The Storyteller.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVI, Issue 2080, 4 January 1908, Page 3 (Supplement)

The Storyteller .

THE MANOR MYSTERY.

IW KERCH'S UPAIE Author of ••Tlu> My story of a Hansom Cal'." ••Tim Jatlo Eye." ‘ Tho Black l’atoll,” ‘'Jonah's Luck,” “The Scarlet lhit," etc. (All Rights Reserved.] CHARTER I. •■Whit can have become ol Newts asked Air Clair, and looked inquiringly at the faces of his sister, I,,i* 1 y I’nnwiu, his only three guests, and Dorothy, his daughter and only child. No ouo could answer him, for no one knew. Sir John Newby had been invited on a Saturday to Monday visit, four days previously, but had .not presented Ir’uselt. .No replu.. came to a letter anti a telegram. and linn- on Tn-sd ay— the morning )>a pers sta'e.l ih-il the millionaire had tauisln I. The •'Mornng Rlanet"alivay; t.> the lore with sensational had lell his City oliice at two o'clock happenings as-erted that Sir John on Saturdiy. without mentioning his tlestitiai ’mi. and since then had nobeen iieatd 01. As yet, there was no suspicion oi toll! l'lay, although the journal in question hinted that Newby's name figured in Anarchistic lists —on idle nir.heritv of an tuionymoi.s

letter —as that of an enemy to !:.t poor iml needy. Hut Sir John was always -o precise and methodical in his business and private relations, Hat

the mere fact of Ida non-apn-'arai.ee for at least three days was .sufficient to render tlia-e who knew him Ultimately extremely uneasy. Among*-, these w is Mr Francis Chur, of the -Manor. Behan, .Essex, and he rul greater ciuse to he anxious than most people knew, since the midion t. tv ivjs his richest and most genet<>:is. friend. Dive;. his doings and hi: movements, is always worth troubling about. N"t that Clair was any more devout a worshipper of Mammon than the average man. This aristocratic gentleman rr.s desperately poor and dwelt in a nim-ble-down old mansion, inlierite! from a long lino o'- pauper aneeo.ors !n- ---* deed, it was said over and over again. that Clair would be wise to sell the ramshackle Manor for what it would fetch, pay hi* tb Ins with the result and settle in a small cottage, to hve on the three hundred a. year which represented Ids income. Hut Air Cl lit- was proud and obstinate, and well accustomed, as a sbholi". to plain living and high thinking. It was inconceivable to him that Essex could exist utile s the roinainingmembery of it:- best family remain 1 ' ndcr the ancestral roof-tree. 'I heirfore. lie suck to bis nulled he me like a gallant captain to ids vrecki d f-hip. and—again like the captain — Air Clair would have pr-ferr.vl decth to disgrace. Or four-", this is petting it stiongly: but. th-o: ‘Francis Clair felt strongly on :! .• • of his fanrly pedigree. > a tmorp. the best part of Idm iv is undergro t;:d. or. at least, in the fumdy vault. The dining-room, wh. •• .■ :: the six people sat round a very til-fun islu tl table, was aristocratic and shabby, like its owner. Appire.iiiy it 1.: d not- been turned out, or decor i.ed since Georgian days; which w is qu'to ■ likely, since the Clairs had been paupers almost from the time tea* the first- of thorn came over .< i li AYdliam the Conqueror. The w.il.-paper was of a faded red, and almost I,idden h.v family portraits m uroished gilded frames. The 'I ii/u >y carpet and the plum-colored hangings were worn and a trifle ragged. IV' cumbersome sideboard and ta’ac aid cluirs were of a solid type long sime passed away, and looked jut of pinto in this gimrrack age. The sircer displayed on the well-darned di'.iusk table-clo.th was nibbed to thinness like a. much-used shilling, and the if diamond-cut and heavy, was of an obsolete pattern. Everything in the room looked centuries old. not excepting Air Clair and 1 .*> widowed sister, who had -etonics homo after the death of her husband to aid tiie keening up of the- l ouse with her small income. The four young people, who r,| <vd each other at the sides of the- tab.e, presented a cheerful contrast of yoiuri ami Comity to tho old lady an 1 i d ancient brother. ANilham Alinter and AA’ilhelmina -Alinter —locally '..noi’ii is Billy and AYilly—wore a bachelor pair, who chummed together in a smwd house at the end of Britan v*ll igo, and got a good deal of fun out of life on a united income, which amonned to one thousand pounds. 1h ;y were devoted to one another, .mu both declared that if one married tho other would die. Willy, the spinste", was certainly sticking to her gun - , in declining to hear the marri ige si rvice re id ; but of late she had been afraid that Billy admired Dorothy

