BROTHER ROGUE AND BROTHER SAINT

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXIV, Issue 16, 22 April 1905, Page 6

BROTHER ROGUE AND BROTHER SAINT

By

TOM GALLON

AiatKor of “ Tatter ley,” “A Rogue in Love,” etc.

CHAPTER I. BROTHER GOOD AND BROTHER BAD. OLD ROGER CARVELL had said his last word about The matter; and there was the end of it. Any man, woman, or child in the town of Market Rimstone could have told as much as that —that is to say, always supposing that man, woman, or child to have had the temerity to mention old Roger Carveil’s name at all. Probably if you had seen him striding down the High-street of Market Rimstone, with his hands clasped behind his back, and his stout stick dangling from them against his heels, and his keen grey eyes frowning out at the world from under his shaggy eyebrows, you would have been content to accept anything he said, and to desist from argument. On this particular matter with which we are concerned, it is probable that old Roger Carveil had the greatest right to say the last word; we may allow him that much, at least. He had hesitated to say the word for several years, and had been brought to do it at last with some reluctance, as shall be explained.

The last word was this: That his sen Dick should never again enter his house, or be recognised or acknowledged by any or his relatives; in other words, that it should be as though Dick Carvel! had never existed. It had been threatened before—ever since, in fact, Dick had been of age to be considered; this was the end of it. Old Roger Carveil boasted that he never yet had gone back on his word; it was too late in life for him to break that rule now. Dick was to go. If you look up Market Rimstone on the map, you will find that it is a grey dull manufacturing place, with a prosperous population, hard-headed and muscular. It is within fairly easy reach of London, and has a history which dates back to the time when certain ruins near it were a Castle, and certain stirring events happened there. Market Rimstone has almost forgotten that time, and is a little contemptuous regarding it. At the time our story begins, Market Rimstone may have been said to spell Roger Carvell. There was his name on the Bank at the corner of the Highstreet—“Carvell Bank” —a grim grey structure, with a front as frowning as its owner; there was the big smelting works just outside the town —Carveil’s also. Lastly, there was the house in which Roger Carvell lived—a square, sturdy place, with no artificial prettiness about it, and intended solely for use. It was named, properly enough. Bank House, and stood scarce a hundred yards from the Bank itself.

Rumour, dealing largely with the name of Roger Carvell. had it that he had come to the town of Market Rimstone a poor boy — probably without even the usual half-crown wherewith to make his fortune. Thereafter, he had apparently risen, by small and not over clean ways —getting a grip here, and a grip there, and smiting his enemy unawares (ami usually in the region of the pocket) as occasion offered. Now. at the age of about sixty, he practically owned the place, and was careful to let everyone know the fact.

In a moment of quite extraordinary weakness. Roger Carvell had married. Perhaps it was not altogether weakness on his part, seeing that the lady had money, and that that money was of direct assistance to Roger at a critical point in his career. The lady, mindful of her duty, as everyone had to be who came in contact with Roger Carvell. bore him in due course two sons; and

then somewhat inconsiderately left him to look after them; in other words, she died, and the affection of her husband is attested by the extremely handsome monument you will find in the churchyard at Market Rimstone. Of the two sons left to Roger Carvell, much remains to be said, and about them this story is chiefly concerned. Stephen—the elder by a couple of years—was a man after his father’s own heart—solemn, grim, and eminently respectable; no man ever saw him without a black coat, and no man in his senses would ever have expected to get a laugh out of him; life was much too serious a thing for that. In person he was somewhat short, and walked like a younger copy of his father, with his hands clasped behind his back, and his head thrust forward from between his shoulders; his face—sallow and clean-shaven—was as sharp and cunning and eager as his father’s must have been at his age.

Richard, on the other hand, was of an entirely different stamp; it was a never-ending source of wonder as to how he could possibly have been the son of old Roger Carvell. Perhaps his mother dreamed into him some of the dreams and ideals her stunted life had not known in reality; for Dick was tall and broad-shouldered and fair; he had a happy-go-lucky laugh for everyone, and only loved money because it could be spent. Dick was a very butterfly—with a hand in his pocket for any tale of distress, anil without a care in the world. Old Roger Carvell looked at him often, and wondered, perhaps, by what unlucky chance he had begotten such a son.

Stephen had at all times had his father’s interests at heart; father and elder son had ground slowly together in that money-making mill of theirs. Stephen had always been first at the Bank, and last to leave at night; Dick had got there as late as possible, and had escaped at the earliest moment; sometimes, indeed, he had forgotten to attend at all. Stephen had never for a moment caused his father any anxiety; Dick had been a constant source of trouble. Even as a boy. Dick had got into scrapes in every direction. and had run off from school on mad expeditions, the while the virtuous Stephen had stuck to his books, and saved his pocket-money. Small wonder, then, that the palienee of old Roger Carvell should at last have been exhausted; that, after many trials, he should have taken Stephen to his heart, and thrust Dick out of whatever small place the young man had ever held in it.

Let it not be imagined for a moment that Dick was actively vicious; nothing of the sort. His sins were of he order most affected by a thoughtless. reckless man, and the only person he had really wronged was hintself. But he disliked the drudgery of the Bank, and the smelting works, and all the rest of it, and the mean and sordid narrow fashion in which his father and his brother lived; nor did he hesitate to tell them so. And it was after one of his bitterest quarrels with the young man that Roger Carvell finally cast him oil'. “You are no son of mine,” said the old man. fiercely, as he stood watching Dick in the private room he used as an office, and to which he had summoned him. “You’re an idle, worthless vagabond, and I’ll have nothing further to do with you. Where have you been?” Dick, as n matter of fact, had been to London; perhaps he felt that he

was near the end of his tether, so far as his father was concerned, and had better make the most of what opportunities were left; it was always Dick’s idea to make the most of the moment, and to let the future take care of itself.

“I’ve been taking a little holiday,” said Dick, recklessly. “When a man gets to the age of three-and-twenty, he doesn’t want to be stuck in a place like this for ever. I’m not like S.ephen; excitement’s bad for him.” “It’s rather a pity you are not more like your brother,” retorted the old man, with a glanee at his favourite son, who was sealed at a desk poring over some figures. “I have nothing to fear in regard to him or his future; I know that my interests will be safe in his hands.”

■ “Comforting to know that one of us is all .ight,” said Dick, with a laugh. “If you’d have let me have my way at the beginning, 1 might have turned out a decent member of society; I could have taken up a profession and done something in the world; instead of which, you insisted on my sticking to the business.”

“I did —and you shall stick to the business. or to nothing.” replied Roger Carvell. “For the first time in my life, I’ll break my word; I’ll give you one more chance. Take your place here, as your brother has done, and I will overlook—-—”

“I protest!” It was Stephen who spoke, and he had risen suddenly to his feet. “As your eldest son, I have a right to say something. I have never disappointed you: I have toiled here in your interests night and day; I have been the drudge, whilst this brother of mine has done nothing; I have a right at least to be considered.”

