The Storyteller.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVI, Issue 2134, 7 March 1908, Page 3 (Supplement)

The Storyteller.

THE MANOR MYSTERY.

ISv FERGUS HUME Author of “The Mystery of a Hnnsoin Cab,” “The Jade Eye,” “The ]Slack Patch,” “Jonah’s Luck, “Tho Scarlet Bat,” etc. [All Rights Reserved.] CHAPTER XIX. Dorothy uttered an ejaculation of surprise. If this was tho bolt from tho blue hinted at in "Willy's letter, it was the last kind of bolt she expected to fall. Lady Panwin said nothing, but closed her mouth tightly and looked more grim than ever. Sir John's face was in the shallow of the curtains, and the expression could not be seen ; but Miss Sanding—or rather, Lady Xewby gl.ued at him with an expression which boded ill for his domestic peace. “Well,” said Clair, impatiently, since Sir John held his tongue, * and what have you to sav for acting like a scoundrel?” “That is a strong expression,” replied Xewby, weakly. “It is the right one,” declared the squire, indignantly, "lou enteied my house under false pretences, as a bachelor, and tried to entrap my poor daughter into a false marriage.” “I always thought that you favored it,” said Sir John, drily, and not looking so shamefaced as ho should have done. “Also I may say that you are very ready to bolievo evil of me, Mr Clair. This lady suddenly appears and calls me her husband. You credit her without asking me if it is true.” “Can you deny it, John?” asked the strange lady, speaking for the first time, and Dorothy noticed how distinct was her ennunciation. Xewby started, and looked at her steadily, still keeping his face in tho sh ulow of the curtains. “No,” he said, after a pause, “I do not deny it.” “Then you admit that Miss Sanding is your wife?” demanded Clair, in a cold fury at having been tricked. “You scoundrel 1” Sir John advanced his head, and his face came into the lamplight- Itdid not wear a particularly agreeable expression. “Take care, sir,” lie snarled, showing his strong white teeth. “If yon Stry-pie too far._J. niay turn you out of this place!” But Mr Clair was too indignant to be careful, as advised. “You have insulted me; you have insulted my daughter.” ‘ v “I am very glad Sir John has, in this .way,” said Dorothy, cheerfully. “But we have not heard Miss Sanding’s story.” “Lady Newby, if you please, Miss Clair,” said the other woman, in -a stately manner. “My story, as you are pleased to call it, is very short and painful. I am an actress—a. comedy actress of great, and I may say, deserved reputation.” Lady Panwin sniffed.* “On and off the stage?” she asked, spitefully. ■Miss Sanding.—as it will be convenient to call her—flared up like tow at this very feminine speech. “Both off and on, madam,” she declared, quite in histrionic style. “No one can say a word against me. In several well-known newspapers I have been called the Vestal of the Drama. If my husband” —Miss Sanding turned on Newby with the defiant air of outraged virtue in melodrama—“if he thinks to divorce me, he is mistaken. I,am spotless.” Miss Sanding here crossed her arms on her breast .in a Christian martyr attitude.

“Nobody wants to divorce you,” said Newby, testily. “You do not call me by my name, John.”

