 began; but the Italian interrupted me. “Compromise me! My dear Signorina. what does it matter whether 1 am compromised or not It is you ” “Of course. I was only joking. Didn’t you understand that? 1 know the risk is mine. But 1 don’t believe there is practically the smallest risk in our being seen walking about together. Now, I am going out this afternoon to hunt for lodgings. Will you come with me?” The poor man’s eyes brightened. “Certainly—if you think it prudent, with all the pleasure in the world!” We had lunch together, and then set out; but we had not taken a dozen steps from the hotel door when I had reason to think that the Italian, in what had seemed to me his excessive caution, had been wiser than I A short stout gentleman met. us, and darted a quick glance from me to my companion and back again. It was evident that this man belonged to the tarternity of artists. Indeed, he proclaimed his profession in every garment he wore, which seemed to me the height of bad taste. He had on a brown velvet coat and waistcoat, with trousers of some delicate, neutral tint, a grey-blue shirt, and a tie of rich red silk, the ends of which floated upon the winds of heaven. On his head was a soft felt hat, on his forefinger a huge ruby, or red stone of some kind. And his black hair, long and curly, stood out from his head as if he hail been a cannibal islander. I have always disliked and despised the affectations of the artist tribe, but they had never seemed so odious to me as they’ did at that moment. This person made an almost, imperceptible movement as if he would cross the narrow road and speak to us. But suddenly, and with an adroitness I admired, he changed the motion into another. so that if I had not happened to be watching him closely at the moment I would never have suspected that he had ever harboured the thought of addressing us. “Look Signor,” said 1 in an undertone, “look at. that little man in the velvet coat. Do you know him?” "Know him? No. 1 can’t say that I do. Why do you ask?” “Oh. nothing. 1 thought, he looked at us as if he knew one or other of us, and as 1 am sure I do not know him I thought it must be you. But verylikely I was mistaken.” "I should say that, most likely you were.” said my companion. “I have a remarkably’ good memory for faces, and if I had ever spoken to that man 1 am sure that I would have remembered it." “Very likely." said I to myself. “But it does not follow that because you do not remember him he does not remember you.” As we reached a bend in the road I glanced quickly behind me, and there was the man in the velvet coat standing in the road looking at us. It was not I who attracted his attention— 1 knew that instinctively. It was Signor Zucatti. There was nothing in itself extraordinary in that. The Professor was probably known by sight to a great many people in London, and that this little man was a. Cockney I had not the smallest doubt in the world. Well, then, what did it matter to me? Nothing—except that it might possibly damage me, especially in the opinion of the straight-laced Scotch, if it became known in the place that my only friend in the neighbourhood was a ■ Professor of PalmisBut I thought it might be as well to make some inquiry as to the name and standing of the little man with the velvet coat and the red tie. So after dinner that night (which was eaten at the unearthly hour of six) I scraped acquaintance with the landlady of the inn, and got her to join me in a cup of tea, with the object of learning something of the artist. “Do you have much company’ in the summer months, Mrs MacFadyen?” was my first question. “No that inony’. We're aff the reg’lar track o’ the tourists, ye ken. But

we’ve aye as much as we can well win through, what wi’ the fishers, and the fairmers, an’ the gentry that has the shootings.” “Do you have many artists stopping here?” “No, juist ane or twa wanderin’ aboot.** “I saw a gentleman this afternoon that looked like one, judging from his dress. He wore avelvet coat and a red tie ” “I ken wha ye mean brawly. That’s Maister Durant. He has a lease o’ wee bit lodge upo* the hill that was nn wanted, seein’ as the shootin’ was pitten in wi’ the next glen. He took the bit place, he said, for the sake o’ the scenery; an’ he’s aye daun’erin’ aboot the braes wi’ an umbrella that wad maist cover a parish, an’ a wheen rattletraps carried by a wee callant ahint him. But he does na pent that muckle for what I hear tell, and there’s them as says that he kens precious little aboot the trade.” “Really! But how do people imagine that, Mrs MacFadyen?” “Weel, there was twa airtist chaps here ae day in the spring, and Maister Durant, he jined in wi' them, and as it was a poorin’ wat day, they begood to show ane anither their pictures, an’ what they ca’ sketches —mere straika o’ pent for a’ that I could see. Weel, they were crackin’ awa.’, but I saw fine, as I was cornin’ in an’ oot the room, that the ither twa was juist takkin’ their fun aff Master Durant, an’ I catched ane o’ them laughin’ and winkin’ at the tither when Maister Durant was admirin’ ane of his pictures. So it struck me that he wad maybe be what they ca’ an amatoor.” “And what is that. Mrs MaeFadyen?” I asked gravely. “Ou, no’ a raal artist, but ane that wad like tae be thoucht raal, ye unnerstan’ ?” “I see. But perhaps Mr Durant is fond of fishing.” “Hoots, no! He’s a mere sumph at the fushin’, an’ he owns to that himself. But him' an’ the laird’s unco’ thick. An’ it’s my private opeenion that he does na bide here for nae scenery, nor yet for nae fushin’, but juist to Ire weel in wi’ Miss Dalrymple up at the Castle —that’s the laird’s niece, ye ken; an’ it’s thocht that if so be that the laird does na tak’ a wife, she’ll ha’e a mint o’ siller some day.” “Indeed! And has the lady youth and beauty as well as the prospect of being an heiress?” The landlady’s face wore a grin as wide as the glen, as she answered: “Na. na! That wud be ower muckle o’ a guid thing! An’ the feck o’ men wad prefer the shinin’ o’ golden sovereigns to the glint o’ the bonniest e’en that ever were seen. So it may weel be that Maister Durant’s nae waur then the lave. But he’s a feckless loon, whatever!” she added to herself, but so that the words reached my ear. It was not very dignified on my part to gossip in this way with Mrs MacFadyen. But I had the satisfaction of thinking that I had got something in return. I knew a little more than I had done before. Perhaps it was in consequence of this conversation that I found it impossible to banish the thought of Mr Durant from my mind for the rest of the evening. EVen in my dreams he persecuted me. I seemed to be always conscious of his presence—always trying to escape from his smooth, affected sinister personality. Whatever the subject of my dream might be, he was sure to come into it sooner or later; and whenever that happened I turned uneasily, and the vision came to an end. Tf I were trying to gain the summit of one of the mountain peaks I had been gazing at the day before. Mr Durant was sure to appear on the top, and smilingly push me back—back, till I thought I must inevitably fall over a precipice—and I would awake in terror. Another time I would be straining every nerve to catch a train, and be kept back by a carriage that would persist in coming in front of my cab. And just as my anxiety would rise to fever heat a man sitting in the carriage would put his head out of the window and regard me with a mocking, malevolent smile. Of course it was Mr Durant, and I had known that he was in the carriage right along, but had unaccountably forgotten it. _ And so it went on, it seemed to me, till the morning light shone strong and clear over hill and loch and glen, and the lowing of the cows waiting to be milked roused me in earnest. ( To be continued.)