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

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXV, Issue XXI, 24 November 1900, Page 954

Serial Story. (P UBLISHED 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 Thee,” ‘•The Day of Temptation,” Etc., Etc. ~

(COPYRIGHT.)

CHAPTER XXIII. A COUNTER PLOT. “I have no knowledge yet of who the woman is.” responded Hoefer in answer to my question. “I only know that her name is La Gioia. But you are aware of her identity, it seems.” “No. Like yourself I only know her name.” He glanced at me rather curiously through his big spectacles, and I knew that he doubted my words. I pressed him to explain by what means he had made the discovery, but his answers were ambiguous. In brief, he believed that I knew more than I really did, and therefore declined to tell me anything. He was extremely eccentric, this queer old dabbler in the occult, and I well knew that having once adopted a plan in the pursuit of an inquiry no power on earth would induce him to deviate from it. Fully an hour I remained in that atmosphere full of poisonous fumes, watching a further but futile analysis that he made, and afterwards took leave of him. T went back to Bayswater, wrote a letter of resignation to the doctor who had employed me, and then went forth again upon my round of visits. The practice was large and scattered, and several cases were critical ones, therefore it was not until nearly eight o’clock that T returned again, fagged and hungry, only to find the waiting-room filled with club patients and others. The irregularity of meals is one of the chief discomforts of a busy doctor’s life. I snatched a few moments to swallow my soup, and then entered the surgery, and sat there until past nine ere I could commence dinner. Then over my coffee and a pipe T sat at ease, thinking over the many occurrences of the day. Truly it had been an eventful one. the turningpoint of my life. T had telegraphed to my mother telling her of my good fortune, and in response had received a word of congratulation. One of the chief gratifications which the thousand pounds hail brought to me was the fact that for a year or so she would not feel the absolute pinch of poverty as she had done through so long past. And T was invited to At worth! I should there have an opportunity of being always at the side of the woman I loved so madly, and perhaps be enabled to penetrate the veil of mystery with which she was surrounded. I was suspicious of the baronet’s wife—suspicious because she had made her first call upon me under such curious circuTni'stances. How did she know me; and for what reason had she sought my acquaintance? She had endeavoured to flirt with me. Faugh! Her beauty, her smartness, and her clever woman’s wiles might have turned the heads of the majority of men. But I loved Beryl. And she was mine—mine! Reader, I have taken you entirely into my confidence, and I am laying bare to you my secret. Need I tell you how maddening the enigma, had now become; how near I always seemed to some solution, and yet how far off was the truth? Place yourself in my position for a single moment —• adoring the woman who, although she was actually my wife, was yet ignorant of the fact. And I dare not tell her the truth lest she might hold me in suspicion as one of those who had conspired against her. So far from the problem being solved, each day rendered it more intricate and more inscrutable, until the continual weight upon my mind drove me to despair. .My fear was for Beryl’s personal safety. The major and his associate had already shown themselves perfect ar-

tists in crime, therefore, to be armed against them was imperative. But in Wiltshire, living beside her. 1 would be enabled to watch over and protect her. Hence my anxiety for the days to pass in order that I might journey down to Atworth. At last, on a.close overcast afternoon in the middle of Septemlie-r, when the hot sun seemed unable to penetrate the heavy veil of London smoke and the air was suffocating, t left Paddington, and in due course found myself upon the platform of the wayside station of Corsham, close to the entrance to the Box tunnel, with Sir Henry and his wife awaiting me. The former was a tall, smart-looking, elderly man, with grey hair, and a well-trimmed grey beard, who, on our introduction, greeted me most cordially, expressing a hope that I should have “a good time” with them.. I liked him at once; his face was open and honest, and his hand-grip was sincere. We mounted the smart dog-cart, and leaving my baggage to the servant, drove out into the high road, which rap over the hills looming purple in the golden sunset haze to Trowbridge. Five miles through that picturesque, romant’c district, one of the fairest in England, skirting the Monk’s Park, crossing the old Roman road between Bath and London, and having ascended the ridge of the steep known as. Corsham Side, we descended again through the little old-fashioned village to Atworth by a road which brought us at last to the lodge of the Hall. Then, entering the drive, we drove up to the fine old Tudor mansion, low and comfortable-look'ng. with its long facade almost overgrown with ivy. One of “the stately homes of England,” it stood commanding a view of the whole range of the Wiltshire hills, the trees and park now bathed in the violet of the afterglow. From the great hall the guests came forth to meet us :n old English welcome. and as I descended Beryl herself, fresh in a pink cotton blouse and short cycling skirt, was the first to take my hand. “At last, Doctor Colkirk!” she cried. “We’re all awfully delighted to see' you." Our eyes met, and I saw in hers a look of genuine welcome. “You are very kind.” I answered. “The pleasure is, I assure you, quite mutual.” Then my host introduced me to all the others. The house, bu'lt in the form of a square, with a large court-yard in the centre, was much larger than it appeared from the exterior. The hall, filled as it was with curios and trophies of the chase---for the baronet was a keen sportsman, and his wife, too, was an excellent shot—formed a comfortable lounge. Both had travelled a great deal in India and the East, and most of the objects there had been acquired dur'ng their visits io the colonies. The room assigned tn me was a bright, pleasant one. clean, with old-fashioned chintzes, w’hile from the window I could see across the lawn and the deep glen beyond, away over the winding Avon to the darkening h’lls. Charming was the view, while the flower-scented air, after stifling London and the stuffiness of sick rooms, was to me delightful. At dinner T was placed next my hostess, with Beryl on my left. The latter wore a striking gown of turquoise blue which. ent low at the neck, suited her admirably. Her wonderful goldbrown hair had evidently been arranged by a practised maid, hut as I turned to her before she seated herself. T saw at her throat an object which caused me to start in surprise. Suspended by a thin gold chain around her neek was a small ornament in diamonds, an exact replica of that curfous little

