The Storyteller.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVI, Issue 2110, 8 February 1908, Page 2 (Supplement)

The Storyteller.

THE MANOR MYSTERY

By FERGUS IT UAHS Author of “The Al.vstery oi a Hansom Cab," “Tim Jaile Eye," “The Black Patch,” “Jonah’s Luck," “The Scarlet Bat," etc. [All Rights Reserved.] CHAPTER IX. Upon hearing her secret suspicions put into blunt and forcible words by Count Mez'xotf, Lady Pamviu thought a swift prayer and stepped forward. Tall as was the Russian she seemed yet taller, and looked as gaunt and grim as a lea Hess tree in winter. Dorothy was too horrified to speak, and ilallon judged it- wise to keep silent until he knew Bezkoli'.s grounds for till' aceu-at : >n. 'that young gen-

tleman stood in an easy, graceful attitude, suave and coal, while Air. Clair, i c .tlessly excited., glared on him fiercely.

“You do not know what you are talking about, sir.” said Lady Panwin to the Russian.

“Pardon mo, madam 1 know only too well. AVhat V said just now I am willing to sav in your English court of law, unless—- “ Yes, unless.” burst out the squire, “unless 1 give you half my income for your confounded .Anarchistic schemes.” Bezkoff bowed politely. ' You save me the trouble of an explanation.” “Do you really accuse my lather of murder?” asked Dorothy, with a look of indignation. “I really do, Alics Clair." ‘•Ami on what grounds?” demanded Ilallon quietly. “Air. Clair can inform you," said Bezfkoff. “He finds them suilicient, I assure you, Air. Ilallon.” “No, Ido not. How dare you make such a statement! I. am perfectly innocent. AYhy should I murder my best friend, who was always willing to help me during his life, and—“AYho has helped you alter his death,” said Bezkoff, with a significant glance. “Yon have two thousand a year under the will.” “I never expected to receive it, said Clair angrily. “You expected to receive something,” retorted the Russian, “else you would net have been present at the reading of the will.” “Then you mean to infer,” struck -_.in--.Lady Panwin, staring hard at the young man, “that my brother knew of the legacy amf’kijled Sir John Newby to obtain it?” “That is my belief,” 'replied Bezkoff coolly. . “It is a lie, sir—a lie!” cried mix. Clair, furiously. “Sir John Newby never hinted that he would leave me money, much less an assured income. If he had lived he would have married my daughter, and I had arranged to permit him to live at the Manor, on condition that he restored the building. Until I heard the will read I was under the impression that I was a loser by his death. That being the case, I certainly had no motive to kill him.” Bezkoff shrugged bis shoulders. v'Of course,” lie remarked, with chilling politeness, "you have to defend yourself.” “I speak' the truth.” “Naturally, we all speak the truth when it is to our own advantage to do so. However, you know what I ‘know, Air. Clair, and unless you give me the money 1 require I shall inform the police.” “You villain!” “You call me a villain in your own house,” said Bezkoff, raising Ins eyebrows. “This is English politeness, 1 presume?” “And your conduct is Russian honesty,” said Hallon quickly. “Blackmail has evidently been reduced to afhie art in your, country.” s'" ' This speech struck home, amt Bezkoff colored painfully. For the first time lie showed ir disposition to lose his temper. - ; “I permit a certain license to Mr. Clair,” he snarled, with an ugly look, ally wishes to defend himself. But you are young, Air Hallon, and with this affair you have nothing to do. Unless you address me properly I shall certainly challenge you to a duel.” The Englishman laughed. “Wo don’t fight duels in this country,” ho said, contemptuously—“especially with blackmailers. You can drop that melodramatic attitude, Count Bezkoff.” • “You insult me, and in the presence of ladies.” “I intend to, and if Air. Clair only gives me the word, I shall pitch you out of yonder window.” Then Bezkoff lost his temper completely. “AVhat have you to do wpth tins business?” 1m demanded furiously.' “This much, I am engaged to marry Afiss Clair.” “AVhat!” It was the squire who spoke, and lie stopped in the course of a restless walk up and down the drawing-room to speak. “You engaged to Dorotliy, sir? How dare you, without my sanction!” “I intended to ask for your approval this night,” said Hallon, bravely. “You shall not have it!” cried Clair, angrily. “Dorothy, come away from that man’s side.” “No!” said Dorothy, rather afraid and pale, hut quite defiant, “1 love Percy. 1 intend to marry Percy;” and she slipped her hand into that of her lover’s while Bezkoff smiled cvnieallv.

If bis opponents fought amongst themselves, the task of subjugating them would bo made easier for him.

Lady J/amvin saw this, and also saw the Russian’s smile. Suddenly sho drew her angry brother to one side, and spoke to him in a low, vehement whisper. What she said no one could hear, while site spoke no one? made any remark. In two minutes, however, Clair nodded, and seemed to bo pacified by her arguments. He was the first to break the silence, and addresed himself to Hallon. “Later we can discuss this matter,” he said, making an effort to keep calm. “In the meantime, it is necessary to deal with the accusation brought against me by Count Bezzkoff.” Hallon guessed at once that Lady Pan win was on his side, and had been pointing out to her brother the necessity of retaining all the friends he could at such a crisis. More than this, the young man fancied that by defending Clair from this monstrous charge he might be able to gain the old gen-

| tleniun’s consent to his marriage with Dorothy. However, he only guessed I these things, ami could not bo certain. Therefore he judged it best to lie ! silent, and merely bowed in answer to ! tin 1 squire's speech. flair looked at him hard. "Of course. Air. Hallon," he said peitit- • fdlv. you do not believe what Count Bezkolf says?"