“I’m keeping that for our private conversation. These domestic details cannot interest the present company.” “But they do,” said Mr Clair. “I want to know upon what grounds the lady claims to be your wife.” “My certificate of marriage is with my lawyers/’ said the actress, and her pale face became an angry red. “Don’t cast aspersions on my character, Mr Clair. I am John’s wife. Let him deny it if he can.” <l I have already admitted it,” said Newby,' stolidly. “But I thought that you were dead long ago.” “Deadl” cried Miss Sanding, raising herself on tip-toe to produce an effect. “When I have been winning laurels in America I” “There was that railway smash, you know,” Sir John, reminded her. “I was in it; yes, I admit that I was; in it. But T escaped safe in life and limb. A false report of my death was. sent to England, and on that, I presume, you courted this young lady. But had you cared for me, John, you would have made inquiries, and would have learnt the. truth.. But I returned a month lago to my Hampstead home, and heard of your death and afterwards of your return from the grave. Gossip, busy with your namo, said that you were engaged to marry Miss Clair, the daughter of the owner of this Manor, so I came down to save her.” Newby nodded, and turned to Mr Clair. “Do you wish to know any more?” ho asked, drily. “Yes,” said that gentleman, violently. “Why did you not tell me that you were already married?” “Thinking that I was a widower these three years, I did not consider that' confession was necessary. But the report of my wifo’ci death was false, it seems, and hero she is alive. I see no reason for you to look -at mo so indignantly, Mr Clair. I have not behaved wrongly.” “You should have told mo tho truth,” sad Mr Clair, doggedly, but beginning to see that,Newby was not so much to blame as bad at first- appeared. “I have known you for years, and I never heard that you had a wife.” “Allow me to explain,”.‘said Miss Sanding, taking tho centro of the drawing-room from stage habit. “[ was a romantic girl ten years ago, and when the rising millionaire wooed mo, I consented to-tho’experi-ment of a secret marriage.”. “Why secret and wh'y experimental?” asked Lady J.’an\yin, putting up her lorgnette to- examino Miss Sanding, as a naturalist would an insect under a miscroscopo. was : a ,romantic girl,” said the

return to tho stage should my marriage prove a failure. Therefore I kept the fact secret, as, in my opinion, it would have harmed mo with tho managers. Sir John consented, for reasons best known to himself.” “Quite so—quite so,” murmured tho millionaire, who was listouing very intently. “And my marriage was a failure,” cried Miss Sanding, clasping her hands in a tragic manner. “Romance was wedded to materialism. I bad hoped for a Romeo, and I found —I found—well” —with a deep sigh—“it matters not what I found. But unhappiness was my portion, and 1 fled.”

“With someone else?” asked Lady Panwin.

“No!” snapped Miss Sanding, tartly, and forgetting her stago airs ami graces. “I returned to the stage, and afterwards went to America. lam bound to say that my husband allowed mo a decent ineomo, and I need not liavo gono again on the boards. But I did.” Miss Sanding became artificial again. “Why should 1 have deprived my country of a great star? But now—now” — she glanced in a near mirror at her somewhat sketchy appearance—'“now that my ambitions are realised 1 shall retire to the arms of my husband as Lady Newby.” “Very good,” said Mr Clair, angrily. “Retire straight away. Newby, you had better leave my house.” “You turned Bezkoif out of your house and lie returned,” said the millionaire, quietly. “I may return also.’’

“Tho mortgage shall be paid,” said Mr Clair, grandly. “I said nothing about foreclosing the mortgage,” said Newby, drily. “Then you won’t —” “I shall do nothing at present. Things can remain as they are until the mystery of' my brother’s death is cleared up. Then I shall return here, to explain how you have misjudged me. Miss Clair” —he turned to Dorothy—“since it- appears that my wife is still alive, I have to ask your pardon for forcing my attentions on you. But, believe me, they were dictated by true love, and I was quite under the delusion that Lady Newby”—lie looked at the tragic woman who was posing in the lamplight —“had gone to her long home.” “Like yourself,” said Miss Sanding, in a thrilling voice, “I have returned from that bourne whence no traveller, as the bard wrongfully says, ever comes back.” “Miss Clair,” said Sir Jolm, taking no notice of this appeal to the gallery, “you will forgive me?” “Yes,” answered Dorothy, offering her hand. She had never liked Sir John so much as she did now, and quite saw that he had wooed her 'll all innocence. Lady Panwin also was pleased—perhaps because she s-nv that, this obstacle removed, Dorothy would be able to marry Percy Hullon.