charm, shaped like a note of interrogation, which I had taken from her on the fatal night of our marriage—which 1 wore around my neck at that moment. As 1 looked it sparkled and flashed with a thousand brilliant tires. Could that strange little device convey any hidden meaning? It was curious that, having lost one, she should ■ wear another exactly similar. We sat down together chatting merrily. The baronet’s wife was in black lace, her white throat and arms gleaming through the transparency, while her corsage was relieved by crimson carnations. Around the table, too, were several other striking dresses, for the majority of the guests were young, and the house party was a decidedly smart one. The meal, too, was served with a stateliness that characterised everything in the household of the Pierrepoint-Lanes. I watched my love carefully, and saw by her slightly flushed cheeks that my arrival gave her the utmost satisfaction. At table there, before the others, I was unable to refer to the uncanny affair at Gloucester Square, therefore our conversation was of frivolous trivialities—-of the heat in rown. and the slowness and unpunctuality of the trains. It was in the drawing-room afterwards, when we were sitting together, that I inquired if she had entirely receverd. ‘ Oh, entirely,” she replied. “It was extraordinary, was it not? Do you know whether Dr. Hoefer has visited the house again?” “I don’t know,” I responded. “He’s so very secret in all his doings. He will teU me nothing—save one thing.” “One thing? What is that?” “He has discovered the identity of your vis'tor in black.” “He has?” she cried quickly. “Who was she?” “A woman whom he called by a curious foreign name,” I said, watching her face the while. “I think he said she was known among her intimates as La Gio'a.” The light died in an instant from her face. “La Gioia!” she gasped, her breast rising quickly. “And he knows her!” “I presume that, as a result of his inquiries, he has made this discovery. His shrewdness is something marvellous. He has succeeded in many cases where the cleverest detectives have utterly failed.” “But how can he have.found her?” she went on, greatly agitated by my statement. “I have no. idea. I only tell’you this, just as he made the announcement to me —without any explanation.” She was s’lent, her eyes downcast. The ornament at her throat caught the light and glittered. My words had utterly upset her. “I rpust tell Nora,” she said, briefly, at list. “But I presume that you know’ this person called La Gioia?” I remarked. “Know her?” she gasped, looking up at me quickly “Know her? How should I know her?” “Because she visited you as messenger from this friend, whose name you refused to tell me.” “I did not know it was her.” she declared, wildly. “I cannot think that it was actually that woman.” “You have, then, a reason for wishing not to meet her?”