1 “Certainly not," replied Ilallon, ; p.oinpil.v, and lie 1 elt that lie could ■ declare this with till truth, "the acj cusation is ridiculous.” ; “l say so too,” cried Dorothy, squeezing her lover's hand, and pleased that lie should so stoutly champion her father. i “Neither of you." remarked Bezkoff', now overpoweringly polite, “have not yet heard my reasons lor the accusation. ” “\Ve shall hear them now,’ said Latlv Panwin, sternly. “Francis, come and sit beside me. Afr. I Hallon—Dorotliy, be seated. Count I Bezkoff as a chair is behind you, tlmro : s no need to stand. Me await your explanation.” “And when you have explained,” added Air. Clair, sitting down beside his sister, “you shall leave my house at once.” “As you please,” remarked Bezzkoff. in no wise upset. “1 have only a moderately largo bag with me .and I can walk to the station to catch the last train to London, or I can stop in the village. But 1 may remark, Mr. Clair, that you are foolish to treat mo in this way. I wish to be your friend.” “I shall give an opinion on that point,” said Lady Panwin, harshly, “when I have heard your explanation.” “And when—” began Clair, only to be cut short by lus sister. “Francis, allow the count to speak. AYliatevp.r he may have said to you, we are in the dark. Now. sir! And the indomitable old woman turned a judicial eye on the handsome Russian. Bezkoff sat down resignedly, and spoke to the point. “Sir John Newby.” he said, addressing everyone generally, “was my friend and the friend of Russia. He was, through me, iu communication with various secret societies, which have been formed to

help my unhappy country. As an emissary to sueii a society from Sir John, his brother Richard has been sent to Russia.”

“And when does he come back asked Hallon, mindful of the importance of Richard’s evidence with regard to the death. “That depends upon the success of his mission.” “AA’hat is his mission ” questioned Dorothy. “Alas! I am unable to inform you, Miss Clair.” ’“Unwilling you mean,” snapped

Lady tbimvin. “Go on sir.’ Bezkoff- made no direct reply, hut continued bis "recital. “Seeing that Sir John was a millionaire, and well

disposed towards our cause, we—l speak for myself and niy revolutionary friends—we were anxious that he should come to no harm. Therefore, one of our number was set to watch him, to guard him if needs be. This watcher, or guardian—we will call him X, since lie is an unknown quality—always kept his eye on Sir John.” “To protect him from what?” asked Hallon, sharply. Bezkoff shrugged his shoulders. “From any assassin, or spy, or delegate of the ruling party in Russia, who might harm, or who might seduce him from our side. Those in power wish for money as much as those who are oppressed, therefore, Sir John would he a prize to them as well as to us. You understand?” Hallon nodded. He understood much better than Bezkoff guested, but did not intend to commit himself to words with so clever a man. /After a moment’s pause the Count continued: “X —you must .remember that the letter presents our man — followed Sir John from his office in Kaffir-lane to Deltan on that day—•” “tStop!” interrupted Duly Panwin. “AVhat did Sir John do between the time he left his office to the hour he arrived at Fenelnirch-st.reet Station to come down, here?” .long to tel 1 you,” said Bezkoff, politely. “Moreover, it .has little to do with the actual death.” “I doubt that,” muttered Lady Panwin. “Go on—go on.” “X—again our man, you understand—followed Sir John to the Cuckoo’s Grove, and was in tho wood with him about seven o’clock.” “Did not Sir John see him?” asked Dorothy. “No, Miss'Clair. X is’too clever a spy to permit himself to he seen by those he followed. X concealed himself amongst the undergrowth and watched Sir John, wondering, I may state, why .Sir John waited in the wood. Apparently lie was expecting someone.” “Air Clair?” asked Percy, remembering the .letter found on the dead body, or rather, in the vault. Bezkoff guessed his thoughts. “Mr Clair can best tell you that,” he remarked, significantly, “and also Air Clair may inform you if he wrote that letter, published in the papers, which lured Sir John to the Cuckoo’s Grove by hinting at danger to his brother Richard.” “I did not write the letter,” said Air Clair, furiously, “nor did I go to tho Grove.” “Pardon me, you were seen there by X.” “So you say,” retorted Clair, savagely. “I have read the papers, Mr Clair, and I know that at the inquest you admitted that you were near the Cuckoo’s Grove at seven.”

“1 was near the Grove, certainly, but I did not enter the Grove. Also, I lingered there until nearly seven, but left on a visit to Mrs Folks before the .hour struck. Sir John would not have reached the Grove when lie walked from the station until seven or after, so I must be innocent.” “A good defence,” said Bezkoff, fooll.v, “but quite useless in the lace of X’s evidence. You did not leave the Grove until after seven, and you did enter it. Near the stile you met with Sir .John, and there you stabbed him in the back, after a short and friendly conversation. Sir John was just turning to go home with you when you stabbed him.” “You told me all this at my din-ner-table, sir, and I say that it is a lie!” said Clair, livid with anger. “Selina, Dorothy, Hallon, il assure you that this man never saw me kill Ne'.vbv.”

“I did not, .certainly,” said Bezkoff', hurriedly, “but X did, mid you stabbed Sir John to gain two thousand a year, which he told you ho intended to leave to you. Alter you killed Sir John you It'd the body in tho underwood, and then rctuvmd late the next day, to drag it to tho vault. And. you alone, Air Clair, knew where that vault, was to he found. This is my accusation,” said Bezkoff, rising and bowing. “So I ask you all if .it will not be better for Air Clair to pay me one thousand annually for the rest ol bin lile than to he arrested for the murder which can be proved by X?"

The squire grasped his collar and Luo away his white tie. “1 shall choke—l shall choke!” he muttered. “Such audacity —such daring!" “What is ,your opinion, Air Hallon ?” asked Bezkoff. “I shall let you hear mine first,”, said Lady Pamviu, rising grimly. “You are a liar. Count Bezkoff, and l don't believe a single word of what you say!” “Your defence, madam?” asked Bezkoff somewhat taken aback by this rude defiance. “What is your defence ?” “You shall hear it," said the old woman, coolly, “in the police-court. “11l the police-court!" gasped Clair, convulsively. “A'oii hear, madam. Your brother does not feel safe.” “Alv brother is safe; my brother is innocent. It is now some minutes after nine o’clock, Count 'Bezkoff , and as you will have to catch thte .10. JO train from Belt mi, and have some distance to walk, I think you had better go.” “I go” —Bezkoff walked to the door, then turned melodramatically—"to toll the London police.” “By all means. But remember that if you accuse my brother to the police, he shall bring a counter-charge of blacknui.il against you.” “i'll risk that,” said Bezkoff; ami would have spoken further, but that J ules entered, in response to the bell which Lady Panwin had sounded'somo minutes previously. “Jules," said his mistress, “take Count Bezkoff to his room ami assist him to pack his bag. Then you call direct him to the station.” “A'es, milady." “And when the Count appears here again lie is not to he admitted.” “A'es, milady," said Jules, meeekly and held open the door for the handsome Russian to depart. “I shall say an revoir but not adieu,” said Bezkoff,. concealing his vexation under an air of calmness, “since we shall all meet in the policecourt. ’*■

“AVith you in the dock,” said Lady Panwin, sneeringly.