“So you have—so you have.” replied the old man. “And I’tn not sure that I don’t like you the better for taking a stand in support of me. Come—what do you say I ought to do?” “There is no necessity for my brother to interfere.” broke in Dick hotly. “You’ve shown me more than onee that I’m not of your sort, and that you don’t want me—my brother especially. Let’s end it then; let us come to some settlement about the matter. “Stephen—what do you say should be done?” asked the old man again.” “I say that as he is worthless—and an incumbrance, so far as that is concerned —that he ought to go. I am extremely sorry, Richard,” he went on. turning with a faint smile to his brother—“but you know you really ” “I don’t want your pity.” exclaimed Dick: “I am waiting for what my father has to say. You have always disliked me. Stephen; don’t make matters hotter for me than they are already.” For a moment or two there was silence between the three men; old Roger Carvell was thinking deeply. It is probable that even then he might have wavered in that decision of his but that it chanced that the unlucky Dick, with the mere polite idea of helping along an awkward conversation, threw out a chance remark which set the whole business ablaze, and ruined his chances in a moment. “London’s wonderfully full just now. sir.” “Is it indeed?” snarled old Roger Carvell. “Then let it be the fuller by another one. my friend; go back to it as soon as you like. We’re not good enough for von down here: leave your brother to help me to build up a fortune—and vou go and make one, in your precious London, for yourself. From this time forward. I have one son. and one only.” “You mean you’re going to cast me off?” asked Dick, slowly. “That’s exactly what I do mean,” re-

plied his father. “You leave this house to-night; you don’t come back to it again.”

"But you surely don’t mean that you’ll turn me out —without a penny?” said Dick, with a white face. “I spent every shilling 1 had in London—lost some of it—and 1 haven’t enough to get a bed. You’ll let me have something—if only' as a loan.”

“Not a penny!” retorted old Carvell. "Begin as I did, when 1 started out to make my fortune. 1 had nothing—and look at me now.” “Steve—you won’t leave me in the lurch—will you?” pleaded Dick, turning to his brother.

“I regret that I am quite of my father’s opinion,” said the other. “I should not feel that I was doing right, *1 1 assisted you in the least.” "Very good.” said Dick, with a sigh and a laugh—“l suppose I must manage without it. It’s a bit sudden —but 1 daresay I shall fall on my feet somehow. Good-bye!” It was rather more of a sobering business than he had thought it would be. Even light-hearted Dick had a queer sensation within him, when he faced, for the first time, the knowledge that he had to begin the world, and had nothing wherewith to begin it. He dipped into his empty pockets, and ruefully thought of the fashion in which coins had slipped out of them during the past few days. Already a cold desperate feeling of hunger began to steal over him, and he remembered that the time for dinner was drawing near, and that there was no dinner for him. Then that feeling was swept away by the hot anger at the thought of the fashion in which he had been treated, and he went striding away from the house, through the town of Market Rimstone, and out into the country.

“It would have been all right if Steve hadn’t put his spoke in.” muttered Dick to himself, as he walked on into the gathering darkness of the evening. "What on earth shall I do? It’s no joke to he thrown suddenly on one’s own resources like this—doesn't give you time to think. It’s nc use going to the old man ; his word is final; and as for Stephen—well. I’d rather not, thank you. There’s one consolation even in this; there’s one person 1 can turn to, and be sure of sympathy—bless her!” The mere thought of that twisted him round, and sent him hot-foot back again towards Market Rimstone. This time he did not go to his father's house, but started off straight through the town until he came to a large substantial house, somewhat new-looking, which stood in grounds as new-looking as the house itself. The place did not seem to belong by rights to the dull town of Market Rimstone; it was much too smart for that. It had a dainty appearance, altogether out of keeping with the town. Dick was making straight for the house, when, on turning the corner of the drive which led up to it. he ran plump against a young girl coming at equal speed towards himself: he eaught her. and held her, and delightedly spoke her name. “Olive! I was coming to see you!” For a moment she rested passive in his aims—but only for a moment. Then, with a quick glance at the house behind her. she thrust him away, and began to move reluctantly towards it. “Dick—l mustn’t speak to you—mustn’t have anything to do with you again. We’ve got to forget that we were ever anything to each other; I’m never even to mention your name.” Dick stood still, looking at her: a hard expression had come into his usually careless eyes. He had walked back straight to her, after that sudden remem-

bra nee that he could lean with certainty on her love and sympathy—and he was met by this. That mere business of being turned out of his father’s house, penniless, was nothing compared with this; for the first time he realised to the full the tragedy that had come into his life. "So —it’s you as well, is it?” he asked bitterly. "The one living thing 1 thought 1 could be sure of—and you turn against me. \\ ell,” —he went on, with a shrug—"l suppose it doesn’t matter; only it’s rather a sharp lesson, that’s all. Goodbye!”

lie had taken but a couple of steps, when she called hurriedly to him and ran after him; in a confused, half-frightened fashion she wound her arms about him, and looked up into his dejected face. "Dick —you mustn’t go like that; 1 should always see your face like that, as long as I lived,” she whispered. "Only I’m sure you understand—” "Oh, yes —1 understand,” he retorted, with a laugh. "I suppose you’ve heard something about me—something against me—eh ?”

“Your brother Stephen has been here,” she said slowly. "Trust him to lose no time,” said Dick. “Well, 1 won’t trouble to contradict him; I’ll bet that he has made his tale good, and has painted me a pretty neat shade of biack within the past half-hour.” “He saw my mother,” went on the girl —“and she brought me in afterwards, and made me promise that I would never have anything to do with you again. She said it had merely been a boy and girl affair. she said that you ” “Oh, don’t spare my’ feelings, Olive,” broke in Dick, as she hesitated. "I’m not sure that it isn’t wisdom on your part; I’m n > great catch for any girl.” "Dick—they make it so hard,” pleaded the girl. “You know what mother is; you know how she has kept me in strict obedience ever since I was a baby; I simply dare not go against her. Stephen says that you are disgraced, and you are going away.”

“Look here, little girl,” said Dick, suddenly taking her by the shoulders, and looking down into her eyes—“forget Stephen and everyone else for a moment. There is a time in the life of a woman when she should be strong, and

should forget everyone but the man she says she loves; that time has come now for you. Stick to me—and I’ll make a man of myself yet; cast me off—and I’ll go to perdition about as rapidly as a man can. Come, my dear—what’s your answer?”

It was a difficult matter for a girl to decide off-handed. Never having been bred to think for herself, and having always had behind her a stronger will to guide her, and a stronger nature on which to 1. an, Olive Wilmore was utterly unprepared to face such a crisis as this. She loved Dick with all her heart, and it had been easy enough to tell him so, when there had boen no trouble looming on her horizon, and when those in authority smiled upon the prospect; but now love wore a different aspect, and she dared not face the consequences. Weakly enough, she pleaded for time.

“It is sure to come right, Dick; don’t let us say anything now,” she urged. “I love you —and I shall never love anyone else; but we couldn’t possibly get married yet—could we?” “I want your answer,” said Dick stubbornly. “Will you stick to me through thick and thin; will you refuse to let them persaude you to break with me ?” "I—l can’t,” she whispered, with a little catch in her voice. “In my own mind I know that I shall stick to you—but you don’t know what I may have to do—what they may make me do.” Dick Carveil returned no answer. Keeping his hands on her shoulders, he looked at her for almost a minute in silence; then he laughed, bitterly < nough, and dropped the hands from her shoulders and turned, and went striding away down the drive. He thought once that she called after him, but he did not stop; there must be no going back now —no more pl ading with anyone. The last safe anchorage was lost and Dick had started to drift.