“I have never met her,” she declared in * hard voice. “I do not believe she was actually that woman!” “T ha ve merely told you Hoefer’s statement,” I answered. “I do not know who or what she is. The name sounds as though she were an actress. “Did he tell you anything else?” she demanded. “Not another word beyond what you have already said?” “He only told me that he had discovered her identity.” “He has not found but her motire in visiting me?” she cried quickly. “Not yet—so far as I am aware.” She breathed more freely. That she desired to preserve the secret of this woman whom she feared was plain, Ibut for what reason it was impossible to guess. Indeed, from her attitude it seemd very much as though she were actually unaware that her visitor and I.a Gioia were one and the same person. I saw by the twitching of her lips that she was nervous, and knew that she now regretted allovying Hoefer to prosecute his inquiries into the curious phenomena. That she should he thus disturbed pained me. and I was angry with mvself for having approached the unwelcome subject. Why should I nor remain there beside her during mv visit and seek to tranquilize her rather than to upset her thus? I had eome here to protect her from anv evil that might lurk in her path. My place was there, to comfort her and if possible to render her bright and happv. Was she not my wife? . And as I sat there with her. feasting my eves upon her peerless beaiitv, I thought it ail over, and arrived at the conclusion that to discover the watchful, and never for a single watchful, and never again for a single instant show my hand. I was supicious of the baronet’s wife, and regarded her rather a.s an enemy than as a friend. She had forced herself upon me with some ulterior motive, which although not vet ai>Jiarent. would, I felt confident, be some day revealed. Fortunately at that moment a smart woman in cream went tb the piano, and commenced to play the overture from Adams’ “Poupee de Nuremberg,” rendering silence imperative And afterwards, at my suggestion we rose and strolled along to the billiard room, where we joined a party plavmg pool. She handled her cue quite cleverly for a woman. and was frequently applauded for her strokes. Of the agitation caused bv mv words not a single trace now remained. She was as gay, merry and reckless as the others; indeed,' she struck me as the very soul of the whole l' a ’'t.v. There was a smartness about her. without that annoying a-ir of mannishness which has. alas, developed among girls Nowadays, and all that she did was full of that graceful sweetness so typically English. The billiard room eehoed with laughter again and again, for the game proved an exciting one. and the men Of the party were, of course, gallant to the ladies in their plav. There was a careless freedom in it’ all that was most enjoyable. The baronet was altogether an excellent fellow’, eager to amuse everybody. What, I wondered, would he say, if he knew’ of the vagaries of his smart wife— namely, that instead of visiting her relative she had run up to London for some purpose unknlown. One fact was plain to me before I had been an hour in his house. He allowed her absolute and complete liberty. We ehatted together, sipping our whiskies between our turns at the game, and I found him a true type of the courteous, easy going English gentleman. I cannot even to-day 5 tell what had prejudiced me against his w’ife, but slomehow 1 did not like her. My distrust was a vague, undefined one. and I eould not account for it. Phe was eager to entertain me It was true, anxious for my comfort, merry, full of smart sayings, and altogether a clever and tactful hostess. Nevertheless, 1 eould not get away from the distinct feeling that I had

been invited there with some ulterior motive. The thought was a curious one, and it troubled me not Only that evening, but far into the silent night, as I lay awake striving to form some theory, but ever in vain. Of one thing alone I felt absolutely assnred. I am quick to distinguish the smallest signs, and I haxl not failed to become impressed by the truth I had read in her eyes that night. She was not sincere. She was plotting against me. I knew it. and regretted that I had accepted her invitation. CHAPTER XXIV. • FACE TO FACE. The days passed merrily until the end of September. There was never a dull moment, for Sir Henry’s wife was one of those born hostesses who always gauged accurately the tastes of her guests, and was constantly making arrangements for their pleasure. All the ladies —save one young widow—and several of the men had brought their cycles, and many were the enjoyable spins we had in the vicinity. The fashion of cycling nowadays relieves a hostess of much responsibility, for on fine days guests can always amuse themselves providing that the roads are good. I obtained a very decent machine frlom Bath, and at Beryl’s side accompained the others on excursions into Bath or Chippenham, or on longer journeys to Malmesbury, Stroud, and Trowbridge. In her well cut cycling skirt, cotton blouse, and straw hat, her wealth of hair dressed tightly by her maid, and her narrow waist girdled by n belt of grey chamois leather, she looked smart and lithe awheel. As a rule, there is not much poetry in the cycling skirt, for it is generally made in such a manner as to hang baggy at the sides, become disturbed by every puff of wind and to give the wearer the greatest amount of unnecessary annoyance. The French “culottes” are practical, if not altogether in accordance with our British view of feminine dress, and that they impart to a woman a considerable chic when in the saddle canntot be denied. Yet there is nothing more graceful, nor more becoming to a woman, than the English cycling skirt when cut by an artist in that form. Sometimes alone, but often accompanied by our hostess, Sir Henry, or some of the guests, we explored all the roads in the vicinity. My love constituted herself my guide, showing me the Three Shire Stones, the spot where the counties of Gloucester, Somerset and Wilts join, the old Abbey of Lacock, the ancient moat and ruins at Kington Langley, the Lord’s Barn at Frogwell, the Roman tumuli at Blue Vein, and other objects of interest in the neighbourhood. She herself often suggested the rides, for she was a cycling enthusiast, and always declared how much healthier she had been since she took to the wheel. I, of course, was nothing loth to be her cavalier, for it gave me an opportunity for long and interesting chats with her, nay, to bask in the sunshine of her smiles when, as we often did, we sat and rested at some rural spot where the quiet was only broken by the rippling of a brook or the rustle of the leaves overhead. After my hard, laborious life in London, these bright hours, spent in the fresh air by day and in dancing and other gaieties at night, were indeed a welcome change. But it was not of that I reflected. My every thought was of her. A score of times during the week that had passed since my arrival at Atworth I had been on the point of declaring my love for her, and relating to her all I knew. Yet I hesitated. By so doing I might arouse her indignation. I had spied upon her. I was endeavouring to learn her secret. Thus from day to day I lingered at her side, played tennis, walked in the park, danced after dinner and played billiards in the hour before we parted for the night, with eyes only for her, thoughts only for her, my life hers alone. Perhaps I neglected the other guests. I think I must have done. Yet well aware how quickly gossip arises among a house party, I was always careful to remain sufficiently distant towards her to avoid any suspicion of flirtation. With woman’s natural instinct she sometimes exerted her coquetry over me when we were alone, and by that I felt assured that she was by no means averse to my companionship.