“Sir John,” said Lady Panwin, also offering her hand, “you have my profound esteem for tho way ill which you have acted in a very trying Equation.” “Mr Clair does not give me his esteem,” said Newßy, quickly. “I admit that I have called you a scoundrel, wrongfully,”, said Clair, in a grudging manner. “Apparently you did not know that your wife was alive and kicking.” “I never kick,” said Miss Sanding, in an awful voice. “And I certainly can testify that Sir John deemed me dead, since we had been parted ior years and never wrote to one another.” “Then”—Clair turned to Noway “you will remain here for the night?” “Thank you, no,” said (Sir John, with all courtesy. “I shall take any wife up to London: Perhaps you will order my clothes to be packed, as I have not brought a valet with me. Also send, for a lly. Wo will go up by the 10.30. AYill you tako my arm?” he added, advancing to-

wards his wife. “Call me Amy,” whispered that lady. . “Will you take my arm, Amy?” said Sir John, imperturbably. “This,” said Miss Sanding, as she obeyed, “repays me for years of untold agony.” Then she drew her husband towards the drawing-room door and tried to think of an effective speech upon which to exit. But, not having had the part of a restored wife written for her, she could not conceive what would bo best to say. Newby saved the situation. “Come along,” he remarked, bluffly and gruffly; “there’s no time to be lost. I must get away at once.” Then the door closed upon the reunited pair. Mr Clair sank into a seat, looking profoundly miserable. Lady Panwin took up her tatting as though nothing had happened, and Dorothy stood undecidedly where she was. In Mr Clair’s present state of dejection, she did not know exactly what to say. . It was as dangerous to approach him as -it would have been to touch an African lion. “It’.s a dreadful business,” said the squire, after a dead paijse, “Very,” assented his sister, calmly. But it is better we should learn the truth now than later, when Dorothy might have been married.” Dorothy was about to say that she would never ha-vo married Sir John, when her aunt looked at her warningly, as if to hint that it was useless to arouse her father by u futile explanation. “And after all, Francis,” went on the old dame, “Sir John is not to blame.’ ’ “I am not so sure of that,” said Mr Clair, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “A man does not go courting until lie is quite sure that his first wife is dead.” “if he happens to have a first wife, Francis. But Miss Sanding—or, rather, I should call her Lady Newby—was evidently reported dead.in a railway accident- in the States. It is possible I hat Sir John inquired carefully ar.'l found out that she was a corpse.” “But she wasn’t!” cried the squire, wrathfully. “And if she was appearing in America, he must have seen

the name.” “Not necessarily, unless he reads tho American newspapers.” “I think lie lias behaved very badly,” said Clair, in a dogged manner. “Well, let us give him the benefit of the doubt,” said Lady Pnnwin, in an amiable manner. “It -will not do to make him angry. He seems inclined to leave that mortgage alone, so we had better let sleeping dogs lift

allowed to remain,” said Mr Clair, in anything but a grateful tone. “All tho same, it will bo difficult to snake both ends meet. .Wliat misfortunes I have had of latol” ho wailed. “1 have lost tho two thousand a year because Newby camo to life; and now I have lost him as a son-in-law. I fear that our fortunes will never mend. Wo shall all die in a workhouse. It is your fault, Dorothy. Everything was going smoothly until you went to the crypt and turned the Devil’s Ace.”

■ “I didn’t turn the Ace, father,” said tho girl, quickly. “And, even if I had, the misfortune had already occurred, seeing that tho body was on tho table. Ugh!” She shuddered, as she always did when thinking of that gruesome experience.

“It will bo best in my opinion,” said Lady Pamvin, laying down her work and removing her lorgnette, through which slio had been looking at tho downcast face of her brother — “in my opinion, it will bo better, Francis,” slio added, with emphasis, “if you aro attending to what I say.” “Yes—what is itP” asked tho squire, mechanically. “It will be better to allow Dorothy to renew her engagement with Mr Hallon,” said Lady Panwin, finally.