So bitterly had he been wounded, that his thoughts took no definite shape for the future, or for what was to happen to him. He cared nothing at all about that; he had not yet had time to digest the two bald facts that he had been turned out of home, and had also been cast off by the one being on whom h“ had felt he could reallv relv. That

was enough to go on with; time enough for sober thought at some indefinite future date.

He would not go home; he would never go there again, not even to fetch his own personal belongings. He had shaken off the dust of the place, and was done with it. So he walked about the streets of Market Rimstone, brood ing over the happenings of that day, and feeling remarkably miserable. He had eaten nothing since the morning, having left London without lunching; and had been, as we have heard, disap pointed of his dinner. To add to his miseries, it began to rain smartly. "Shows what a man may come to, in this queer world, in an hour or two,” muttered Dick. “Well, it’s the last time, and 1 should like to see a friendly face; I may not have an opportunity often in the future.

There was a club in Market Rimstone, frequented by the younger men of the town; and at that club Dick was remarkably popular. He determined that on this last occasion he would go in. and, saying nothing of his troubles, or of the fact that they were never to see him again, would have a last merry hour or so with his friends. And, as it strangely happened, that was his undoing. There was a shout of welcome directly he went in, and a dozen eager en quiries as to why he had absented him self during the past week; Dick briefly told them he had been to London. One member rallied him on looking glum, and boisterously proposed a bottle of champagne. Under ordinary circum stances, Dick would at once have put his hand in his pocket to pay for it; he suddenly remembered that he had scarcely any money. However, there was no difficulty about that; the wine was brought, and the payment was no concern of Dick’s. Now, probably because of the growing despair within him. Dick launched out into the wildest excesses of speech and behaviour, and had probably never been quite so riotously amusing in his life.

Without his knowing it, fresh champagne was brought, and his glass filled again and again. And when he went out at last into the streets of Market

Rimstone, he was prepared for anything, and had not a care in the world. More than that, he was defiant of Fate, and the misery that had beset him was gone, to be replaced by a recklessness that boded ill for himself. "What do 1 care what becomes of me?” he muttered thickly, with a laugh, as he stood alone in the silent street. "What right has my father to make a beggar of me? What right has pious old Steve to lecture me? If they think I’m going out into the world without a penny they’re mightily mistaken. I’ll show them that 1 ”

Late as it was, he set off with rapid strides towards Bank House, shaking his head ridiculously as he went, and muttering to himself as to what lie would do. and what not to do, and fully determined on an immediate interview with his father; he would pull the old man out of bed if necessary. And so he came to the grounds surrounding the grim place, and went into them; and there paused to make up his mind what to do.

"I’ll give ’em all a shock,” he whispered, with a sleepy laugh. “I’ll break in somewhere, and go and kick up a shindy in the house. A jolly good wind-up to a jolly good evening!” He had been in that way before tonight—on one or two occasions when some mad escapade had kept him out beyond proper hours. He stole across the lawn, and reached a window opening on to it; pressed back a catch, and the next moment stood in the room. When quite a boy he had bribed one of the servants to leave that window unfastened, and had hail it so left ever since. He got a light, and lit a lamp which stood on a table near at hand. The room was that in which old Roger Carvell usually sat in the evening, after the duties of the day were ended. Dick was moving cautiously across the room, chuckling to himself, when he suddenly stopped, and started, and his hand dropped quickly on to something lying on the table in the full light of the lamp. A bunch of keys. Never had such a thing happened before. surely, in the history of the Carvell household. They were the keys belong ing to old Roger Carvell. and which were currently supposed never to leave his

person: he must have been strangely upset this night, to have forgotten them in such a fashion. They were the private keys of the bank. As Dick's hand closed on them, a sudden Hush stole over his face, and his figure stiffened. "You’ll send me into the world without a penny, will you?” he whispered hoarsely. "We’ll see about that. If I’m your son, Roger Carveil, I’ve as much right to it as Steve has. Well see about that; I won’t start the world with nothing.” lie dropped the keys into his pocket, and turned again towards the window. As he did so he saw pressed, close against the pane, the face of a man — white and staring—looking straight at him from the darkness outside. Dick made a sudden movement towards the window, and the face was gone; he opened the window, and called out softly into the night: “Who’s there?” There was no sound in reply; and Dick, seared a little, and yet telling himself that he had imagined it, extinguished the lamp, and came out on to the lawn, closing the window behind him. Then he set off, through byways and side streets, at a great rate for the bank. “I’ll show them,” said Dick Carveil, as he went along through the silent streets. “I’ll show them how I start the world!”

CHAPTER 11. THE SCAPEGOAT. Appearances are proverbially deceptive, and many a man in this world gains the credit for virtues he does not possess, by reason of the fact that he looks and acts as though he really did possess them. Which leads us to the very natural remark—perhaps not altogether unexpected by the reader —that Stephen Carveil was a fraud. Precisely how or when lie originally commenced his life of deception it would be difficult to say; and probably the «trms of it were in him from the beginning. and developed naturally and inevitably. For all his calm and pious exterior, the man was consumed by passions and vices it had been a hard matter for him to keep in subjection in the pre sence of those who knew his virtuous life iu Market Rimstone. To all intents and purposes, Stephen Carveil had led a double life for some years past. Certain low haunts tn the poorer part of the highly- respectable town of Market Rimstone swallowed him up. many and many a night, when he was supposed by his father to be innocently sleeping in his bed at Bank House; certain excursions to London, ostensibly for business in his father’s interests, taught the man the shadier side of life in the great city, and he had not been slow to leai n the lesson. And as, of course, such vices have to be covered up, and as people must be bribed to hold their tongues in so small a place as Market Rimstone. Stephen Carveil was constantly in want of money.

As a matter of fact, he walked for ever on the edge of a precipice—never knowing. when he rose to a new day, how the su7i might set for him at its finish. For be it understood that, soon after he came into power under his father, at the bank and at the smelting works, he began to

dip, with the cunning that belonged to him, into finances that were not his to touch; the late hours at the bank, so much applauded by the old man, meant that the son was patching up defalcations and putting in figures here to hide figures that should have been somewhere else. The thing had grown during the years he had worked, until it had become a mountain—a gigantic thing that might at any moment come crashing down to overwhelm him. So far as he knew-, no one suspected anything at present; and Stephen hugged himself always with the thought that, in the course of nature, his father must soon pass away, and leave him in undisputed possession, to answer to himself only for whatever deficiencies there were.