Clair too mut'li. For this reason ;•> not desired to come to the ma*rTr (iece])ted will'll Hilly "a 1 assured herktli it his admiration for Dorothy w;js merely artistic. Vs Hilly knew sis much about art as toe motor-car hsr and \\ illy shared between them, the truth of this assurance was doubtful. Certainly Miss Clair was well worth admir itiou, oven of the most pronounced kind. She was one of tlioee opalescent blondes, all fire and surface emotion. To describe her as tlio fair one of the golden hair with sap- , phiro eyes and a strawberry-cream '•t'omploxion. conveys very little of her charm. Dorothy’s real attraction lay in her exuberant vitality, her almost aggressive sense of youth, which iorecd itself on people who were less alive.

Willy Minter was a strapping, frorh-oalwed. handfimie young woman. of the buxom wench order; hut she seemed almost pale in the presence of the fragile Dorolhv, with nor overwhelming vitilitv and intense B-v-i u gusts. The remaining member of the ,‘i i-uer-]»arty thought something like this "as'Tie looked across the table at t' e now demure girl. In the presence of her aunt and father. Dorothy was compelled, by reason of their antiquated views, to effect a reserve, wliiea sat ill on her. But Percy Halloa li id seen her in the open air ami away from such frigid influences, and knew well that her Quaker affections of the present were merely surface glossing#. Ho was as dark ns she was t tir, and G.uiteua&.ime&onute in tlio ferypip.of

silf-coutrollcd in his strong mission.*. Naturally, when a man of tni* nature comes into tho presence ol a powerfully-vitalised young worn i i. he obeys tho law of the great Alo.m-r and falls in love. He determined to put his fortunes to the test at the very first opportunity, if only to quod tho raging sea of love, which the toned to make shipwreck of his do and prospects if not southed.

"What can have become of Newby!'” asked Air Clair once more. “Perhaps he has gone on a seetet mission connected with his Afrc.r.i ulfairs." .said llallon, thoughtfully. "Sir John is a man who keeps ins business very much to himself.’

“Aon forget-." croaked Lady Piewin, drawing up her thin ligute “ilia l Sir John promised to Moo here for a few days. Low as s ins birili, and brusque as are his i uituer.s, he would scarcely treat us so,

unless the unforeseen had happen! 1

' "Apparently the unforeseen has happened." said Billy, lightly. "We are agreed upon that," re plied llallon. quietly. "The question is what the unforeseen can be.

‘•(.Vrtainiy not u sin*rot- mission, said Air Clair, decisively. '‘Sir John usually semis lus secretary on such errands."

“Perhaps in this instance he cold 1 not. trust his secretary,” remit do. 1 Willy Alinter, who was eating an up

"**dy dear,’ observed Lady Panwin. raising her lorgnette, “bir John has every confidence in his secretary, wlu) is his twin brother Richard, hit second self in looks and nature.” "They are neither of them handsome. auntie." remarked -Dorothy, with a shrug; and at once Clair glanced at her severely.

"Newby is not an Adonis, certainly; nor is he a Cliestcrlield, much less a Romeo. He is a son of the soil, continued Air Clair, dusting hishands as though .some ot the said soil adhered ; "but his n-iture is a noble one. and by brain power he lias raided himself to the enviable position of possessing three millions; of money. Such meritorious peasants,” remarked the 01, 1 gentleman, with a sid ■ glance at his daughter, "might- well marry into families of birth who have less of this world's goods. Then tlio sinking fabric of aristocratic domination might be saved from disappearance in this democratic ago."

'Tlallon bit his lip as Dorothy shrugged" ag tin. Billy Alinter had himteO twice and thrice that Sir John Neiby wished to make Aliss Clair his wife, and that the poverty-stricken father was not averse to being the Agamemnon to this Iphigeitht. Tie dexterously turned the conversation.