“It was never broken!” cried Dorothy, indignantly. Both of them expected an outburst from Mr Clair, but the old gentleman had gone through too much to have the strength to work himself into a. rago. “Hallon is not, rich,” ho said, discontentedly. “Ho is agreeable enough, I admit, and may get on. But we must bring money into the family in some way.” “Not by marriage!” said the girl, flushing. Mr Clair shrugged his shoulders in a resigned way. “Yon must please yourself,” ho said, drearily. “I can’t live very long; and as the mortgage must be paid, I suppose Newby will come and resido hero when I am in my grave.” “No,” said Dorothy, eagerly. “I have been talking to Percy, and we are going to look for Abbot Hurley’s treasure.” “You’ll never find it,” said her father, bitterly; “and, if you did the Crown or tho Church would take it all.” “No, Francis, no. You would got a share.” “Not enough to pay off tho mortgage and keep tho Manor House in our family, however. Dorothy, you can toll Mr Hallon to call again.” “Dear father!” She wreathed her arms round his neck. “Then you consent to my marriage with him?” “Yes, yes, yes!” said Clair, testily. “If he fulfils his promise, and learns who killed Richard Newby.” Lady - Panwin looked up in surprise. “Do you still hold him to that?”

“Yes, I do. Certainly, lie was to discover the murderer of Sir John; but as our friend is now alive, the assassin of Richard must bo traced. I want the slur on the Manor removed.”

“But no ouo now can think you havo anything to do with the matter, father,” said Dorothy. “I know that, child. All tho same, I want to know tho truth. Newby may not always be so kind about the mortgage; and I want tho truth to come to light, so that he may never take the liouso away.” “What do you mean by that?” asked Lady Paiiwin, sternly. Clair glanced at tho door. “I bolieve that Newby lias something to do with the murder,” he said softly.

“And you want to know the truth, so as to hold it over him like a whip I” said Lady Panwin, rising angrily. “Francis, if I thought that you meant what yon say, I should loavo your house this night.” “I meant nothing of the sort,” said Clair, peevishly, shifting his ground. “But Newby wants the matter put right, and if Hallon can help him, ho may give the mortgage to Dorothy as a wedding gift.” “Hum!” said Lady Panwin, scornfully. “You are growing old, Francis. If Sir John, as you hint, is concerned in this crime, why should he want tho matter sifted?” “Because I think that until the truth conies to light ho will be in danger of blackmail.” “From whom?” asked Dorothy, staring.

“From that young -scoundrel, Bezkoff. If Newby avere not afraid of Bezkoff, he avould not have permitted him to go tho other night. That Russian knows the truth, and -he will use it to force money from Newby.”

“But surely you don’t- think that Sir John killed his brother?” said Lady Panwin, genuinely perplexed. “Oh, no. But he was on the -spot at the time, -and found the body. These scoundrels avflo kidnapped him may say that lie is guilty.”

“I believe that Sir John is innocent myself,” said Dorothy, in her most emphatic voice. “So do I,” nodded her aunt. “He -behaved very well when that woman entered the room. And you, Francis?”

“Yes, I -believe that Newby -is innocent,” said the squire, wrinkling his forehead; “and yet liis manner is so strango that I can make nothing of -him. But let Hallon learn the truth, -and when all is settled you can marry. It is a forlorn hope; still, wo must try it.” “I hope Mr Hallon will never learn the truth if its coming to light will put a -lialter round Sir John’s neck/’ said Lady Panwin. At this moment the millionaire entered, and Lady Panwin started, wondering if lie had overheard. Apparently he had not, for he walked up to Clair in the -most unconcerned manner. “The fly is at the door,” said Newby, quietly, “and niy wife is in it. Good-bye, Clair.” “You won’t stay?” said the squire, growing red.

“No- It is better that I should go back to town.”

“Remember that I do not turn you out.”

“Yes, yes!” Newby smiled strangely. ‘“I am not angry with you in the least, Clair. Things looked black against me, I admit, but you will find later on that- I am not quite a scoundrel. Miss Clair! Lady Panwin!” He bowed politely. ■‘Good-bye, Sir John,” said Dorothy, impulsively ‘seizing his hand. “And I hope I’ll see you soon again.” “I hope not,” said Newby, shaking his head, and walking to the door. “But you will see me again, Miss Clair, not soon, blit late, when-—” “I es.—When ?” “Allien my character is completely Cleared. Good-bye!”