Thus it will be seen that to get Dick out of the way was really necessary- to the man: it left him a clearer field, and as a matter of course, a larger property, when the time should come for Roger Carveil to leave his wealth behind him. And there was another reason in the mind of Stephen, as shall be shown. Quite apart from his dealings with bis father’s money, and apart also from the actual business he did for the old man. Stephen had stretched out grasping hands further afield, and had had dealing on his own account —dealings as shady as they well could be. To sum the matter up the man, young though he was, had got himself involved in a net of debt and difficulty; at the time this story- begins he had his baek to the wall, as it were, and was wondering from which quarter the first blow was to come—and was ready- to meet it. The apparently- steady- industrious life he had lived was all in his favour; it would take much to convince his father that anything was wrong. That sudden declaration on the part of old Roger Carvell that Dick was to go had precipitated matters a little for Stephen. He foresaw that there might be a readjustment of affairs at the bank, now that Dick was gone; it might be decidedly- awkward if there came about a too close scrutiny of accounts. Stephen determined that he would that night visit the bank, in order to have a further juggling with the books under his control. First, however, there was another matter to be attended to —another blow to be struck at his unfortunate brother Dick. Therefore it was that Stephen Carveil betook himself, immediately after that interview between the father and the two sons, to the house of Mrs Wilmore, outside the town of Market Rimstone- Mrs Wilmore was a widow-, of so hard and stern an aspect, that one instinctively felt, at first meeting her, that the late Mr Wilmore was probably better off where he was at present than during his sojourn on earth in her company. She was reputed to be rich, and had certainly- had an old house turned into a remarkably new-looking one, at very considerable expense. She had one daughter—Olive; and on that daughter Stephen Carvell had east covetous eyes. Handsome Dick Carvell had, however, hitherto been the favoured suitor; and Stephen, as in all matters, had hided his time. He smiled to himself now. as he walked towards the house, to think howwell matters were playing into his

hands, and how easily Dick was being thrust out of all the good things of life. "With that puppy out of the way, 1 can do anything,’ muttered Stephen to himself. “I’ve always had to stand aside, and work in the dark; yes, and work hard, too, because 1 had no natural advantages of face and figure such as he had. Now things are coming my way; 1 ean manage father well enough —and once 1 am settled down, and respectably- married, I’ll snap my fingers at any one who threatens me- It’ll be quite a glorious piece of news to tell,” lie went on, rubbing his hands, and laughing to himself —“and Mrs Wilmore, being a sensible woman, will surely see on which side Olive’s bread is buttered. As for you —my dainty Olive—you’ve steered pretty clear of me up to the present, but we ll change all that. And afterwards, my lady, I’ll bend you, oil’ll break you, and I’ll spoil some of your airs and graces.”

So he went, as we already know, to the house of Mrs Wilmore, and was received by that lady at once. It is scarcely necessary to say that he told his story of Dick with sighs and protestations of sorrow. If anyone in this wide world had tried to hold Dick baek from evil courses, that person was, according to the statement of Stephen Carvell, Stephen Carvell himself. He begged to assure Mrs Wilmore that he had incurred his father’s anger by pleading for his unfortunate brother, and had done all he could to melt a heart which had proved adamant. And at the same tune the artful Stephen contrived to convey a very lurid account of Dick’s iniquities—making them out to be, by shrugs and shakings of the head, far worse than they were in reality. Having some personal and practical knowledge of greater sins than Dick, had ever dreamed of. Stephen found the task a pretty easy one. He went back to the house, and remained with his father, dutifully enough, for the greater part of the evening. Then he retired to his own room, and waited patiently until such time as the house was closed, and old Roger Carvell had retired to rest. The zeal he had displayed in business matters had led to his being trusted with a key of the Bank, and of that particular safe in which were kept the books with which he had specially to do. Many and many a time old Roger Carvell had hugged himself w-itli the thought of this favourite son toiling away at night, while other men employed their time less profitably; many and many a time the old man had felt easy in his mind at the thought that one so strongly after his own heart was to be left in charge of his business. Stephen gained the bank on this occasion easily enough, and got out the books in the room specially used by him during the day. It was very late—in the small hours of the morning, in fact —and he went at his work in a desultory- fashion enough, looking through the various entries with a perplexed frown, and occasionally making little calculations on scraps of paper. After a time he stopped, biting the lend of his pen. and muttering discontentedly to himself.

“To small—much too small!” he said. "It’s nothing to what I want; these driblets are of no use at all. I’ve been unlucky lately—been plunging too much. If I can’t get some ready money somehow, the crash must come, and finish everything. The old man is so close, and keeps everything so mueh in his own hands, that I get no chance to draw anything big into my hands. Lucky for me that he trusts me as he does.” He went on working again silently and steadily. Not a sound was to be heard in the place, save the grave ticking of two clocks—one a little in advance of the other —together with those other curious sounds —always to be heard in a dark house in the depth of the night-—the creaking of a board, or the mysterious suggestion of movement that makes a man glance over his shoulder, or hold his breath to listen. Then suddenly came another sound unexpected and startling; someone at the side door of the Bank. This door opened into a narrow alley, and was never used except by- old Carvell or his sons. It became evident to the listening man that whoever was entering was not breaking in. in the ordinary sense of the word; the door was being opened in the usual fashion by- a key. As the first place into which anyone entering that way would come was a long corridor, out of which the other rooms opened, there was time for Stephen to act; in an instant he had closed the book on which he was at work softly, had switched off the electric light above his desk, leaving the room in darkness, and had dropped down behind the desk itself. There he waited.

This eottld be no ordinary burglar, yet who could possibly be coining into the bank, and by that private door, at eueh an hour of the night? A cheery visitor, at al! events, for he came in whistling an air to himself—stopping and whistling, now and again to talk quietly to himself, apparently, while he fastened the door. Certainly he was in no hurry, and it took him so long to fasten the door, and to stumble along the corridor, that Stephen more than onee raised his head above the desk to listen and to wonder if the intruder meant to come in after all. Steps in the next room at last —oM Roger Carrell’s room. Uncertain steps as of a man who stumbled about in the dark; yet the man was cheerful enough, in all conscience, for even when he fell against the furniture, he only ewore softly in a whisper, and laughed. At last he reached the switch of the electric light, and in a moment had turned it on. As he stood there in the fully lighted room, Stephen Carveil looking round the edge of the desk, and through the doorway of the room, in which the visitor stood, recognised him. Dick! It was a most extraordinary thing, and Stephen fairly caught his breath as he watched. It was Dick surely enough—and it was obvious that Dick was not quite master of himself; he pwayed a little as he held to the edge of the table, and passed his disengaged hand across his forehead. The mystery of his getting into the place was explained, when, a moment later, he drew a bunch of keys from his pocket. and leisurely examined them. ‘•When a man leaves home,” said Dick, with a grim laugh, “he generally takes something with him as a slight remembrance —a keepsake. Some are partial to one thing, some to another. I like yaltie for my money, and tonight I mean to have it. Question is”—he shook the keys in the air before him triumphantly—“question is, how much shall I take?" Dick made a movement towards the end of the room in which he stood, and Stephen almost eried out. For at that end of the room were two great double steel doors, immediately behind the desk at which old Roger Carveil usually sat. They were the doors leading into the strong room of the hank; and Roger Carrell—suspicious old man that he was - —kept the key of that strong room himself; he had not even trusted Stephen with that. The few books with which Stephen had tampered from time •to time, and which, "concerned the smelting works to a large extent also, were kept in a small safe in Stephen’s room.

At the door of the strong room, however, even at-the moment that Dick held put the key towards the key hole, he drew back, and looked fearfully round about him. “No—no—l can’t do it. I haven’t come down so low as this, to rob the father who has fed me. He’s P hard old file, and hasn’t treated me too well; but I can’t do this. What i&evil possessed me to come here at all ? —what madness has come over me tonight? Let him keep his money; it's safe enough, so far as I’m concerned.”

Dick sat down at the desk, and. let the keys fall idly from his fingers; and from that moment the watching brother never took his eyes from them. Even as he watched, there grew in the mind of Stephen a devilish plan for his own enrichment, and for the undoing of his brother; he wished with all his heart he could have got bold of the keys himself, and yet have put the blame of the robbery on Dick. For it was robbery he planned, and he knew that in his case there should be no turning hack when It came to the crucial point; there should be no remorse about him.