Often I gave yo«ng Chetwode a pass ing thought. I hated the prig, and thanked the Fates that he was not there. Sometimes his name was me»tioned by one or other of the guests, and always in a manner tliat showed how her engagement to hWn was accepted by all her friends. Thus any mention of him caused me a sharp twinge. During those warm clear August days spent with my love I became somehow more confident in her Ladyship’s actions. Hers was a complex nature, but I could not fail to notice her extreme friendliness towards me, and more than once it struck me that she contrived to bring Beryl and myself together on every possible occasion. She told me off as Beryl’s escort to dinner, to church, or elsewhere in a manner quite natural, and at the same time exerted herself to make me comfortable in every respect. Had she not herself once told me in a hysterical moment that she was longing for love? What, I wondered, could be her object in placing me always in Beryl’s company? The motive puzzled me. Little time, however, was afforded for rumination, save in the privacy of one’s room at night. The round of gaiety was unceasing, and, as one guest left, another arrived, so that we always had some fresh diversion and merriment. It was open house to all. We men were told that no formalities would be permitted. The tantalus was ever open, the glass ready, the soda in the ice, and the cigars of various brands placed invitingly in the smok-ing-room. Hence everyone made himself thoroughly at home, and helped himself at any hour to whatever he pleased. The phantasmagoria of life is very curious. Only a fortnight before 1 was a penniless medico, feeling pulses and examining tongues in order to earn a shilling or two to keep the wolf from the door, yet within eight days I had entered into the possession of a thousand pounds, and was moreover the guest of one of the smartest hostesses in England. I had been at Atworth about a fortnight, and had written twice to Hoefer. but received no response. He was a sorry correspondent, I knew; for when he wrote it was a painful effort with a quill. Bob Raymond had written me one of those flippant notes quite characteristic of him, but to this I had not replied, for I could not rid myself of the belief that he had somehow played me false. One evening, while sitting in the hall with my hostess in the quiet hour that precedes the dressing-bell, she of her own accord began to chat about the eurious phenomena at Gloucester Square. “I have told my husband nothing.” she said. “I do hope your friend will discover the cause before we return to town.” “If he does not, then it would be best to keep the door locked,” I said. “At present the affair is still unexplained.” “Fortunately Beryl is quite as well as ever—thanks to you and to him.” “It was a happy thought of yours to call me.” I said. Hoefer was the only man in London who could give her life, and if ever the mystery is solved it is he who will solve it.” I noticed that she was unusually pale, whether on account of the heat, or from mental 1 could not determine. The day had been a blazing one—so hot indeed that no one had been out before tea. At that moment everyone had gone forth except ourselves, and as she sat in a cane rocking-chair, swinging herself lazily to and fro, she looked little more than a girl, her cream serge tennis dress imparting to her quite a juvenile appearance. “1 hope you are not bored here, Doctor,” she said presently, after we had been talking some time. “Bored?” I laughed. “Why one has not a moment in which to lx* bored. This is the first half-hour of repose I’ve had since I arrived here.” She looked at me strangely, and with a curious smile said — “Because you are always so taken up with . Beryl.” “With Beryl!” I echoed, starting quickly. “I really didn’t know that!” 1 hastened to protest. “Ah, no,” she laughed. “To excuse yourself is useless. The truth is quite patent to me, if not to the others.” “The truth of what?” I inquired, with affected ignorance. “The truth that you love her.”