“Now, what does that mean?” asked Dorothy when the door closed, and received no reply. For who could

CHAPTER XX. Jules Selnvtyz, the Swiss butler, was a. great favorite with the other servants of the Manor House. In tho first place, he was very meek, and easily guided by tho female sex; in tho second, ho was by no means badlooking, in a mild way; in tho third place, ho could sing French songs with tho voice of a lark. Certainly tlioso iii' the kitchon could not understand tho foreign language, but J ules made his meaning so clear with emphasis and gesticulation that they thought they know (all about it. Tho cook often declared that Bel tan would be a desert but for this aimusing alien. Dorothy also liked Jules, who was always ready to do what she wanted. Lady Pnmviii' and Mr Clair never took iany notico of tho little man, save to order him about; bub his young mistress was kinder. When Jules fell ill, Dorothy, without tolling her aunt—who was something of a dragon—took him hooks and port wino. Consequently, when Jules Tocovered, he vowed himself to the service of this angel maiden, lie was only too roady to carry notes to Percy, whon Mr Clair had forbidden that young gentleman, tlio house, and would have done more had Dorothy asked him. The next day Dorothy sent a note by Jules—although there was no need of secrecy now—to Hallon, saying that the interdict had been removed, and that ho could como again to the Manor House. Jules roturned with the dismal intelligence that Mr Hallon had gone out with his host and hostess for the day. Dorothy felt rather gloomy when she heard this; but she could not blame Percy, since he had not known that he had been permitted' to return to Paradise. She betook herself to the garden, and sat on the well-known seat under the Dancing Faun, wondering how she could pass the time until her lover returned in tho evening. Naturally, her thoughts strayed in the direction of Sir John Nowby and his possible guilt. She could not bring herself to believe that he was really guilty, and yet—as her father had stated —his behavior was peculiar. He was not quite the Sir John she had known. He seemed less firm; less domineering; and the change in some respects, was for tho better. Sometifnes —as when his wife arrived on tho previous night—she liked him very well; then, again, a trifling action on his part would almost make her dislike him. It u r as extremely strange, she thought, that tlie millionaire should have changed so. Dorothy had always believed Newby to be a man of iron, and could not think that even a shock, such os he certainly had experienced, could so alter his nature. But of one thing Dorothy was confident: that her father would not permit her to marry Percy until the mystery of Richard Newby’s death was solved. Hallon would have to do this, and bring the assassin to the gallows; but Dorothy did not see how he could set about it. There appeared to be no starting-point. Then, after some reflection, she began to think it would be best for Percy to go to Soho, and, if possible, trace tlie house wherein Sir John had been held prisoner. Then he might, learn something likely to show who had kidnapped the millionaire; and if tho kidnappers were discovered, they would 1 probably prove, to be the same people who had ,murdered Richard. This was a good idea, Dorothy considered, until she -wondered in what direction Percy could explore Soho. Then it occurred to her, by an association of ideas, that Jules came from Soho. He had written from there when Mr Clair had engaged his services as butler. Tho little man had como cheap, on the plea that he wanted to learn the English language He assuredly had improved in his Anglo-Saxon during the six months he had been at the Manor, so Dorothy had no need to speak French to him. Sometimes : she did, but her knowledge of the [Parisian tongue was not very large, and she preferred to keep to English. However, the main point of her reflections was that Jules came from Soho, and would be likely to know the neighborhood. In fact, he might possibly know where some Anarchists lived; and since they were all in league with one another—at least, Miss Clair supposed so—in this way might be traced the house, which it would be necessary to find. Dorothy therefore went in search of Jules, and

found him laying the table for luncheon. He knew all about the case, as he had road the papers and had been on the spot. Since he was a foreigner, and never took any liberties, however kind she was to him, the girl had no hesitation in explaining what she wanted. With >an English servant, she would have been more reticent. In a few minutes Jules learnt that his young mistress wished to know if he was aware of any house in Soho whore Anarchists lived.