Dick sat for a long time in silence; then his fickle mood changed, and he seemed to be making up his mind what to do. After a time, during which he had sat with his head propped between his hands, staring out across the room, he dropped a hand suddenly on the bunch of keys, and stiffened with resolution in his chair. "Why shouldn’t 1? There isn’t a living soul that cares anything for me; there isn’t one of them that wouldn’t leave me to starve. Yes —all of you; even you --dear girl that 1 have loved. That was the worst blow of nil; I’d have kept straight, if she had only stood by nie. Besides, a little money will help me to make a start; and then I can pay it back—when I'm rich—and laugh at them for having thought ine a fool, if it comes to that, somo of it is mine; I

ought to have my share some cay as well as Steve. I’ll take a bit of it now.” He went hurriedly across to the big steel doors, and thrust the key into the lock, looking round over his shoulder at the last moment, and listening for any chance sound. The windows of the bank were all heavily shuttered, and there was no likelihood of his being interrupted. He Hung open the doors, and, after a moment’s hesitation, walked straight into the dark room before him. Stephen, crouching in the other room, saw his brother come out, bearing a small packet in his hands—a packet of bank notes. These he flung upon the desk, and then stood looking Qt them in a furtive fashion, glancing round him from time to time as he stood. * "How much shall I take?” muttered Diek. “If I take the lot—my fortune’s made; I can do anything.” He stopped, and turned over the little packet, letting the edges of it rustle between his fingers. “Two thousand pounds! It won’t hurt ’em to lose that; I might almost take double that —mightn’t I? Twenty hundred pound notes; it’s a tidy lot of money. Let’s have a look at you, you beauties; you're the prettiest things in the world to a man who needs a tonic. You’ll buy everything —smiles and forgetfulness, and hope and warmth and food. Lovely bits of paper—there’s nothing you can’t do.” He sat down at the desk, and spread the notes oift before him; shook his head over them in a whimsical fashion. Presently he took the top rjote from its fellows, and laid it aside: like all the rest it was for a hundred pounds. “You’d go a long way toward helping 9, man,” muttered Diek. “Other men—iu the story books at least —have begun life on half-a-crown; I believe my father did as a matter-of-fact. Now —shall I take you and leave the others, or shall I take the others and leave you? There's luck in odd numbers, and it might ba lucky to break the packet; and Heaven knows I want luck just now! No—l might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb; I’ll take the big packet and leave you.” Even in the moment of drawing them into his hands, he stopped, and shook his head again, and took off another note to add to the one he had already set aside. “That’s another hundred I’m making you a present of, father, if you only knew it,” he said with a laugh. “It only shows how you’ve mistaken me all these years, and how little you understand the generous spirit that animates me. And while I'm in the mood there’s another hundred I’ll give you, for luck!” After a moment or two lie added another hundred to the smaller pile, and then another. “I shall be able to do with less than I thought,” he said. "The only pity of it is that the old man will never know how good I’ve been to him, how much I might have taken, and didn’t. However, as virtue is its own reward, I must be content with that.” While lie spoke, lie had gradually .shifted the notes from his fingers to the pile he had made; and now there remained but one note in his hand. He looked at it for a long minute, and a change came over his face; all the laughter was gone from it. With a swift movement lie added that last note to the pile before him, and started to hi.s feet.

“No—by the Lord —I can’t do it!” he cried. "I may be drunk—l may be mad —but not one of ’em shall stiek to my fingers this night. Let the old man keep his money; I won't touch it. at least; I’ll have none of it. Oh, God—that I could even have thought of it! —that I could have sunk so low!” He thrust the notes away from him, and sat fur a long time staring down at them. Stephen, from his place behind the desk in the other room, waited patiently. Onee or twice Dick shifted in his chair, as if to get up; then- settled himself into an easier attitude. Once he yawned and shook himself like a great dog; then settled more easily still. And at last, with a sigh of weariness, dropped his arm upon the desk, and his head upon the arm—and slept. Very cautiously, Stephen Carrell drew himself up out of the cramped position in which he had remained so long, and crept to the door of the room, and looked in on the sleeping man. Just as he was about to move towards his brother, Dick twisted over, muttering something in his sleep, and Stephen drew back again. It was a false alarm, however; Dick’s head dropped back into its old position, and he slumbered heavily. Step by step the elder brother made

his way into the room, until he stood actually beside the sleeping man, and had his hand upon the notes. He never took his eyes from Dick, while he softly folded the notes together, and transferred them to his pocket; so carefully was this done, that there was scarcely the faintest rustle of the crackling paper. Then, glancing from time to time over his shoulder, he went towards the strong room; and presently came back, carrying another packet. “Might as well make a good job of it while I’m about it,” he wmspered, “and as I don’t bear the brunt, what does it matter? I wonder what Dick will do, when he wakes and finds he’s been robbed in turn?” He put these notes also into his pocket," and made stealthily for the door. At the last moment, a thought occurred to him. and he went back to where the bunch of keys hung in the door of the strong-room, and very quietly drew them out of the lock. These also he transferred to his poeket, and then stole softly out of the room, with one backward glance at the sleeper—through his own room—and so out’of the Bank. He closed the side door softly without locking it, and crept away through the darkness towards,-bis father’s house. Diek slept for quite a long time; he awoke at last, with a shiver, and looked about him. The eleetrie light was still burning, and he gazed round in a bewildered fashion at the room in which he sat, and at the gaping doors of the strong-room. Blinking his eyes, and swaying a little as he walked, he got across to that strong room, and peered into the darkness within; he had but a hazy recollection of anything. “How in the world did 1 get here?” he muttered to himself. “In the bank—and in the old man’s room! 1 don't remember—stop a minute; let me gel this throbbing out of my head, and I shall know where I am, and what I’ve been doing.” Leaning against the desk, and holding his aching heat! between his palms, he strove hard to remember what had happened—strove to make a dear story out of the tangled remembrances which seemed to crowd in upon him concerning the events of the previous evening. “I had a row with the old man—and lie turned me out; yes—l can remember that—not likely to forget it in a flurry.

Then 1 saw Olive —and heard the sama story there; that's a thing not to be forgotten. What next? Ah, 1 know; 1 went to the club —met a lot of the boys—and tried to forget. Then 1 found -found the keys”—Dick’s face was very grave at this point, and he looked quickly in the direction of the strong room —"and I came here and took the notes. Stop a bit; was that before I went to the club —or was it after; or did I come baek here a second time, I remember having the notes in my hands—on the desk here." He swung round suddenly, and gazed at, the blank surface of the desk, with its neatly-arranged blotting-pad and inkstand; no notes there. In a dull and stupid fashion he searched his pockets, but of course found uoUiiug. Sober enough now, he looked, with a white face, at the open doors of the strong room, and remembered the notes he had handled an hour or two ago. Then he went slowly across to the great steel doors, in search for the keys; they were not there. Frantically he searched his pockets again, and looked all about him on the desk and on the flooi. “I see it all now,” he muttered. “I took the money, and went, oil with the notes and the keys, and lost, ’em both. What on earth shall I do’—l can't even recollect where I’ve been, or what I've done with ’em. It must be getting near daylight; someone will lie here presently, and raise a hue and cry, and 1 shall be found here with the keys gone, and two thousand pounds into the bargain. If 1 could only recollect what 1 did after 1 first came here! Well—Master Diek Carveil—you’ve got yourself into a pretty ghastly mess!” One gleam of hope seemed to remain; no one had seen him come to the bank; it might be possible for him to slip away and not be suspedted. Unless that were a mere fancy, there was one creature in the world, at least—in the very neighbourhood of Market Rimstone—who could swear to his having taken the keys. “H's no good; I’m done!” exclaimed Diek hoarsely. “I haven’t a friend in the world; I dare not appeal to anyone; my father can lay hands on me if’he likes, and clap me in gaol. Well, he shan't do that; I’ll hide myself where neither he nor anyone else shall find me. You've got to drop out of this world, Dick Car-