I laughed aloud, scouting the idea. I did not intend to show my hand for I was never certain of her tactics. “My dear Doctor.” she said pleasantly, “j •on may deny it if you like, but I have my eyes open, and I know that in your heart you love her.” “Then you know my feelings l>etter than myself,” I responded, inwardly angry that I should have acted in such a manner as to cause her to notice my fascination. “One’s actions often betray one's heart. Yours have done,” she replied. “But I would warn you that love with Beryl is a dangerous game.” “Dangerous? I don’t understand you.” “I mean that you must not love her. It is impossible.” “Why impossible?’ “For one simple and very good reason.” she responded. Then looking straight in my face, she added. "Could you. Doctor, keep a secret if I told you one?” “I think 1 could. It would not be the first I’ve kept.” “Well, it is for the sake of your own happiness that I tell you this.” she said. “You will promise never to breathe a word to her if I tell you.” “I promise, of course.” She hesitated, with her dark eyes fixed upon mine. Then she said in a low voice: “Beryl is already married.” “To whom?” I asked, so calmly that I think 1 surprised her. “To whom I cannot tell you.” “Why not? Surely it is no secret?" “Yes, it is a secret. That is why I dare not tell you her husband's name.” ‘Ts she actually the wife of young Chetwode?” “Certainly not.” “But she is engaged to him.” I observed. “She is believed to be.” my hostess announced. “But such is not really the case.” “And her husband? Where is he?” It was strange that I should be asking such a question regarding my own whereabouts. “In Loudon, I think.” “Then is he quite content that his wife should pose as the affianced bride of young Chetwode? Such an arrangement is certainly rather strange.” “I know nothing of the whys and wherefores,” she replied. “I only know that she is already married, and I warn you not to lose your heart to her.” “Well, what you have told me is eurious, but I think ” The remainder of the sentence died upon my lips, for at that moment Beryl herself burst gaily into the hall, dusty and flushed after cycling, exclaiming —• “We’ve had such an awfully jolly ride. But the others came along so slowly that Connie and I scorched home all the way from Monkton. How stifling it is to-night!” And she drew the pins from her hat, and sinking into a chair began fanning herself, while at the same moment her companion. Connie Knowles, a rather smart girl who was one of the party, also entered. Hence our conversation was interrupted —a fact which for several reasons 1 much regretted. Yet from her words it seemed plain that she did not know that I was actually her cousin’s husband. She knew Beryl’s secret that she was married, but to whom she was unaware. There is an old saying among the “contadinelli” of the Tuscan mountains, “Le donne dicono sempre il vero; ina non lo dicono tiitto intern.” Alas! that it is so true. That same evening when after dressing I descended for dinner I found Beryl in the study scribbling a note which, having finished, she gave to the servant. “Is he waiting?" she inquired. “Yes, miss.” “Then give it to him—-with this," and she handed the girl a shilling. When, however, she noticed me standing in the doorway she seemed just a trifle confused. In this message 1 scented something suspicious: but affecting to take no notice, walked at her side down the corridor into the hall to await the others. She wore pale heliotrope that night, a handsome gown which bore the cut of a first-class “courtourier,” with a pretty collar of seed-pearls. After dining we danced together, and in doing so I glanced down at her white heaving chest, for her corsage was a trifle