-If Richard Newby is his brother's second self in looks and nature, how comes it that he has not made a fortune ? He ought to be his brother's partner and not his servant.

"Richard is the double of Newby, save in brains,” said Clair short-

"Thcn lie lacks the best part,” said AYilly, brightly; and nobody contradicted this very obvious remark. Mr Clair speculated a few more times as to what could have kept Sir John Newby from his hospitable board, and then Lady Panwin garthe signal tor withdrawing to lit - drawing-room. Willy and Halloo were forced to remain behind an i pa -s the very fruity port in whit their host called the good old-fashion-ed way. They would much rather have wandered with the girls into t'w shadowy gardens. And that is whither Dorothy and her bosom friend went. Lady Panwin took forty winks in the drawingroom, perhaps to illustrate the proverb that "He who sleeps dines!' and Dorothy clutched AYilly with a frenzied grasp.

“Willy, have you got the usual? she asked, in a whisper, and making for the door. “Trust me, dear!” was Aliss Alin- j tor’s reply, and forthwith repaired r t j the hall, where her loose cloak ? was lying on a chair. i

When they were in the gmlen the two girls fairly ran to a secluded sum-mer-house —whence they could obtain a view of the dining-room windows — and Willy produced a parcel of bread and cheese, some rich, home-made cake, and a bottle of ginger wine. These things she shared with Dorothy, and they proceeded to eat their dinner. Dorothy even asked a blessing, as her strong white teeth bit into a crust of bread, and solemnly thanked her friend.

“If it were not for you, Willy dear, I should die of starvation.” “Why don’t you make them feed you better?” asked Miss Minter, eating at a greit rate. “It’s no use. Auntie has only a hundred a year; and father has but three. They sav that they can't make both ends meet on such an incoin**. “Why not make one end vegetables, then?” asked Willy, laughing at her stale joke. “But. really, Dolly, it would he better to sell some of that silver and have better food. I'm nearly dead!” "So am l. What delicious cheese this is! A glass of ginger wine* Oh, dear, darling Willy, here’s your ble.sed health, you saviour of my life! What is the use,” she went on, when the glass was empty, “of writing on a tinkery menu; ‘Potago ;le lnouton a P Kcossaise,’ when it’s only Scotch broth?”

Willy shuddered, and swept tho crumbs from her knees. “Don't insult- Scotch broth, Dolly. What wo had was water. When I think of Juli i’s soups”—Julia was the housekeeper—“rich, and hot, and —” “Don’t! Don't!” Dorothy was almost tearful. “Vou’ll'imake me hungry again. Oh dear me! I’ll have to marry him alter all !” "Marry? Marry who?" asked Wi|. helmiim, crossing Imr legs and lighting -iv-i rot to. "Oh! yes. You mean that .Nee. by man. I thought that inis what 'Mr flair meant at iliuni r.” “It's rid'iiih'o-. of course.” slid Dorothy, pen-iv'ly watching Willy's enjoyment of a No: tor—she did not smoke herself, "lie’s old, and fat, a till ugly; and 1 don't love him. 'oho could? A red-faced, elderly thing like that. But lie’s rich and ki\ u j hearted, and I must manage to net, decent- meals somehow.”

“Then marry Percy H ■'ill'jii. , ! J£ : sa ; id W illy, promptly. “Me li»; fcs y ol i >iy IK j • vo lk„ kno " P he -le,r t . s you . o ],

to tell lies,” said Dorothy, -haughtily. ‘•Then, confess." "Confess wliatp” "That ho is—ho." "1 do. 1110 is—Percy." "Oil—hum 1 A'ou'vc got as far as his Christian name I” "No, l haven't. Don’t you dare, W'ilhelmiitn Alinter. Ho doesn’t knew that I—that1 —that I—” "That you want to marry him for a sqtinro meal?" finished AYilly, frivolously.

"Oh!" Dorothy felt disgusted There's no romance about you!"

"There ought to be, in this garden," said AYilly, glancing round the quiet, shadowy pleasanee. “Bill there, how can you expect romance alter the dinner wo have had?" "Willy, you'ro always thinking ol food."