Yell, ami you haven’t a minute to lose Wfore you do it!” He switched off the light, and fumbled his way out of the place. Pausing in the allay outside to listen, and hearing nothing, he glanced up at the strip of sky above him, and saw the first faint grey tinge of the dawn. He ran down the alley, and looked to the right and to the left: not a soul stirring. Choosing his way, without a moment’s hesitation, he made straight for the country, ami in an hour had left Market Bimstone far behind him. “Here ends Dick Carveil—and pretty badly, too,” he said, as he strode along, "lie drops out of the old life, and out ot Market Rimstone for ever!” CHAPTER HI. THE HIDING OF THE DEAD. Stephen Carveil had gone straight back to his father’s house, chuckling at the thought of how easily he had obtained possession of a large sum of money, without the possibility of his being ever blamed for the theft. Dick, the scapegrace, would probably be discovered asleep at the Bank, would find it impossible to account properly for his presence there, or for the lost notes. More probably still, Dick would awake, to find the money gone; and, fearful of the consequences, and knowing that he had already been turned out of his father’s house, would take to flight, and put as great a distance as possible between himself and Market Rimstone. In any case Stephen Carveil was safe, and his theft very cleverly covered up. His mind, leaping forward to anticipate what would happen, travelled faster than his body, which latter, coming at last to the closely-shuttered dark house in which lie lived, mtt with a shock. Indeed, no sooner had he entered the house, than it was borne in upon him that a man may count himself safe before he has actually attained safety. He had entered quietly enough with his latch-key—a privilege granted to him by his father some time before. The more nimble Dick—scorning doors—had never needed a latch-key, and never demanded one. Stephen went into the dark house, and cautiously closed the door behind him; then stood to listen. Not a sound anywhere throughout the place; his going and coming bad not been discovered.

He had slipped off his shoes, and had a foot upon the stairs, when he stopped. There was a sound in the house—a stealthy sound, belonging to the night and to the darkness; the sound of someone moving cautiously. For a moment or two he debated what to do. To be found, fully dressed, at that hour of the night, might be awkward, if the man ■who moved about was his father, or even if it were a servant ; on the other hand, was it not possible that in the darkness someone —perhaps his father himself —had actually Bern him come in, and was a witness to his midnight adventure. It was necessary to know who was there —at least, important that he should understand the full extent of the danger. The slight noise he had heard came from the room in which his father sat in tins evening; he went towards it. Even as he reached the door, and bent

forward to listen, he heard the quick scraping of a match; and then a subdued light shone in the space left by. the partially opened door. He crept nearer, and looked into the room. A man stood in the room, with his back to Stephen Carveil; lie was bending over the lamp, and putting a match' to its wick. As he moved slightly round the table, the better to get at the lamp, Stephen Carveil .saw his face fully.

In spite of himself, he uttered a quick exclamation; and the man dropped the match, and turned quickly, and saw him. Before he could realise what w r as happening, Stephen Carveil felt a hand upon his collar, and found himself being dragged into the room. The two men stood in the light looking into each other’s eyes. Fear was in the eyes of Stephen Carveil—desperation in those of the stranger. The latter was a tall, thin man—with a gaunt, hungry look about him, as though he had rubbed shoulders with poverty' but recently. The face was that which had stared in out of the darkness into that very room, and had startled Dick Carvell at the moment when he took his father’s keys. “What are you doing here—James Farley?” whispered Stephen at last. “Ah—you know me then,” said the other, in a deep voice, and with a laugh, as he dropped his hand from Stephen’s collar. “I had an idea that you might have denied all knowledge of me;., your recognition makes my task easier. It’s been a long hunt io find you, my friend; but all’s well that ends well.” “What do you want?” asked Stephen again. “What does a man always want, when he’s starving?” retorted the other. “What does a man want when the being lie loves most on earth turns piteous eyes to him, and craves for food? What docs a man want when he hidss himself from the sight of men, because lie can’t pay his just debts; what does a man want when he’s afraid to venture out in God’s sunlight? Look at me—you vampire that has sucked me dry, and drained my life; look at me”- —he beat himself savagely on the breast as he spoke, and glared at the other man like a madman—"look at me, and ask me again what I want!” “Hush! —don’t raise your voice like that,” exclaimed Stephen, hurriedly, with a glance towards the door. “Do you want to rouse the house?” “What does it matter to me whether I rouse the house or not?” cried the other. “My wrongs cry aloud for themselves, and I don’t mind who hears them. It’s taken me a long time to trace you, Mr Stephen Carvell; and now that I have traced you, I find that you are in a more snug position than you’ve led me to believe lately. Everyone here seems to know Mr Stephen Carvell, of Carveil’s Bank ” “You fool—to whom have you been talking?” broke in the other angrily. “Oh, don’t be afraid; I have avoided the light so long, anil trusted to dark ways, that I don’t ask questions in the public streets. 1 met a man by chance, and put a chance question; he laughed at my ignorance in not knowing who you were. And now, 1 suppose,

without my telling you, you know what I.want.”

“Whatever you want—or whatever you think you want —you’ll get nothing from me,” said Stephen. “How did you get in here?” “By the window,” replied the man, with a jerk of his head. . “And since you want it put plainly, I’ll tell you what I’ve come for. All your talk about being ruined —the talk you gave me in London—is nonsense; you’ve got the whole Bank behind you—and your father- behind that. You shall have it in three words —I want money.” Stephen Carvell laughed. “Then you’ve come to the wrong shop,” he said. “You’ll get nothing out of me. Whatever money I’ve had from you has gone in legitimate speculation. It wasn’t my fault that the speculations didn’t come out as I had anticipated —was it?” “Speculations!” exclaimed the other, wrathfully. “You know, as well as I do, that there weie no speculations about it at all. You were introduced to me when I was a_youiig fool with a fortune—just married the sweetest girl in the world —also with a fortune. You could treble our riches in no time at all, you said; here’s the end of it. Gradually you have beggared us, and stripped us; and every bit of it has gone, as I’ve discovered too late, into your own pocket, to be squandered as you thought best—or worst. Not content with that, I was fool -enough to use someone else’s money—to throw it after the other, in the vain hope of bringing that other back; you know all about that. That’s why I'm a hunted man; that's why I dare not show my face in the light of day. And, that's why I want money —money that shall take me and my dear wife out of the country, and give us a fresh start in another land.” For oiii? moment Stephen Carvell was tempted to dip his hand into his pocket, and get rid of this man in the easiest possible way, with the aid of those notes he had stolen that night; had he done so, Till might have been well; but the meanness of the man blinded him to the danger- in which lie stood. He would try first, at least, what threats would do; he had risked a great deal to get this