lower than others she had hitherto worn. 1 found that for which my eyes were searching, a tiny dark mark low down, and only just visible above the lace edging of the gown—the tat-too-mark which I had discovered on that fateful night—the mark of the three hearts entwined. What. I wondered, did that indelible device denote. That it had some significance was certain. I had been waltzing with her for perhaps five minutes when suddenly I withdrew my hand from her waist, and halting, reeled and almost fell. “Why, doctor,” she cried, “what’s the matter? How pale you are.” “Nothing,” I gasped, endeavouring to assure her. “A little faintness, that is all. I’ll go out into the night.” And, unnoticed by the others, I staggered out upon the broad grave lied terrace which ran the whole length of the house. She had walked beside me in alarm, and when we were alone suggested that she should obtain assistance. “No,” I said, “I shall be better in a moment.” “How do you feel?” she inquired, greatly concerned. “Ajs though I had become suddenly frozen,” I answered. “It is the same sensation as when I entered that room at Gloucester Square.” “Impossible!” she cried in alarm. “Yes,” I stiid. “It is unaccountable, quite unaccountable.” The circumstance was absolutely beyond credence. - I stood there for a few minutes leaning upon her arm, which she offered me, and slowly the curious sensation died away, until, a quarter of an hour afterwards, I found myself quite as vigorous as 1 had been before. Neither of us, however, danced again, but lighting a cigar I spent some time strolling with her up and down the terrace, enjoying the calm, warm starlit night. We discussed my mysterious seizure a good deal, but could' arrive at no conclusion.” After some hesitation I broached the subject which was very near my heart. “I have heard nothing of late of Chetwode,” I said. “Where is he?” “I don't know,” she responded. “His regiment has left Hounslow for York, you know.” “And he is in York?” “I suppose so.” “Suppose? And yet you are to be his wife,” 1 exclaimed.

“Who told you that?" she asked quickly, halting and looking straight at me. “Everyone discusses it," I answered. “They say he is to lie your husband very shortly. What would he say. I wonder, if he knew that you and 1 frivol so much together?" “What right has he to say anything regarding my actions. I am free. “Then he is not your lover?” I inquired, in deep earnestness. “Tell me the truth.” “Of course not. We have danced together, cycled together, and walked together, just as you and T hove done, but as for love —why the thing is absurd.” “You do not love him?” I asked. “Certainly not,” she laughed. Then she added. “I never love. That’s why I am not like other women.” “Every woman denies the tender passion,” 1 said, smiling. “Well, I only tell you the truth,” she responded with a slight sigh. “If every woman must love at one time in her life there must, of course, lie some exceptions. 1 am one of them.” “Ah, you do yourself am injustice,” I declared. "Every woman has a heart.” She was silent. Then in a hard, strained voice she answered: “'Prue, but mine is like stone.” “Why? What has hardened it?” “Ah, no,” she cried quickly. “You are always trying to learn my secret, but I can never tell you—never! bet us go in." A-nd without another word she passed in through the Frencli windows to the billiard-room, where the usual game of pool was in progress, and the merry chatter general. lake that of her cousin, her nature was a complex one. The more 1 strove to understand her the more utterly hopeless the analysis became. 1 loved her. Nay, in all the. world there was but one woman for my eyes. Superb in beauty ami in grace, she was i ncom parable —perfect. That night when the household was at rest I still sat smoking in my room, puzzled over the curious recurrence of the sensation which seized all who entered that lethal chamber in London. The turret elock over the stables had chimed half-past one, yet I felt in no mood to turn in. The writing of that hasty note by 1 Seryl was an incident which I had forgotten, but which now came back to me. What if I could discover its nature? She had written it upon 1 the blotting pad in Sir Henry’s study, and the thought occurred to me that I might, perhaps discover the impression there. With that object I placed a box of matches in my jxrcket, switched off my light, and crept into the darkness noiselessly along the corridor. The carpeting was thick, and being without. slippers I stole along without a sound past the door of Beryl’s room and down the great oak staircase into the hall. I had crossed the latter and had my fyand upon the green baize door which kept out the draught of the corridors, and was about to open it, when of a sudden my quick ear caught a sound. In an instant I halted, straining my ears to listen. Tn the stillness of night, and especially in the darkness, every sound becomes exaggerated and distorted. I stood there, scarce daring to breathe. Through the great high windows of the hall, filled with diamond panes like the windows of an ancient church, the faint starlight struggled so that the opposite side of the place was quite light. 1 glanced around at the shining armour standing weird in. the half light, with viziers down and pikes in hand, a row of steel-clad warriors of the da J's gone by when At worth was a stronghold. Thej’ looked a ghostly lot, and quite unnerved me. But as il listened t(he Suspicious sound again greeted my quick ear. and I heard in the door on the opposite side of the hall, straight before me. a key slowlj' turn. Even in that dead silence it made but little noise. It had evidently l>een well oiled. 'Phen ‘cautiously the door gradually opened amd T saw that I was not alone. The dark figure of a woman advanced, treading so silently that she seemed to walk on air. She came straight towards the spot where I stood watching in the darkness, and I raw that she was dressed in black. As she reached the centre of the hall the pale light fell upon her face, and although uncertain it was sufficient to reveal to me the truth. I was face to face with the woman who had been descrilied by Beryl—the mysterious f-a Gioia! (To l>e continued.)