(Copyright.) THE Riverside-House Mystery.

Kaipara and Waitemata Echo, 23 October 1914, Page 7

(Copyright.) THE Riverside-House Mystery.

A Story of Love, Intrigue and

Intense Dramatic Action.

By BARBARA KENT,

CHAPTER I

The club-room was very bright and warm. Under a tinted lamp two men sat smoking, yawning occasionally as they looked out at the falling, snow, and then at the leapdid you know Raritan had come back ?" asked little Charlej' Frere. "The deuce !" said the other. "Not the deuce at all, but a great, big, tanned fellow, with eyes like sapphires, and a handshake strongenough to grind an ordinary man's fist to bits. Lucky fellow1, too. He's had his share of roughing it. He went away—let's see—eight years ago, a stripling of twenty, poor as ' a pauper. He speculates, tries mining, spends four years on a trader in Honolulu, loses two fortunes, makes a third, bigger than either of the others, and, to cap his great good luck, hears that his great-aunt Matilda has at last gone off the hooks and left him a cool two millions. If that isn't luck, I'd like to know a name for it." "Is he going to settle in town ?" i'Yes ; and be one of the biggest catches of the season." "Then he didn't marry during his exile ? If I remember Sidney Raritan right, he was not the sort of young chap likely to grow into a woman-hater.'' "Perhaps he was disappointed in love." "Perhaps. Have another cigar V Meanwhile, the man of whom they talked was crossing the marble hall of the club-house, and in another I moment stood on the steps looking at the snow as it came blowing against his face in a white flurry. Ah, how he loved it ! This snowy night was so like the nights when, as a boy, he had coasted along this very street. How the white flakes came hurrying down ! How quiet the great city was ! even the roll of the cabs and the whirr of the elevated trains, that gleamed by in the distance, had their clamour softened to velvety sounds .by its soft touch. Sidney drew up the collar of his great-coat, lined with shaggy bearskin, and started at a swinging pace down the streets. "I'll walk back to the hotel, by Jove, and have a' feast of this white, magical night. It seems specially ordered for me. Oh, after the sun of Honolulu, how exhilarating it is in New York ! After all, no land is like the place of one's birth," he thought, with a pleased laugh. Crossing the wide avenue, he continued along the spacious side-street towards Broadway. "It's good to be merry and wise, "It's good to be loyal and true, It's good to be off with the old love Before you are on with the new." The old song broke softly from his lips all unconsciously. "Hang it ! what am I singing ? Ah, there is >no .old love—and no new. one either, for that matter," he : thought, a little bitterly. "In my : mad struggle for fortune, there was no time for sentiment. Whether I > could love or not, I do not know, j It seems to me a girl, to touch my j heart,must have more than beauti- : ful eyes and pretty lips—more than : mere beauty. In fact, she must"— ' M The thread of his musings was bro- ; ken by a low, sobbing, frightened j cry, that seemed to come from | the ground at his very feet. j The spot was in the deepest sha- I dows between the lamp-posts, and for a moment he could see nothing; j but as he continued staring at the i spot from which the heartbroken, J terrified, yet almost smothered weeping came, he detected a huddled figure, and saw that the snow was glorified by the long, golden strands tfr hair. "G^od heavens ! some poor outcast," was the thought in Sidney's mind,' as, his warm heart aglow with pity, he stooped to lift the crouching figure from the bed of , snow. "You are in trouble ?" he asked. At the sound of his voice the girl— ' for she was not more than eighteen , —gave a shuddering scream and moved rapidly away a few steps, then fell weakly upon the steps of a beautiful house, where the whiteness of the snow was brightened by the purple and crimson bars falling from a great, double doorway of stained glass. "Oh, my heart—my poor heart !'-' she moaned in terror. Sidney bent over her, and then started back with an exclamation. This was no outcast, as he had fancied, but a radiantly lovely girl, the loose folds of a pale, dove-col-oured silk peignoir flapping in the icy wind. On her small, clenched hands jewels glittered. Her face, while marked by an awful fear, was yet the gentle face of one used to refinement. " Ah, it was a pitiful, frightened pair'of deep, dark eyes that were raised to his questioningly. She looked as if she had fled has- <