money, and he did not mean to let Ml go lightly. Above all, he needed it badly for his own purposes. “You will get no money out of me,’* he said sullenly. “in the first place, he said sullenly. "In the first place, I have none to spare; I am simply a clerk in my father’s employ. I can’t help it if you’ve lost your money; it’s not my fault. You must get out of thia house by the way you came—and get back to London; I may be able to Bend you something there.” “Not for me,” said Farley, with' a, grim shake of the head. “I won’t trust you any more; I’ll stick to you, now I’ve once found you. You needn’t think you’ll shake me off; the thought of someone in a wretched lodging far away in London will nerve me for anything. I’m not fighting for myself, or for any fortune that once was mine; I’m fighting for food and shelter, and a fresh start for myself and for someone I love; and I don’t leave you until I’ve got something out of you.” “I tell you you’ll get nothing out of me,” replied Stephen savagely. “If you’ll have patience, I may be able to do something; if you raise difficulties, you’ll only kill ths goose that lays the golden eggs.” "I see; you’re afraid that some of your doings may get to the ears of people in this respectable town, I suppose?” sneered Farley. “I’ll warrant you have a beautifully virtuous reputation here.” “I have; no one has ever dared to say a word against me,” replied the other quickly. “Whatever I have done in London does not concern anyone here “It concerns me,” broke in Farley. “Now I’m too desperate, and my need is too great, to let me waste further, time on you; I’ll name my terms, and you shall agree to them, or not, as you choose; I want money, and I mean to have it; refuse, and I’ll rouse the house, late os it is, and lay the whole story, before your father. You see, I know all about it; 1 know that you live in tlie same hause with him. From what I know of you. I should guess you’ve played the saint here, and the sinner elsewhere; your father shall see both sides of the picture. Now, then —choose!”

Stephen Carvell was looking furtively about him, as though for a way of escape; his teeth were closely set, and he was breathing rapidly. “Give me time—only a little time,” lie said. “You press me so suddenly, that I must have a minute or two to think. There—there —my dear fellow.” he went on, with a quick laugh—“don’t you be in such a hurry; I’ll see that justice is done to you, never fear. Coms •—sit down; let’s talk about it.” He pointed to a chair as lie spoke, and the other man, watching him steadily, dropped into it. Stephen Carveil’s fine idea was to gain time—to decide how best he could get this man out of the house, and away from the town. At any moment his father might be disturbed, and might come down; Stephen knew that in that case explanations must be given, and the whole matter discovered. The man before him was desperate, anil would stick at nothing. Yet even in that hour, it never occurred to Stephen Carvell to silence him with the means he had in his pocket; that should be the last thing, if indeed it became necessary at all. “1 haven’t a watch —it went long ago —but I’ll give you what I judge to be five minutes to make up your mind,” said Farley quietly. “After that I’ll start ringing bells, and knocking on doors, until I find this father of yours, and tell him what a sort of man his son is. I can judge pretty well as to time; think hard, my friend.” “I could get you something to drink — If you liked,” said .Stephen hesitatingly. “That’ll wait,” replied the other. “It’s money I want, and money I mean to have.” The slow minutes dragged themselves away, and with the going of each Stephen hardened. He might have yielded to the impulse of a moment; but" now he had time to think how great his own need was, and how necessary that he should keep the money he had stolen tor his own use. His face set grimly, and by the time James Farley let his hand drop on the table, in token that the time was out, it would have taken more than James Farley to move the dogged man he had tracked down. “Now, then—your answer!” “Not” exclaimed Stephen, starting to his feet as if prepared for an attack. “Good; now we understand each other,” said James Farley, witli a reckless laugh. “Stand aside!” He made for the door as he spoke, but Stephen bared the way. Stephen would have been ir6 march for him under ordinary circumstances, but the ■other man was weakened by privation, and was in poor condition generally. More than that, Stephen was desperate; at all hazards this man must be stopped and held. Inarticulately pleading with him, and threatening him, Stephen Carvell flung his arms and tegs about him, and t hrew his whole weight upon him; the man went down with a crash. As he fell, he. flung out his arm and overturned tlie lamp on the table, extinguishing it, and leaving the room in complete darkness. And he did not rise. Stephen Carveil, who had fallen with him, got to his feet, shaking with te<£T and excitement, and stood listening. Up above in the house a door had opened, and a firm tread was to be heard upon the stairs. Old Roger Carvell was coming down. There was not a moment to be lost. It was obvious, from the stillness of the man who had so lately defied him, that Farley was stunned; old Carvell must not? see him. On the other hand, Stephen must account for his own presence in the lower rooms of the house at that hour—and must account reasonably. The cunning of the man was on the alert at once; be slipped off his coat and waistcoat, and dropped them in a corner of the room; on second thoughts, as the steps drew rapidly nearer, he tore off his collar - and tie, nnd flung them aside also. Then he went out to meet his father.

The old man was making steadily for the room, carrying a light. If he should demand to go in—if he should see the jllsorder there—if he should see the unconscious man—Stephen felt his blood run cold at the thought; but he advanced, with something of a laugh, to meet, the old man.

“Who’s that?” demanded Roger Carvell, stopping and holding the light • hove bis head.

All right, father—nothing to be alarmed about,” said Step! lion. “I thought I heard a noise down here, and

I came down. Unfortunately I forgot to bring a light, and stumbled over some of the furniture. Sorry I awoke you; but everything’s secure.” “Woke me?—l should think you did,” said Roger Carvell, drawing a long breath, and clapping a hand suddenly to his breast. “1 don’t know when I’ve had such a shock; turned me quite faint. Let’s go into my room, and see what damage you've done, Steve.” He advanced towards the door of the room as he spoke. “No —no —don’t do that,” exclaimed Stephen hurriedly. “You look white, sir; sit down for a moment, and let me have your candle; I'll look round. Let me help you; that’s better—rest a moment on the stairs, and I’ll be with you again.”

“Thank you, my boy—l'm getting old, I’m afraid, and can’t stand surprises. You're a good son; it's well to know that I have you to depend upon. That’s it; take the light and look round carefully.” Stephen Carvell went into the room. He dared not close the door behind him; he was in dread lest his father might start up at any moment and follow him. One quick glance round showed him the lamp lying on the floor; he replaced that on the table. James Farley quite still, with his head resting upon the edge of the heavy old iron fender before the fireplace; his mouth was wide open, and his arms outstretched, and he looked ghastly. Stephen was glad to turn away from him and to come out of the room. He closed the door behind him, and spoke cheerfully enough to his father. “No damage done,” he said, with a smile. “Let’s get to bed; I won’t disturb you again. 1 promise you.” “Go first with the light,” said old Roger Carvell. “And go slowly.” The danger was passed; he could only hope that his father would fall asleep again soon, and give him a chance to get down to the injured man. As he went up the stairs, carrying the light, Stephen Carvell counted the chances. If his father fell asleep quickly, all might be well; but what if the man, lying unconscious now, should recover, and raise an outcry, and wander about the house? He saw his father to his room, and saw the door close upon him. Then he wont back to his own room, and crouched there, listening. Not a sound in all the house; above all, no movement from that room below. He seemed to wait an eternity before he dared venture out again—to stand, listening and trembling, at the head of the stairs, with an eye on his father’s door, and an ear attuned for any sound from below. At last he ventured down. This time he carried his candlestick—unlighted. Tremblingly he opened the door of the room, and, not daring to light the candle, spoke in an agitated whisper: “Farley —James Farley—can you hear me ?” No sound—not n breath. Stephen lighted the candle —groping his way to the table to do so—and peered fearfully over the flame of it at the man who lay on the floor. Farley had not moved; he lay as he had fallen. Stephen Carvell set down the light, and bent over the man, and called to him. “Farley —Jim Farley! Don’t play the fool; I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Still no movement. With a sudden deadly terror stealing through him, Stephen bent down and touched the silent figure; thrust a hand roughly inside the thin, shabby waistcoat; caught at the stiff hand, to feel for the beat of a pulse. There was no movement in James Farley ; he was dead. When the first sheer horror of the thing was gone, Stephen slowly turned the body over to find the cause. He saw that the man had fallen on the pointed iron corner of the heavy old fender, and that it had literally crushed in the base of his skull, killing him instantly. At least, that was what he guessed, and that was what had really happened. He let the body fall back again into its first position, and knelt there, looking at it, and wondering, in a dull .sort of way, what be should do.