“And later with Air Clair on the scaffold,” retorted Bezkoff, anti went away smiling defiantly. All the same, he knew that, ho had lost his gnmo and his chance of getting money for the cause.

AA’hen the door closed. Lady Panwin turned towards her brother and the lovers. Air Clair, breathing hard, was leaning back against the cushion of his chair, and Dorothy was grasping the hand of Hallon. The young man approved of the decisive action of Lady Panwin, and, seeing that she was mistress of the situation, refrained from interfering. Moreover, he wished to hear what suggestions she had to make with regard to Bezkoff’s proposed warning of the police before giving his opinion of the present state of affairs. “There will be a public scandal,” said Clair, breathing heavily, and turning his bloodshot eyes on his sister. “No, Francis,” she replied, quietly; “that man will not tell the police any of his lies.” • “Aloti believe that they are lies?” “Of course!” Lathy Panwin hesitated, then went on with more impetuosity than was consistent with her grim character. “I own, Francis, that when you fainted—” “I did not faint,”’said Clair, quickly* “AYhen you nearly fainted,” cor-' rected Lady Panwin, quietly, “on the night Air Hallon announced his discovery of the body, I fancied that a touch of 'General Harry Clair’s insanity might have been inherited by you, and that in a moment of frenzy you might have struck the blow. 'But Air Hallon defended you.” “Selina!” Clair was on his feet, much offended by the imputation. “How could you think so badly of me. I would not kill a fly. As to General Clair’s madness, there is no -chance of my inheriting that. I feel quite sane.” “I understand now—l did not then —thanks to Mr Hallon.” “Will you explain wlmt you mean?” • “Later —later! Alean while, there is no time to be lost in. meeting any possible accusation brought by Count Bezkoff. Francis, Air Hallon is yoltr friend and my friend and—” “And Dorothy’s lover,” snapped Clair. “Don’t forget that, Selina.” “I do not, Francis. But your lesser cause, of vexation-must be swallowed up in the greater.” “I don’t want Dorothy to marry Hallon. Do you hear, sir?” This last remark was to Percy. “I hear,” answered that young gentleman, respectfully. “But as Dorothy and I are devoted to one another wo intend to marry.” Clair looked angrily at him, annoyed by this quiet firmness, and appealed to his daughter. “Dorothy, will you go against mv wishes?” “I love him, father,” she said piteously; and seemed to think that tho statement did away with all obstacles.

“Francis”—lit was Lady Pan win who spoke—“as I whispered to you some time hack, we need all our friends at this juncture. Therefore, it is unnecessary for you to quarrel with Air Hallon. After all, ho is a young man, and your daughter a pretty girl. Do not exaggerate their natural affection for one another into a crime.” “I don’t approve of the engagement,” said Clair, obstinately. “Moreover, 1 certainly should have been consulted.” “Pardon me, sir, but 1 intended to consult you this night. I said that before.” remarked Hallon. spiritedly. “You might have been sure that I should never consent.” “Now that iSir John Newby is dead I see no reason why you should not consent, sir.” “My daughter must marry a rich man.” “No, lather!” cried 'Dorothy, Irritated that she should be thus reduced to a puppet. “I shall marry an honest man, and a man whom I love. You have no money now, so I refuse to be sold.” “Child, do you dare to set your will against mine?” “Yes. father. I have no wish to

iliiiinvl, but 1 am n human being and not a doll, lily life’s happiness is my oivii all'air.” “! wish you to ho .happy, Dorothy, but—” “Then permit me, father, to choose a hii.band for myself.” ''Cornel come!” cried Lady Panwin, sternly. “This is not ihe nay to speak to your father. And you, Francis, have no right to.coerce the girl into doing anything against her feelings. As to the marriage, that must wait until your character is cleared.” “.My character is above reproach !” saitl Clair, indignantly. “Now,” replied his sister, with significance, ‘\liut how Jong will it remain so should Count Jie/.koff tell this story to the world?” “Von said yourself, Selina, that lu would not tell the police.” “1 did. And I repeat what I said. Count JJezkoff is too much involvetl by bis own confession, with the Revolutionary Party .in Russia to think ■of appearing even as a witness in .in English law court, dint he is quite capable of whispering to your detriment that you are the assassin or Sir John. IVnd since you have hid a legacy lef t to you ; since you were near the Cuckoo's -Grove about the time the crime was'Committed; an 1 since the body was hidden in the crypt, people will begin to Think that there is some truth in idle gossip. “What is to ho done, thcj)> Selina?” asked Clair, sullenly for ho saw that his sister was taking a com-mon-sen sc viow of the case. “Leave it to Mr Hallon.” “To mo?” cried Percy, much astonished. “Yes,” said Lady Panwin, imperiously. “Francis, make a compact with Mr Hullon that if he clears your name lie shall marry Dorothy.” “Oh!” cried the girl, joyfully, for this was a solution of her matrimonial difficulty that she had not thought of. “Promise, father 1” “Why should I? Why should 1?” demanded Clair, angrily. Lady Panwin’s hand fell heavily on his frail shoulder'. “To save yourself from arrest and to clear your name,” she said, slowly, “it is necessary that tho assassin of Sir John should be discovered. That is no easy task, if Mr Hallon will undertake the search, it is only fair that he should he rewarded.”