"So wore you until you finished that bread and cheese. But you are always thinking of that Newby creature, 1 suppose.”

"Huh! 1 hate him! 'That is, 1 don’t exactly hate him —as lies very nice and kind. But I can t marry him, and 1 shan’t there!” ‘'Storm at your lather, dear, not nt me,” said Aliss Alinter, philosophically. ‘•lt's not my fault. But now that the Newby animal has disappeared, you had better turn your attention to Percy." "How do 1 know that he loves me?" asked Dorothy, going oil' at a inngen t. "Because he said—oh, well, never mind." “But 1 do! 1 do! He said-—A\ illy, what did ho say?” "L'll leave him to explain when he conn's out here.” "Willy"—in breathless excitement —“is lie going to propose?" "Yes. -But lie’s doubtful about being accepted.” "And well lie may be,” said Dorothy. ruefully. "He’s not rich." "You mercenary girl, lie's got live, hundred a year of his own, and is in the motor business, which is the tiling of the future. Besides he is good-looking and well-born and well-bred. 1 don't know what more you require in a husband. As for your Sir John Newby—" “He’s not mine,” said Dorothy, impatiently. “I’m sure 1 never wish to set eyes on him again, as he teases me so with his love-making. Only father does want money, and I am sosick of poverty. If it were not- for the money, a proud man 1 To lather would never let mo marry a low-horn millionaire, however nice." “Hum! Perhaps not. Do you intend to obey your father or your heart?” “I don’t know. I can't say. Of course, I love Percy—it's no uso denying it, for I do love him. And lie loves me, as I can see by his eyes. Lovely eyes, aren’t they, Willy darling? But —” “No ‘bats’, Dolly. Alarry him. If you don’t- you’ll go on living ac Poverty Hall for ever, now that Sir John is gone.”

“I suppose so,” sighed Dorothy, dismally; “unless tho ‘Devil's Ace’ makes a change. A'ou know the legend.” Aliss Alinter looked towards a ruined tow er rising v ignely in the shadows. “A'es,” she said, gravely, “I know the legend.” CHAPTER 11. “I don’t!” said a pleasant voice at the elbow of Dorothy, and the two girls jumped up nervously, to li ml llallon looking in at the side window of the summer-house. “Tell me the legend. Aliss Clair.” “Oh!” cried Willy, irritably, “bow you startled me. I wish you wouldn't walk like a cat, Percy.” “The 'turf deadened the sound of my footsteps. I expect. AVliat crimes li ivr you on vour conscience, to make vou s- afraid?”

“AYe're not afraid,” said Dorothy, untruthfully and illogically; “but these shadows, ami your voice coming so suddenly, and the legend of the ‘Devil’s Ace’ would make anyono afraid. I don't pretend to be any braver than my neighbors.” “What a contradictory .speech!" laughed Hallon, gaily. “And your legend sounds delightful. Do tell it to me, Aliss Clair, and immediately. This is just the time for ghost stories."

“It's not a ghost story. It's a—a —well, I don’t know what you would call it!”

“A lie!” said Willy, uncompromisingly. “But where is Billy?” “With Mr Clair,” said Percy, lazily. “They are walking on the terrace, and discussing the disappearance of Sir John Newby.” “Oh dear me! I’m sick of hearing about it. I daresay he’ll appear, again very soon.” “I hope not,” said Halloa, his <eves still on Dorothy; then he colorr-d violently. “That is, I hope he will. I don’t wish him any harm.” Willy looked at him, a .mused. “All the same, you would rot her that ho did not reappear. Is. that it?” “For some reasons certainly,” -said .Hallon. with emphasis. And Dorothy’s heart told her why he spoke so pointedly. “In that case,” observed Wilhelmina, "wickedly. “1 had better join my brother and our host on the terrace.” • So shall f.” said Miss Clair, and linked her arm with that of her friend. “What grammar!” groaned Willy. “And what silly stupidity! Oh! if yon pinch me again, Dolly, 1 shall slap you. Here comes Billy!” “I've left my pipe at home,” said Billy. Breathlessly; “and I’ve finished my cigarettes. Do give me :i cigar. old chap, or I shall die. That is. you know. Miss Clair, after a perfectly ripping meal I always enjoy a good smoke!”