Several ideas earns flitting through his brain at that moment. The one great necessity was to get rid of this thing, that had forced its way into the house, and been killed there, and which no amount of explaining could account for. That was the first business—to get rid of it; the only question was, how it could bo done. “If they round him here—who'd believe that it was an accident? My father

knows that I came into this room with a light, after he had been disturbed by the noise—and yet 1 said notjiing about it. He’d remember that ; and I couldn’t explain. Oh. God—show me some way out of this —show me some fashion in which I may get rid of him! It wasn’t my fault; 1 never meant to kill him. 1 wonder, now,” he mused, as he sat with his chin in his hand, looking at the dead man —“1 wonder what that brother of mine would have done, if he had founds himself in such a hole as this. If Dick* were here to-night —” He stopped, and got suddenly to his feet; an appalling thought had occurred to him. Dick was not here to-night; Dick was never to be there again. If what Stephen Carvell had surmised was right, his brother Dick was at that moment flying from the place, and was never to set foot in it again. At the bank there was the strong room standing open, anil rifled of some of its treasures; and Dick must be held to account for that, although his more cunning brother had the proceeds of the robbery then in his pocket. Dick was gone—-pever to return; was it not possible that this man should take his place? A wild idea, with difficulties of every kind surrounding it; could it be accomplished? The first thing to be discovered was whether or not Dick was at the bank, or had already fled. If the scheme that was taking shape in Stephen’s mind could be carried out. then Dick would disappear utterly, and yet his disappearance be accounted for; it was necessary, however, to know what he was doing, or where he was at that time.

“The telephone!” whispered Stephen to himself. “I’ll ring up the bank; if he’s gone, I shall get. no answer; if he's there, the mere hearing it, at this hour, will show him that someone knows he is there, and will send him flying off at once. I'll try the telephone.” There was a private wire between the bank and Roger Carvell’s house; the instrument hung in that, very room. Stephen went to it, and, listening for every sound, turned the handle two or three times; then took the receiver from its hook, and pressed it against his ear. For a long minute he waited, and heard nothing; then he put the receiver back, and rang again. Again he listened, and there was no reply; he looked about him in some perplexity. “It seems safe—and yet I can't be sure. Suppose he sleeps through it all; suppose he hears nothing? I may account for him in one place, and he may be found in another. But 1 must risk that; it’s the only thing to be done. I must take it for granted that Dick won’t venture back, and that he will, in order to cover his theft, get away as far as possible, and start under another name. It’s a chance—but I’ve got to take chances to-night.”

It took him a long limo to make up his mind to touch the body, but it had to be done. He got it. up in his arms at last, and staggered with it out of the room. Pausing often to listen, and to rest, and now and then laying down his awful burden, and standing, gasping and trembling over it, he made the dreadful journey upstairs; and so came, after an eternity as it seemed, to his brother's room, lie opened the door, and dragged the thing inside; contrived, with a last frantic effort, to got it on the bed. “Brother Dick passes out of this house tonight,” be muttered to himself, ns he looked at the still figure on the bed—“but he shall return to it. 1 always hated you. brother Dick,” he went, on slowly, with a grim laugh—“so we’ll get you comfortably out of the way. You’ll steal first—will you?—and you’ll die by accident afterwards. You were always a careless follow, Dick; this carelessness shall cost you your life. James Farley is done with ; we’ll change him into brother Dick, and forgot that he ever existed. I’m glad you came to night, ray friend," he added finally, with a nod at the silent figure—“you’ve helped me out of a difficulty. I gel rid of you and Dick at one stroke!” Thereafter, the movements of Mr. Stephen Harvell were strange. He went down to the room into which the unfortunate James Farley had come that night, and he gathered up the discarded coat and waistcoat, and collar and tie. and carried them up to hts room. Moving stealthily about, he collected a bundle of old newspapers, 'and some rubbish of one sort and another, and spread them about the room in which the dead nun lay. Then he got some oil from a little stove in his room, and spread it over the papers, and even over the bed. And then,

shaking with fear, and looking all about him, and listening for any sound, he dropped a light in the train he had prepared; and after watching it for a moment, as it blazed up round the funeral pyre he had made, he shut he door and came away. His own room was lower in the house; he got back to it, and undressed, and waited for the first alarm. As they were sleepy folk at Bank House, the alarm was a long time in coining; in fact, when it did come, it came from outside, and woke thundering echoes through the house—raised by those who pounded on the door. Stephen eame out sleepily, and anxiously inquired about his father; tho whole place was full of smoke, and he could hear the flames roaring merrily above him.

Old Roger Carvell had been got out, it seemed, more dead than alive; the fire had been confined to the upper rooms, but they were a furnace. They broke the news to this anxious elder brother, and he hid his face when they told him. A body had been found in Dick’s room; evidently the young man had come back to the house, and had gone to bed, and perished in the flames. The body was so charred us to be utterly unrecognisable. The flames were subdued at- last, and Stephen ventured into tho room in which he had set the fire going. Tho blackened heap of ruins that once had. been a bed and a man might have been anything; certainly there was no possibility of distinguishing who had died there. He learned that that was tho one fatality; that everyone else had been got out safely. In the midst of the confusion, tha telephone rang in the room downstairs; Stephen answered it. Then he heard the news for which he was prepared, anil communicated it to old Roger Carvell, who sat wrapped in a dressinggown in tire room. “The bank has been entered in the night, sir—and a large sum of money taken from the strong room. IFa Smithers —the cashier —speaking. He says he found the strong room open, and the money gone.” “Disaster on disaster,” said old Roger Carvell. “Have you any idea, Stephen, who this was?” “I’m afraid to say, father,” said Stephen, slowly. “Afraid to say? What do you mean?” “I mean that Dick, whom you turned out <Sf the house to-day, has tried te revenge himself upon you. I found these keys”—and he drew them from his pocket as he spoke, and held them up —“among the ruins of my unfortunate brother’s room; they arc your own private keys of the bank. I believe that Dick meant to rob you—did rob you, in fact—an?l came back here afterwards. Whether he set fire to the place or not, we shall never know; but undoubtedly he has perished in the flames—a proper reward of his villainy.”

(To be Continued.)