“I make no stipulation for reward,” said Percy, quickly, and unwilling to take advantage of Clair’s difficulties. “Let me search for the assassin and put matters straight; then,' if Mr Clair is agreeable, I can marry Dorothy. Rut’l decline to have my marriage made contingent on my success, or non success.” This speech was quite enough to arouse the doggedness of Clair’s nature, for, like the much-quoted Irishman, he was always in. the opposition. “It is not for you to say either the one tiling or the other, -.vr Hallon,” he declared, sharply. “And my sister’s proposition seems to he very sensible. Of course I am perfectly innocent. Nevertheless, I do not conceal from myself that scandal may tarnish my name. I am, therefore, willing to make a compact with you. Bring tho true assassin of niy unfortunate friend to the gallows, and you shall marry my daughter.” Percy hesitated, being averse to gaining a bride on such terms. But Dorothy looked at him deploringly; and Lady Panwin raised her thick eyebrows, as though to say that only by tliis method could he obtain liis ends. He therefore accepted, and g&VO his hand to his prospective fa-ther-in-law. “I agree,” he said, simply. “•Very good.” Clair shook hands and pushed' him away. “Then, you can kiss nij' daughter as a sign that I agree to your engagement.”' Hallon thought that this was an excellent idea, and sealed the compact with a warm kiss. CHAPTER XII. Ilf this way the conduct of the case devolved on 'Hallon. After the inquest both the London detective and Inspector Trusk made various attempts to discover the truth, b itfailed to find the very slightest blue to the identity of Sir John’s assassin. Perhaps, ns no reward had been offered, they did not strive veryhard. It had been expected that Richard, on returning from Russia would give a large sum of money to the man who knitted down the murderer of his brother. But as L'chard was not mentioned in tlie wll, and was known to be 'dependent a,.on his secretaryship for bread, there \ as no chance of reward from that quarter. Then the charitable ocietlos,

to which the bulk of the millionaires fortune had been left, plainly stated that they would do nothihg to avenge their benefactor. Pin ally, the few legacies left to Mrs Broil and other old servants were not aniiilo enough to permit of money being promised to detectives.

There remained Mr Clair. As he inherited two thousand a year, P seemed only just that he should try and buy the condemnation of this unknown assassin. .But having made his arrangement with Halloilj the squire did not propose to squid lev money on Scotland Yard and lei this be known. Ho desired to spend his windfall on himself, and on requiring the Manor. Swanson, lenrtiin' this, and not being prepared to wcdt for fame, practically abandoned the case. Of course, as a Govern mbit official, lie made a few languid Uttempts to solve the mystery, but sdon gave up all hope, seeing that the chase was likely to be a long one. did would not involve extra pay. Tnudc also, finding that Ids industry woitid not be rewarded, refused to concebi himself further with the mystery, alii it appeared as though the murder of Sir John Newby would lie relegated to obscurity, and figure on that lolig list of crimes which have never hern accounted for. Thus, Hallon ■'•d t free field to work in, and could hope to arrive at the truth unhampered by interference, official or otherwise. This pleased him not a little, a 3 he wished, unaided, to bring the assassin to justice and so honestly win Dorothy for his wife.

Count Bezkoff. escorted by Jules, the Manor butler, left the Manor within the hour, and caught the 10.30 train to London. After a short interview with Dorothy, in which they renewed their vows, Percy returned to the Mi liter establishment. Here he found IVilly, seated in the study, busy with her story. Billy, feeling tired after a long day in the open, had retired to- bed. The midnight hour begets confidence, and, moreover. Willy, being sharp, and a woman. was likely to be of great use. Percy, therefore, smoked a filial pipe Before going to bed, and told her of Bezkoff’s arrival, of his accusation, and detailed the compact which Air tened attentively to her friend, and then gave her opinion.

“ rim first thing you have to do It to see Mrs Broil ill tSir John’s London house." “Wlmt lor?" asked Percy, doiibtClair had made with him. Willy lisfully. “She is not likely to know anything of tho matter.” “On the contrary, she is likely to know a great deal. She must know on what terms Richard was with his brother.” "What lias that to do with the murder?” “Well,” said 'Willy, crossing her legs and selecting a cigarette, "from what Count Bczkoff pays, .it appears that politics are mixed up with this dime. Richard is plainly in Sir •John’s confidence, else he woo’d not have been sent to Russia. Assume, for the sake of argument, that Richard and .John were not or. good terms, the younger brother might have utilised this revolutionary business to get S'r John put out of the way.” “Seeing that Richard is not mentioned in tho will, that would he against his own interests.” “Jt looks like it. But, then, you have to find out if Richard knows of tho terms of the will. Again. Mrs Broil may be aware of something connected with the Russian affairs likely to reveal if Sir John was ’ll danger of assassination.” “You think that the murder nay be a political one?” “Perhaps. Anything is possible in Anarchistic politics. • “But,” argued Hallon, “that note ’which lured Sir John to the Gro\ o had to do with Ricnard.”“lit had, and suggested, on the luce of it, That Richard was a shady character Again, Richard is invoiv ed, you sofi.” “But not ks an active conspirator to murder his "brother. That actio i is plainly against his interests, ss 1 stated before.” “On the face of it, yes. But remember that we dolrt know about Richard’s past life. There mav he something in that which W did not wisli Sir John to knqw, ail'd, tli ■!■(>- foro, when Sir John did knoV—an 1 lie might have learnt it in the Cuckoo’s Grove from the person who Vent that note —Richard may have wanted his twin out of the way.” ' Hallon remonstrated. “You are building up theories out of nothing.” “Well,” said Willy, staring into

the fireless grate, “it looks like that, I confess. The whole thing is a mystery to me. Apparently, from u hat you say, Mr Clair is innocent in spite of my suspicions and Count Bezkoff’s accusation. If he were guilty, iie certainly would not ask you to look into the case. I think you had better begin by learning all you can of Sir John’s past life from Mrs Brail, and also she may be able to roll you about Richard’s doings. Then there is the knife with which the crime was committed.” Hallon nodded. “A noticeable knife,” he .admitted;-“kind of bowie. The handle, with its red and blacv bands, makes it a weapon not easy to forget if once seen.” “And yet,” said Willy, slowly, “I have seen it, and an Mr Clair’s hand.” Percy jumped up. “Good heavens! Where? men?” “I can’t think, but I am sure that the handle dwells in my recollection. I have, thought and thought, but T cannot remember.” “I wish you could,” urged Hallon, eagerly. “That would be a great ■help, you know. Think, Willy, think. Did you see it at the Manor?” “No. And yet Mr Clair held it in his hand.” \ “Who was present when he did so‘?” asked Hallon, striving to revive the links in her chain of memory. “Sir John was present-ryes, he was certainly present!” Willy stared into vacancy, as though trying to conjure up the forgotten scene before her mind’s eye, which was exactly what she was attempting to do. “And Dorothy?” “No.” “Billy?”,