“You never were diplomatic, Billy.’’ sail! Dorothy. “And why ■ M i;s Clair' ?”

“Oil, I always like to he still’ <>n these stale occasions,” rallied on Billy, pulling luxuriously. "Your lather makes me mu' d mv P's' and ‘Q's.’ you know. s a gentleman of the old i'dic „]. ain't lio? Good old school! O' uni 1 don't belong to it ! I say. 1> „||v, y, m "|| have to traij, Newby a, 'j n p Jug, buckram habits, whin yog, marry him.” "I a-’ ,ii not going to marry hiim” said I i<,n,tliv. violently. “Whit- ru.bh'.sli you talk, Billy!” ‘•lt's your father has been tioTOing I it. then, my dear girl, lie hinted ) that everything was as good s-k-. settled. iSui'li a blow to me,” coniplain-r eil the young man, with feigned grief, “will'll I was .-1110111 to ask you to be Mrs Minler. Why arc you so restless. Ha lion?”

‘‘Oli, bother!" cried A\ illy. "I m eick of hearing about that old man. Can’t lift talk of something else?” "I suggest,” remarked Hallon, who leant against the summer-house with folded arms, “that 'Miss Clair should relate the legeudof ‘The Devil's Aco.’ It’s about that tower, isn’t it?” “Yes,” said Dorothy, gravely, and drew closer to Wilhelmina, as they sat together on the summer-house stop; “and it’s nothing to laugh at, Hilly. You wouldn’t be game to open that door.” Min tor lay down again, and, putting Iris hands behind his head, staroil upward into the depths ol the purple summer sky strewn with stars.

“L don’t think it would do much good if 1 did open it, 'Dolly,” he said. “The omen only touches members < t your family, you know. Hut hy Jupiter 1 if the opening of that door Mould change the luck, I wonder Hint .Air Clair hasn’t opened it ages and ag w ago.” “it might change it for the won <>,'•• siid Dorothy, quickly. “My grandfather opened the door, and several of my ancestors; but the opening never I- ought the luck of money to the Clairs, and that is what they mostly need. Still, at a, crisis of my life, 1 might break the sjndl, and change the lane down which 1 am at present travelling.” “Marriage is supposed to ho a crisis,” observed Willy, irrelevantly. Hallon shifted restlessly, and throw away his half-smoked cigar. In a mechanical way ho lighted another, and again folding his arms, looked towards the haunted tower —at least, lie guessed that it was haunted from the various hints given by his three companions. “I should like to know what you are all talking about,” he observed, in an obviously self-repres-sed manner. “Tell the legend, Dolly,” commanded Miss Minter, abruptly. She was doing her best to bring about an understanding between the lovers, and thought that the family history might licit). “The legend,” began Dorothy, so suddenly that Hallon started, “deals with a game of cards played Wy Amyas Clair in tho reign of Henry VIII. Ho played with the last Abbot of the monastery.”

“Jolly old Abbot!” murmured Hilly the frivolous. Dorothy -took no heed. “That tower,” she went on, pointing to the ruin, bulking black against the glimmering lights, “was part of the monastry—a small one, but- rich in plate and rents and offerings of the faithful. When Amyas Clair received it from tho King, lie pulled iown tho greater part of the monastic buildings, and out of the stones built the present Manor House. Only the tower was left standing, and that he and all his successors were afraid to pull down, because of tho secret chamber.” “Secret!” echoed Wilhelmina. "Oh nonsense I Why, everyone knows o door, and whore the key is. 1 could enter it in three minutes from now, Dolly. It was the chamber in which Amyas Clair played for the monastery with the Abbot—that’s all.” “The people hereabouts call u the secret chamber,” protested Dorothy. "And it is underground, remember. Willy dear. Only those who know the way, as you do, could find it.” “What happened in the chamber' asked Hallon, curiously. “Abbot Hurley was ordered by tbs King to give up the monastery to Amyas Clair,” said Dorothy, dreamily; “and, being a clever card-plv'Og he proposed to surrender the built ing if Amyas won a game.” “Hood old sportsman!” said Hilly. “I wonder if they played bridge.” “What- rubbish!” said Willy. "As if bridge was invented; and, if it had been, two people could scarcely play it.” “I can’t tell the legend if you interrupt,” said Dolly, impetuously. "Do let me go on. Well, then, Amyas, thinking that there might be some difficulty in getting the monastery otherwise, since the peasants were ready to rise anil protect the monks, agreed to piny the game. Ho was a wicked man, and while the Abbot appealed to Cod to help him to win, Amyas asked the Devil for aid. The gamo was a close one, and when it was nearly ended, Abbot Hurley was winning. Amyas then called again on the Devil, and finally turned up the ace of spades, which decided that ho was to possess the monastery. Abbot 'Hurley went away with his monks, but left a curse on tho tower, and on the chamber wherein the g nne was played.”