“No, mademoiselle,” said Jules, staring at her in a surprised manner; and he put down his plate-basket. “I know nothing of those wicked people. Why do you ask, please?’’

Then Dorothy explained fully, and told Jules how she wanted Mr Hallon to go up and discover the house, if possible, wherein Sir John Newby had been confined. Jules listened in silence, his dark eyes meekly cast on the ground, Then ho made >a proposition she was far from -expecting him io make: “Mademoiselle,” he said, with 6ome emotion, “you have been very kind to me, and I will do anything you want. If Mr Hallon goes to Soho, he may get into trouble, for there are many bad people there. Now I am foreign, and would not be suspected as having anything to do with your English police. Permit me, mademoiselle, to offer you my very humble services.” “What do you moan, Jules?” asked Miss Clair, straightforwardly. “I mean, mademoiselle, that if you will ask monsieur your father to permit me a holiday—say, t-o-morrow—-1 can go to Soho, which I know well, and there can learn all you desiro to know about the house in which Sir John Newby was shut up.” “How can you do that, Jules?” “I can go to a- restaurant and talk •and listen,” said the butler. “Oh, yes, mademoiselle, there are many wicked Anarchists there in Soho, and they go to dine at restaurants. I will not be suspected, so I can ask questions, and learn all. Then 1 shall return to lay my knowledge at the feet of mademoiselle, who lias been such an angel to me.” Dorothy was delighted. “Oh, Jules I can you do this for me?” “Why, certainly, mademoiselle. 1 would do much more. If you will frsk that I procure a holiday—say.

“Of course—of course!” Dorothy clapped her hands joyfully. “How clever of you, Jules! We shall soon know all about Sir John’s imprisonment. Then we may bo able to trace the assassin.” She went away very satisfied, and told her father that Jules wanted a holiday. Although the butler was badly paid, and had never been away from tho Manor since ho had como there, Mr Clair thought that his request was monstrous. Ho sent for Jules, and questioned him severely as to his reason for wanting to go to Soho. Jules produced the oxcitse of a father who was ill, and who might be dead before his affectionate son could roach his bedside. Mr Clair was not a badhourted nianj and easily beguiled, so he graciously gavo Jules permission to go up to London, on the understanding that ho was to be back in time to wait at dinner. Then Mr Clair waved Jules grandly out of tlie library, and felt himself quite a bonol'actor to his fellow-man. Ho might not have been so pleased with himself had he seen the amused smile which curved tho butler’s lips when out of sight. Jules did not like Mr Clair, .and was clever enough to see his many weaknesses. However, permission had been

given, and Jules went up to London by the eight o’clock train. That same day Percy appeared at the Manor, and was formally pardoned by Mr Clair for bohavingly rudely when ho was turned out of the house. Hallon was not aware that ho had been rude, and merely smiled in an amused way, as Jules had done. Mr Clair always wanted to impress people with his grand manner and condescension, but only succeeded in making them laugh. Fortunately he was blind to his defects in this way, and moved through his small world like an Olympian god amongst inferior mortals. While lie was congratulating himself in the library that ho had put Hallon in his place, that eager lover had wandered into the garden with Dorothy. They sought their usual seat, and then the girl described to Percy, tho circumstances which led to the removal of the interdict. “What!” cried Hallon, greatly astonished. “Do you mean to say that Sir John Newby is married ?” “Yes, but he thought his wife was dead.” “Humph I I’m not so sure that he did. Sir John is too clever a man not to make certain. However, she has bowled him out, and the way is clear for you and me. We can walk to the •altar now Dorothy, without any obstacle intervening.” “Don’t bo too sure of that,” said Dorothy, significantly. “My father 6till wants you to unravel the mystery of Richard Newby’s death.” “But that doesn’t trouble him. There 'is no reason why—” “He should be suspected,” finished Miss Clair, quickly. “No, there is not, since my father knew Richard but slightly. But my father believes that Sir John knows about the murder.”