“Yes. He laughed at Mrs Broil. Ah”—a. flash of memory came and went —“she was in the room. I remember that much. Billy laughed at the idea of Mrs Broil fighting, and—and—” Willy stopped with her mouth open. “Mrs Broil fighting? Why should Mrs Broil fight?” Miss Minter rose and struck her hands together with a triumphant look in l her eye®. “I know non’; it all comes hack to me. Billy and I went up to- London -with Mr Clair. Dorothy could not com© becaueo she had a headache. We called on Sir John. He was in his study with Mrs Broil, and she was describing a fight in the slums. You know, she goes to the slums.” “No, I don’t. Why does she go?” “Oh, she’s mad on philanthropy.” “Mrs Broil,” said Hallon, drily, “does not strike me as a woman likely to help the poor.” “You wrong her there,” said Willy, who was quite pleased at the sudden revival of her memory. “She is really very kind to the poor, an<r Sir John encouraged her kindness. There is a slum an ’Whitechapel—a pet slum of Mrs Broil’s. On this day—in the morning—she was there, and a man was fighting with his wife. He was a Swedish sailor, and not so strong as his wife, a great brawny woman. As the sailor was getting the worst of the fight he drew the knife, and Mrs Broil snatched it away from him. She brought it home intriumph, and was telling Sir John of her adventure when f entered with Billy and Mr Clair. U e heard the story, and Mr Clair took up the knife and looked at it. T remember quite well, because Billy called Mrs Broil by the name of Penthesilea, which annoyed her.” “Are you sure that it was the same knife?”

“Absolutely! The handle struck mo as so strange—red and black bands alternately. Of course, there may he another knife of that description ; but it does not seem likely.” “What became of the knife?” “I can’t tell you. Mr Clair laid it down on the desk, and then Airs Broil, offended with Billy, left the room. I never set eyes on the knife again until I found it in the wood, and then its appearance only stirred up a vague recollection of seeing Air Clair holding it. You have aided mi to remember the whole scene.” “Tf what you say is correct—” “It is. I swear it is!” said AVilly, quickly. “Then, the knife having been • Sir John’s possession, he might have brought it down to Belt-an himself, for protection.” AVilly shook her head. “J can’t see that, Percy,” she remarked. “AAliy should Sir John have carried such a weapon?” “He may have known whom lie was to meet, and so have been afraid.” “You forget,” said AVilly, wisely, “the letter, was anonymous.”

“Sir John'might have known the | writing.” “Perhaps. And yet it does not seem possible”—Miss Min tor hesitated—“it is not probable that 'Mr Clair took it,” sho ended, nervously. “No,” rejoined Hallon, positively. “Whomsoever is guilty, Mr Clair must be innocont. Tho very fact that Bezkofl accuses him makes mo. believe that lie did not murder Sir John. Bezkolf,” repeated Percy, frowning, “was, according to his own showing, a friend, of Sir John's What if he stole ..the knilcylhaving access to the study, and was himself the Xhe speaks of. Then all would be accounted for.” “Save -tho fact that Count Bezkoff accuses Mr Clair,” said Willy. would not risk doing that if he were » .: guilty.’ “He would for money, which means much to his party. These Russian people stick at nothing. Then, again, Richard might have taken tho knife.” \\ illy shook her head again. “Richard is in Russia. He could not have committed the crime.” “Ho may have given the knife to someone.” “Wo are arguing in a circle,” said Miss Minter, with a weary air, and glancing at the clock. “I say again,/ what I said before, that it will bo best for you to go to Loudon and see Mrs Broil. Now that you know about the knife, it is more important than ever that you should see her, and learn if she missed it from the study.” > aj Percy stretched himself. “Ail right,” ho .said, “I’ll go up to-mor-row.” “Do you know Sir John by sight?” asked Willy after a pause. “Did I know him, you mean, sinc.a he is dead, poor wretch,” said Hrilon. “-Well, yes. I saw him twice or thrice here. A heavy, red-faced, man, clean-shaven, who always wore grey clothes and a white waistcoat. Why do you ask?” “Because his brother Richard is exactly the same in looks. If Richard has come Lick you 'wiß be able to recognise him from this <?e«crip - tion. Red-faced, burly, and. pros-perous-looking. Only Riel Hi r d*~ttS■: ally wears black clothes and never a white waistcoat. I suppose Kir John thought that there was .a cnance ot 4 mistake being made abo.it them an<l so made Richard dress different- > ly..—Well—” ’ “I’u go to town to-morrnv,” said Percy, yawning. “When I return I’ll tell you Everything Mrs. Broil tells me.” This being settled, Hallon retired to bed, and fell asleep immediately. The case at present was so confusing that lie did not Wish to muddle his brain further ov&r so inexplicable a problem. When life heard what Mrs Broil had to say hWit the knife he would then, perhaps, be able to ad- jvance. At present tliero was no clue. Next day Percy went up to London by the 10.55, and leached Fen-churcli-street shortly aftfir twelve ' o’clock. He then took tile underground to South Ivcnsingfcdb, and sought the house of the millionaire. It was a handsome residence on Camden Hill, situated in a lar&fc garden, shut out from the roadwitjf by high walls of red brick. A ring_at the door brought a footman, lahd Percy learnt that Mrs Broil w&s within. He sent his card to her. kV 1 .. the man, and shortly was to the drawing-room. This somewhat surprised Hallon, as he fancied that Mrs Broil would have received him in her own apartment. But he presumed that aintil the executors settled her late master’s affairs she considered slio had a right to the entire mansion.