“And the curses?” asked Halloi: after a pause.

“He said that every tiino a Clair entered the chamber below the tower and turned the aco of spades—which was loft' on the stone table after the game. —the luck of the family would change. (Several, as I said, attempted it, but every time the luck changed "to something worse. Therefore, my father is afraid to tempt the fates again, lest ho should lose what little remains to him. but I don’t think things can get much worse with our family,” added Dorothy, pensively, “since we have come to almost our last shilling. Therefore. when a. crisis comes in my life. I intend to enter the chamber and turn the. 'Devil’s Ace.’ ” “The card is called that?” asked the engineer.

“Yes. And tradition says it is the very aee of spades which Ann as turned up to will the game which gave him the Manor."

There was a. pause, while Halloi*. thought over the strange story. Billy yawned and stretched .himself and rose to his feet. At that moment the tall form of Mr Clair was seen coming out of the drawing-room window, and appeared black against the light of the lamp. Willielmina. aware that if lie came down there would be no dunce of Percy putting his fortunes ‘•o the test, seized her brother’s arm “Come along, Billy. I hare an idea about Sir John Newby’s disappearance." And before the astonished young man could remonstrate, she was hurrying him across the lawn. Halloa and -Miss Clair were left c«unpirutively alone, and she felt that his burning eyes were on her blushing face. "f must go," she said, in a low, hurried voice, and rose abruptly. "No." lie said, catching her arm gently. “I wi. h to ask you something." “Another time—another time.” “I can't wait," declared the impatient lower, impetuously. “This is the hour and the place, and my opportunity.” “For what?” she asked, nervously, not looking at him, but at her father and his two attests, who were re-en-

From a near thicket at the hate ol tho ruined tower came a long trill of song, rich and passionate. Some wandering nightingale was pouring out his heart to the summer night, and to tho sleeping roses. Quick and hurried gushed tho liquid notes, filling tho air with golden ministrelsy. The night, as did the lovers, listened breathlessly to the varied strains. Now came a joyous hurst of bubbling glee; anon a strain of melancholy, heart-breaking and poignant. Jligner and higher rose tho mellow voice in rapid flutings and tremulous shakes, until it died away on the palpitating air in one low, .sad note of despair. “You know now,” whispered Hallow. His arm glided round her waist, his passionate eyes looked into her own, and their two souls blended in tho hush of the holy night, "lou know now.”