“What! docs he believe him guilty?” “Oh, no. But he thinks these anarchists who kidnapped Sir John— I told you about that—may accuse him of guilt, unless the truth is made known.” “Still,” argued Percy, perplexed, “I don’t see how this affects your father, dearest.” “Well, you see, Sir John has a mortgage on the Manor, and although he is inclined to let it remain for the present, he may change his mind. My father thought that if you learnt the truth, Sir John out of gratitude for being set free from every possible blackmail, might give the mortgage to me when I marry you.” “All I but would he,” said Hallon, sagely, “seeing that he is a di: appointed suitor?” “Yes,” said Dorothy firmly. “Sir John has accepted the situation.” Hallon shrugged his shoulders. “He can do nothing else, seeing that , his wife insists upon coming back to him. Well, if Mr Clair wants to know the truth for this; reason, and will not permit our marriage until the mystery is unravelled, I accept the task. But how to begin the search,” added Percy, scratching his head, “is more than I can tell. It is like looking for a needle in a haystack.” “You must begin in Soho,” said Dorothy, eagerly; and then she explain her plan, and how she had enlisted the services of Jules Schwytz. “So you see, dearest, that when Jules comes back to-night with the information about the house you can go there and make inquires, and so learn who kidnapped Sir John and killed his brother.”

“Its not a bad idea,” pondered Hallon; “but it will not be so very easy to carry out. These anarchists are very cunning, and they will not admit murder.”

“Then you agree with me, dear, that Richard was murdered by these anarchists?”

—it looks like it. All the same, Sir John’s behaviour is very strange. I expect that what Count Bezkoff said is true, and he is implicated in Russian politics in spite of his denials. Well, my darling, all we can do ,-is to wait until Jules returns. Meanwhile, let us dismiss tho case, and talk of our future.” And this they did for quite two hours, until Lady Panwin summoned them to -afternoon tea.

Then an unaccountable thing happened—at least, it was unaccountable in the squire’6 -eyes. Jules never appeared to wait at dinner, and Mr Clair was exceedingly angry at- the liberty which tho butler had taken. He blamed himself for having been too kind, and prepared a crushing reproof for Jules when ho reappeared. Tho Swiss, however, never came that night, nor did he turn up next morning. Even when dinner hour came round once more he was still missing; so Mr Clair announced his. determination to dismiss hi in when lv<s came back again. “That is,” -said the indignant squire, “ifAto'scoundrel dares to -show Jii s "f aco iu house.” '

But Jules never came back. Three days elapsed, and still he was absent. Not a letter or a card , or even a telegram, came to explain why he bad (taken- -vknfy appropriately—French leave , and great- was tho sorrow in tlm Manor kitchen for the loss 0 f tno favorite Dorothy was seriously alarmed, as she thought that the poor htt e man m.ght have got into troublwith the Anarchists.

“You must not think of going to Soho, she said to Hallon. “p e A»s Jules has been killed, and these horrid people would kill yon.”

: “I shall certainly go,” said H:l)I Obstinately. “It would not be right for me to let a little rat- like ,;ules go where, ! was afraid to

ioato with tho police?” “No. Ho simply thinks that JulesyV has run away.” .1%, “Is his box not here?” “Yes, but there may be valuo in. it.” “My dear, a man’s private possessions, however cheap, are always of valuo to him. Jules has undoubtedly been killed, or else ho has been captured like Sir John. If ho is shut up in that room I must go and look for him.”- . .. .i v “But liow can you find the house, ?,v Percy?” “I must think about that, my dear.” Dorothy was very fearful lost her lover should get into trouble with the Anarchists—that is, if Anarchists were mixed up in the mysterious business—and did not want him to venture. But Hallon insisted, and left her in tears when he returned to the Minters, wondering how he was to find tho house. Then it was that fortune stood his friend. (To be continued )