In a few minutes Mrs Broil came mincing into the dressed gaudily as usual. discarded the erape-fi fe W which hail marked V •John, and was arayed l, % gown trimmed with green, ra* \ tight to her spare figure: v / 0 ’y —she wore an early Victoria was of white lace, intertwists s blue ribbons, and adorned with / stars. R mud her thin neck l /, led two gold chains with lockets / taolied, and lengthy earrings depei / ed form her ears. Finally, sjie hk V fivo or six bracelets on her skinny wrists, and wore red mittens. In\ -

this gorgeous and wholly uneuitabldA"’' garb she looked like an old parrot-, \ and when she greeted her visitors V* screeched like one, with the usual upthrow of the hands. “Oh! Air Hallon, liow are you, sir?” she cried with her black eyes twinkling and showing most of her teeth. “I am glad to see you, sir, though I should be glad to know why you have come here. But then, I do know. Oh, yes, I know, sir. There’s no deceiving me. But how nows travels so quickly I can’t tell.” “AA’hat news?” asked Hallon, stiffly. “Joyful news, the very best of news. And ye<t”—her thin mouth took on a sorrowful twist—“sad news to me, who nursed them both.” Hallon wondered if she had been f*. drinking, as, in spite of her gay dress, her eyes were red, and she •apparently was trying to be c&udful under the difficulties. . “Are you alluding to John?” he asked, puzzzled. “And to Richard, who was my favorite. But ho is gone.” “Richard? You mean Sir John!” ■Airs Broil heard a sound at the door, and spun round like a teetotum to face it. “Judgo for yourself, sir.. Hero he as 1” The door opened and Percy started’ to his feet with an exclamation. And well he. might, for on the threshold he beheld—Sir John -Newby! CTo bo continued.)

THE TEST.

(By Tina. L. Silberrad.)

A man bad conic to see the Bishop of Halchcstor; he gave no name, and no statement of his business; iievertbe less, lie succeeded in obtaining an interview. His lordship, in spite of his busy life, usually found time to seo those who sought his opinion or help.

Ho was n tall man, this visitor. To the Bishop, who had dealt a good deal with humanity, the thing most obvious about him was that he was laboring under some emotion, held strongly in check. The Bishop'wondered, too, if lie had even seen tlio man before, or if the half-awakened sense of vague recognition was a trick of fancy. The stranger, for his part, did nothing to enlighten him, though he eyed his lordship like one who takes n measure and has to decide what weapon to use.

“I fear I intrude on the little leisure of a busy man.” bo said- “but I want your opinion.” The Bishop replied that it was his, if it was of any use.

“It is on a matter of forgiveness,” tlio other said. “Ilotv far ought a man to forgive?” A somewhat unnecessary question, one would say, for a man to bring to a bishop, seeing how most- folk answer it for themselves, even if they are willing to accept the uncompromising reply given nineteen hundred years ago. But if the Bishop thought this, ho did not say it. “We are told ‘until seventy times seven,’ ” he replied. “Is that possible?” the stranger asked, sceptically. “I think not.” The Bishop may have been ready to defend his words, but the other prevented. “We don’t forgive, you know,” he said, “not seventy times or even once in things that count. There are things we never forgive at all.” “You did not ask me what was done,” the Bishop reminded him, “but what should be done; .and if it should be, then believe mo, it could ’ bo. It is difficult, but it cannot be impossible.” The stranger nodded, as if lie allowed the justice of the correction. “What is to forgive?” he asked. “Is it to extract no penalty for the wrong done, to take no vengeance, to ignore the offence—and the offender?” “More than that,” the Bishop answered. “It is to be to the offender as if the offence had not been; it is to love—differently, perhapr, but as much ; to trust less,perhaps—one’s first trust is sometimes misplaced—but to pity more; to understand a.ud so forgive.” Again the stranger nodded; then lie raised keen eyes. “Do you forgive?” he asked. “I have not had many offences to “Not many? But some? At least, one?” His voice had taken a vibrant note, and swiftly the Bishop bad the lialfawakened memory fast—Forte.-que 1 It was—no, it was not, it could not be! Yet fifteen years make a difference to a man’s look; fifteen years, and beard or no beard. But it was impossible, totally impossible, that Fortesque should be here. It is possible that a man should take another’s wife, destroy his home, and shatter his life, but it is not possible that after fifteen years he should come to consult him on matters of ethics. “I do not think that I hound your name?” tlio Bishop leaned forward to say. “No,” tlio stranger answered. “I did not give it. It is a personal matter ori which I wish to consult you, and I would rather remain unknown. “Have I seen von before?” “Very likely; you must see many people; I have seen you. He lose as spoke and moved across the room. “I will tell you the story he said, hastily. “I don’t say lam the man concerned. I don’t say lam not. You shall hear and advise what lie ought to do. Some years ago a young girl was married to a man a good deal older than herself. He was grave, wise, virtuous, all he should be; she was beautiful as a May morning, as full of life, as ignorant of it as a ■voting lawn, and ready to taste and see. The union worked out as such affairs generally do. Slni did her dutyt and found it dry die,; she saw the world, such glimpses of it as reach the parsonage of a. manufacturing town, .and discovered she had tied heiself up too late. Then came along tlio other man. They behaved well lor a time; .at least they, tried-kit all events she did. She was not to blame —I mean— Ob. hang it! it was just nature, and- the inevitable, and—” " He broke off abruptly, and stood, his back turned, staring out of the window, where there was nothing to bo seen in the November dusk. The Bishop df Halchester did not move; only the fine, ascetic lace, lined by sorrow and fighting, had grown hard, pity was gone from the sad, keen eyes Instinct had been right, and reason, which had urged that it was impossible, wrong. Fortesque washero, here by his hearth once more; lortesque retelling here the old tragee y which he. had’'acted before, lor » moment tlio Bishop almost rose, the man was in him before the churchman crying to him to seize tlio offender by the tliroat, to thrust him from the room, from the house, and refuse to endure that his last insult should bo added to the irreparable injury, But by a supreme effort ho mastered himself, and out of the dusk by the window fi voice spoke, harshly, almost hoarsely, “She is dying,” it said, ”aml she wants the forgive lies of the man she wronged.”