“] have known all along,’ she whispered hack, and hid her face in his breast with a sob of joy. “Oh! my dearest, and will you — will you —?” “•Yes!” And again arose, triumphantly glorious, tho epithalamiu.n ol tho hidden bird. Tho two, who were now one, novel' again to bo two, did not speak. There was no need ol words. Tho nightingale told in eloquent music all they felt, all they longed for, voicing in song the go den silence of that supreme hour. They were Home© and Juliet, Hero and Leander, Anthony and Cleopatra. Tho spring-tide bliss of all lovers in all ages brimmed to fulness in that moment, which was less of time than of eternity. And divinity ran in fire through their veins. “Come!” said Dorothy, disengaging herself from tho close embrace. “Wliitlier?” asked H illon, poetically, as she drew him swiftly across the lawn. Usually he was commonplace in his choice of words, but who could help being a poet when standing in the golden light poured alien from tlie .wide-flung gates of heaven.' “The chamber —the card!'’ she said, rapidly and brokenly. “This is the time and the place. Yfem spoke of it yourself. My fortune and yours. Both are now one. AA’e must know what will happen —we must turn tho ace!” “No, no!” He caught her back as she was passing into the wood round the tower. “I dare not. It is dangerous.” “Are you, then, so superstitous?” she asked, doubtingly. “I was not, then, for I had not ting then to lose. Hilt now —with you. 01x1 Dorothy, do not tempt God, my dearest.” “Has God anything to do with the ace of spades?” “No 1 That is why. That wicked game —that playing with evil. Don’t let such things oome into our lives. Hesidos” —'Hallon strove to assert hi 6 common sense, sorely shaken hy the hour and the circumstance —“-besides, it's all rubbish, you know.” “In that case, to enter the clnunbed can do no harm,” said Dorothy, lightly. “To change our fortunes, we must turn the card. At least, I must, being a Clair, My father will not allow me to marry you, since he wishes me to become the wife of Sir John Newby.. He will make trouble, and may part us. <By turning tho act 1 the luck will change.” “For the worse, it may be,” muttered the young man, uneasily. “Besides, I don’t believe there is a card !” “There may not be. The chamber has not been opened since the time of my grandfather, fifty years ago. 1 daresay it's all rubbish. Still, I have always said that when a crisis came 1 should venture my fortunes in this way. As things stand, everything is against our marriage. To change circumstances by turning the ‘Devil’s Ace’ may bring us happiness.” "AAe are happy now,” urged Malfon. much vexed. “I don’t behove much in tho Unseen, Still, by attempting to meddle with such things, we may open a door which we may not be a bio to close.”

“Then you believe—’’ “I neither believe nor disbelieve, but —”

Dorotliv shrugged a- wilful shoulder, and, not giving him time to repeat his warning, sho vanished into the door of the tower, lfallon could do nothing else but follow her, and was at her heels in a moment. Within the ill-omened tower, they were both fully committed to the adventure, so he did not again attempt to chango her purpose. Shortly Halloa felt that he was descending a ruined stair. Although it was «s black as the pit, his guide seemed to know her way perfectly, and he surrendered himself unresistingly to her will. Down and down they went by the twisted staircase, until they arrived on a damp and unwholesome pavement. Along this Dorothy ran, dragging him eagerly. The passage was narrow, and the walls dripped with water. Suddenly she stopped, and, reaching up, groped for something. The ring of falling motal on the Hugs told,him that the key had been placed hereabouts in some niche. Jiallon’s superstitious fears wire again aroused, and he agiin tried to hold her back. But, with wilful persistency, Dorothy snatched her hand from his grasp, and a moment later he heard the grating of the key in the old-fashioned, clumsy lock. “Have you a in a tell?” asked M'ss Clair, in a. matter-of-fact way. but her voice sounded eerie in the velvety darkness.

Hallon, as angry with himself ;nd her as a lover well could he for tl is nightmare journey, fumbled in Ids vest pocket, and brought out a silver box. In the pile glimmer of vho lighted li'cifcr he saw that they were facing a squat, arched portal, the door of which was open. The thought ot what might lurk beyond in the gloom, and the memory of that accursed card, set llis teeth on edge. “Don't Dorothy," he implored, secretly annoyed by his weakness at being so strongly influenced by things he disbelieved in. “Come hick!” But she had already flitted over the fatal threshold, and as the match burnt his fingers in an expiring .ucker. he caught a momentary glimpse ol her white dinner-dress. There w.-s nothing left for him hut to follow, in he cautiously advanced, while striking another lucifer. As the gleam of tho tiny flame spread, he heard and saw Dorothy feeling her way round the walls. Then she stepped forward into the middle of the crypt—for the chamber was nothing else. Suddenly she cried out, as though the unexpected had frightened her. “Oh!" sobbed Dorothy, “something soft and human—a body. Oh!” ITallon hastily struck three matches at once, and was by her side in an instant. The glimmer fell on something

the table—where tho game was played U ’ “Impossible 1” said Hallon, and advanced the matches close to where lie presumed the head might be. An the •sharp, wax-like countenance grew out of the gloom, Dorothy uttered a final cry of ala nil and unconcealed terror. She li id found what she little expected to find. “Sir John Newby 1” she stuttered. ■*, “Oh, oh! Nir John Newby 1” And then the light went out. (To he Con tin ii jd.)