;Dving? For a moment the Bishop’s eyelids flickered, then lie moistened his lips and spoke with judicial coolness. “Possibly she has it,” he said. “Possibly she has nob,” the other retorted. “Hal he done nothing on her boj ia if 9” the Bishop asked. “Has he enacted any payment for the tresspass, has he persecuted her or hex lover, has he preyented-whatever his private' judgment on such things the nominal legalization of them union, has he made no “ cnfic “- „ “To forgive is move than tnar, camo the answer. “It is to be as t S. offence 1...1 not boon, to love not loss but differently, to pity, to understand, to halve ? the burden, and iviao out the stain. , ■ drew back mto shadow , it was "his own judgment, and it was »T , tho bora » if bo aid not >.;n nr- rf y 011 11*0 subject, “Ro-

Repent!” The words choked in his throat. “Good Lord!” he groaned, "fifteen years <>l it, only fifteen! 1 would go through hell to have it again. And so would she! And”—ho covered his face with his hands—“she is dying!” John Peterham, Bishop of Halchester, leaned forward at hist; but it was John LVtorham who looked at the bowed head, the Bishop of Halchestor was gone. It was John Poterliani who saw the suddenly called vision of love, of sunshine, of blood that coursed last, of joy new every morning; life at its fullest, sweetest, richest, life with the woman he loved with the sole love that had eomo to him. Work had been his—success—the kindling of many hearts, tho bearing of many burdens, but- his own heart had been left unto him desolate, mid his own hearth cold. These two had had all, and the man in him had risen up, refusing this last demand. “Sir Richard,” lio said, “you havo gone too far; you havo no right to como hero, no right to outer my house.”

Fortesqiio looked up. “No,” ho said simply,—“no, I know that; it was a beastly tiling to do, but it could not be helped; sho wants you. I said 1 would letch you.” “That is impossible.” “What! Y'ou will not come?” John Peterham shook his head. •‘But sho is dying.” “So,” ho said, with coldness, "I have heard.” / “And you will not come. Man, don’t you understand? She has got it on her mind; sho wants to seo you !” But the argument which was so unanswerable to the one man seemed to carry no weight with the other; lie only shook his head, and rose as if fclie interview were at an end. Forteique did not move. “For her,” he said—“for her you will come? Oh, I don’t suppose it vfill be any easier lor you to come to me than for me to come to you; but for her! A man would do it twenty times over for that, creep kneeling down' yon cathedral before all the world—anything.” The Bishop's lace did not relax; perhaps even it hardened a shade. “Sir Biohal'd,” lie said, “it is useless to say any more; you have my answer,” and he put his hand on the door.

Then Fortesque saw that it was of no avail. “You won’t come?” he said. "You will not practise tho creed you preach? Y’ou—you damned hypocrite.”

”1 am not a hypocrite,” Peterham answered. “If 1 came and appeared to forgive, I should lie a hypocrite; For though she might believe, it would be a lie. Ido not- forgive, neither you nor her; I shall never forgive so long as I live. You have taken all—all do you hear me?—and left me nothing, nothing!” He opened the door. “Go!”

Sir Richard Fortesque went back to town alone. Just as he reached the railway station a thought occurred to him. Ho took a card from hi 6 pocket, enclosed it in- an envelope, then addressing it to the Bishop ho went back to way he had come, and left it with the man who opened the door; after that ho went back to town.

But the Bishop of Halchester was alone in tho gloom, and over and over in his mind a few words repeated themselves—“fifteen years of sunshine, of love, of life—fifteen years,” and lie had nothing! Across and across the room he strode, but ever the same words wei'e there—“and he had nothing!” The common joys, the right of men, had been taken from him; love and comradeship wife and children, all these had been denied him. And these two, these two had all. And now, when it was over, when they had wrung the uttermost from -life, and the end was come, now they came to him to forgive—to forgive! Across and across the room again. There by the window Fortesque had stood saying that Kitty was dying. Dying? Kitty, little Kitty; it was hard to believe; he could only recall her full of life and youth, and the joy of living. A wild creature of sunshine and winsome ways, with charm, beyond the power of words. His Kitty, his little, little Kitty. Something choked at the back of his throat; almost for a moment ho felt the touch of her fluttering hand—saw her eyes that laughed, then grew wistful when he refused her some request. Child’s eyes, neither blue nor gray, where the soul had slept—until Fortesque came, and love awoke the slumbering woman within to suffer and rejoice, to live—for him!

The Bishop opened the door and went out. In the hallway the man servant gave him the envelope Fortesque had left. he opened it. Inside there was only a card with the name and address, left in the forlorn hope that he might relent. Left by one who did not mind how he stooped or how besought even the man he had wronged for the sake of his beloved. The Bishop tore the card across and dropped it into the firp; but the address, once read, remained at the back of his oiind. Then he went out, fox it was time for even-song. A beautiful service have the Reformers bequeathed to us for the close of day, and beautifully was it rendered in the old cathedral. But the Bishop was stiff and cold; never onco did prayer or psalm pierce through to his soul. AVhen the Nunc Dimittis was sung, and the choir chanted how the servant was ready to depart in peace, his face did grow a shade more set. When tJm smallcat clioir-boy of all looked, according to his custom, to the kind, lined faco for the encouragement he always imagined there, he looked an ay again, chilled; there was no encouragement in the face to-night; the boy turned away repelled. Others turned from the Bishop, too, that night. There were children running about the close when lie crossed it; they shrank from the grave man who passed them by the gas-lamp—-a thing they were never wont to do. He observed it, but went his way. Tho Bishop spent a busy day; lie was ««.e who took little rest, and until 1 after eleven he and the others with him were hard jit work. Once one began a tale of trouble and suffering, but stopped himself, putting it hastily off for another time; for there was neUlxer. sympathy nor interest in the Bishop’s eyes, which were used to be quick to sco trouble and to bring help. Once one began humbly to speak of failure and difficulty, but he did not go on, there was neither hope nor cheer to-niglit in the man many had come to regard as a tower of strength. .

alone in the library, with no readiness for sloop, or desire for bed. He went to Ids desk anil took up a sermon that lay there ; Lvniorrow lie was to speak to a great- meeting in London ; what ho would say was hero, all ready. He gin need through the. manuscript, then put it down; it no longer rang true to him. Lie felt it was not what ho ought- to say? llow alter this, how say anything different? flow speak at all to these people ? For a litlo while he sat gazing before him, facing tho question. They were ordinary people who sinned and suffered, worked and played, struggled ; they needed a- faith to live by, a hope to live lor, a charity wide as the world to livo with one another, to lorgivo ono another. lie was to speak to them, to show them a light—and ho was in tho dark!

Five minutes later a door shut quietly, and steps sounded in tho street; John Peterham, Bishop of llnlcliester, hud gone out. Down one street and down another, aimlessly, restlessly, it did not matter where, driven iorth like those of old who were posscsed of a devil. And lvitty was dying—Kitty, the girl wife he had taken, hoping that the great love he boro her was big enough lor two, knowing in his innermost soul it could not be; Kitty, who wanted him io forgive, not- her alone, but with her, included in her, the man who had made her life blossom, given her all the joys of earth, but who could not without the first lover smooth the wa\ v el death—death that was calling Kitty.

Joseph Horner, tho one-leggged cobbler, was a patient individual; when a thing could not be done, it could not, and there was an end-lor him. Mrs. Horner, who has twice the sizo ol her husband, lay in the gutter hopelessly and completely intoxicated. Joe, having tried in vain to get her to her feet, sat down on the curb to wait- lho time of nature.

"If you won’t, you won’t,” ho said ; "Imt you’re a dirty ole toad to choose the gutter, you are.” “What is tho mutter?”

In the darkness, the street was hut ill lighted. Joe could not see that it was the Bishop of Halchester who spoke. “’Tain’t nothin’,” lie said. “Is any one hurt?” the Bishop asked.

“No,” Joe answered; “it’s only my ole Dutch. She’s been on the drink again. When she comes round a hit I’ll take her home.” "Home?” the Bishop said. "It would be better if she were locked up for the nigth.” But- Horner thought otherwise. “She’s my 010 ’oman,” ho said, as if that explained everything. “Do you want her homo like this?” the Bishop asked. “Xu course I do/ ’Joe answered. “I’ll get her there as soon as I can. It’s just round the corner; I’d a-liad her before this, only sho popped my clothes along o’ tlio other things while I was abed.”

Tho Bishop was a big man;' he stooped and lifted the woman. “Show mo the way,” he said. “I will bring her for you.” Horner hobbled off, his wooden leg stumping on the uneven pavement. “Thank you, mister; thank you kindly,” ho said. “Why do you want her homo?” tho Bishop asked. “She is no good to you; sho takes your money, pawns your things, disgraces herself and you. Why do you want her?” “Why?” Joe said, in astonishment. “She’s my ole ’oman!” Then feeling somehow that a fuller explanation was needed, ho said: “She don’t get like this all the time, sir; not more’n half a dozen times a year, or maybe a dozen. She’s a good bin in betweenwhiles. Turn her out- I ain’t no saint myself, not with the drink. I’m n toetotaler, but ain’t no better than another, and I’ll be in Queer Street if tho Lord don’t blink at some o’ my (loin’s by and by.” He stopped at tho door of a humble house. “Besides,” he added, as he opened it, “She’s my pal, my sweetheart what was, my ole ’oman,” He pushed tho door open and entered. “This way in,” he said- “ Wait till I get a light.” The Bishop followed, and in the small glow of a low fire found his way across the room, and while Horner found a light ho put the woman on tho bed. Joe struck a match, but almost let it fall when he saw the ■ man who had brought home bis wife | “The Bishop!” lie said. “Lord h\e us!” Tho Bishop had gone to the doer; in the unsteady light one cou.’.l seo plainly the new lines that had, tenia in his face. •“J didn’t know you, my lord, ’ Joe said, with embarrassment. “That didn’t. Fancy you bringin’ the 010 gal home! ’Tain’t fit!’z “You are right,” the Bishop murmured, and his voice was strangely humble. “I am not fit, but thane God that--He let me dod it.” He turned on the threshold. Good night,” he said, .“and God bless you.” Then lie went out. Down the street and down another, quickly, quickly as before. And still in his mind the words rang—-Kitty was dying ;Kitty whom ho used to love, whom ho loved still; Kitty, who wanted him to forgive her and the man who had made her jjfe perfect, as in the beginning it was jnpantto bo, “Forgive its oils tr.espases as we forgive them that trespass against us,” these words rang in his oars too. Jesus, the carpenter s son, had used them, Peter and James.-and and Joe, the one-legegd cobbler, lived John, tho fishermen, had taught them, them in his daily life and John Peterham. Bishop of Halchester, had refused to go to tho woman lie loved—tho woman who was dying!

Twelve, the cathedral clock was struck solemn and slow—twelve I And there was 110 train to London till seven in the morning, and Kitty was dying. John Peterliam went home and prayed as 110 had never prayed before, wrestled all night in prayer, that she might live till 110 came, that he might he forgiven. On thp iiexf day, when the Bishop of Haleiiester preached in town lie did not speak with his usual eloquence; his voice shook sometimes and his faco was drawn and lined; yet he spoke as lie had never spoken before, as from soul to soul, from tho depths of those in the deep. He came straight iT.oxu tho bedside ol the woman 110 loved. He had beeii in time, ho had held her hand onco more in his, he had said. “My dear, my dear, I forgive, I understand; may God forgive xis all. 1 ’ AVhen the first December snow fell, two men followed a woman’s body to tho grave. Between them vyas the greatest gulf there can be between

over by the love for the woman who was gone, by a great wrong done and forgiven. And when tlio dust was given to dust and the earth to earth whence it came, they turned away and with a silent handclasp they parted, each to go his own .separate way—the one to. the desolation that had come upon him, the other to tho work that was his to do. They were Sir Richard Fortesque and John Pcterliani, Bishop of Halchester.