-1 tily irom a luxurious room ; for only thin slippers were on her feet, and her head was bare—the golden, glittering hair rippling around her like a veil that imprisoned sunbeams. It was no time for parleying; and Sidney, laying his hands forcibly 'upon her shoulders, forced her to look at him. "B-on't be afraid," he said, in his low-toned, soothing voice, as he noted the startled, blank look in her great, dark eyes. "Why are you here ? Who has frightened you? Let me take you home, won't you ?" "Home ? Home '?" and she started up, her whole body shuddering. "A murderer awaits me there—-a murderer crazed by liquor and morphine ! This—this house is my horne —this;" and she waved her hand | towards the mansion at whose door . she stood. "But I dare not yenI ture in. A madman stands in the shadow. Oh, God !He tried to kill me. I feel his fingers yet upon my throat—l see his eyes !" Was she the victim of delirium ? Had she escaped from a sick-room while a careless nurse slept ? Sidney could think of no other explanation of her words. That a madman had entered her home and tried to kill her seemed absurd. "What did he look like, this wouldbe murderer ?" Sidney asked, trying to humour her, while he thought of some plan of getting her back into the house. "Do you know ?" She broke into low, hopeless laughter. "You think me mad—or wandering in my sleep, I see. Oh, if it were only so ! What shall Ido ? How can I give my shameful secret to the world, and have the papers ring with it to-morrow ? The story that I was found shivering outside my own door, afraid to enter, and all because this demon bears the name of husband to me, would make highly sensational reading for the public." "Your husband ?" "Yes," she half sobbed, "He came horne —as he has often done before —mad from his nights and days of dissipation. I heard his step in the hall, and my whole soul rose in revolt to think that it was to such a man I was married. Oh, God, I thought, will he pass on to his own room ? Will Ibe spared a sight of his hated face ? These were my thoughts as I stood shivering." While she spoke, she clung half frantically to 'Sidney's arm, and, as if fascinated by the pity and horror of his true eyes, gazed deeply into them. "When he flung the door open, I saw a look on his face it had never worn before. I knew he had grown to hate me months before, and in that terrible moment I sawt he was mad, and that his hate would make him murder me." Sidney doubted no longer ; but as his eye fell upon the number on the door he asked, hastily : -"Surely, this is the old Hetherford mansion ?" "It is. I am Ripley Hetherford's miserable wife." No wonder a cold, shrinking feeling settled around Sidney's heart. So young Hetherford had come to this ? With wealth, an old family name, a beautiful young wife, he had sunk to such depths as she described. Sidney remembered the handsome lad young Hetherford had been, and then looked at this lovely, frightened face, so near to his own, whose terror was the result of his bestial cruelty. He shuddered to think of the change that must have come to him. "Do not tremble so," he said, firmly, encouragingly. "I know Ripley Hetherford, and I will see that you suffer no more at his : hands. Come ; you are cold ; your teeth are chattering. There—there —don't shrink away. Enter your \ < home again boldly, and leave me jto seek your husband, and either J bring him to his senses or restrain him so that he can do you no further injury. Come. You wait in the drawing-room—he need not know that you have returned. I will find him." She obeyed, as if led on resistlessly by that deep, magnetic voice, and by the firm hand that grasped her small trembling one, and in a moment they stood on the top of the steps. "The servants are all asleep," she faltered. "But I think I left the I door open in my mad flight." " Where did you leave your husband ?" asked Sidney, gently. "Upstairs ;" and she shot a terrified glance into the gloom above. Pushing aside the portieres at the drawing-room door, Sidney led her ' in, and she sank, half faiating, into a deep, tapestried chair, by the fading embers of a wood fire. j "Be careful—oh, be careful !" she whispered, and for a moment clung ; to his hand. j Then, for the first time, Sidney re- ' alised how absolutely flawlessly lovely she was. A brow and nose like Juno's ; a small, full mouth, tenderly mobile ; small, round chin, cleft by a deep, enticing dimple ; eyes like those of the Spanish girls of Southern California —velvety, long-lashed, and filled with a raj diance that seemed to slumber far into their midnight depths ; hair/like the. gold of a sunset sky. 'j Aid her soft, prayerful voice-— how it pierced his heart ! How her cold, cl-inging hands thrilled him';! As if looking at a dream Sidney Raritan knew, in a shadowy way, as he stood there face to face with Vida Hetherford, that he could have loved her. Could have ? ' Bitter words that told she was not free —that she was beyond his winning ; bound by law to one who trampled upon what he should have cherished so tenderly— hey woman's

■ heart. He withdrew from her half-uncon-scious grasp upon his hand, and i hurried upstairs. "Hetherford !" the young wife below heard him call. "Hetherford!" There was no answer. .Sidney walked to where, at the end of a passage, a door stood i ajar. Then Vida heard a whis- ( pered cry : She waited breathlessly, and dei spite her fear, crept into the hall, 1 listening. ■ "What is it ? Why do I hear no I , sound ?" she whispered to herself, while her heart seemed to rise in , her throat and choke her. And while she paused there, the ■ suspense of a lifetime crowded into a moment's space, she saw Sidney's 1 white face appear above the balustrade. It was filled with an uni speakable horror. "Come. There is nothing to fear,",he said, in a voice. Wonderingly she went up ; and forgetting that a few moments before they were strangers, he passed his strong ''arm tenderly about her. "It is horrible," he said ; "horrible ! But do not be afraid ;he will not hurt you—now." They stood at the threshold gazing at a figure stretched motionless on the floor. It was Ripley Hetherford—silent— hideously silent. His face was purple, and over his parted rigid lips lay a stream, of blood, slowly congealing. As if in battle with some mysterious foe, he had died. His arms were twisted, and in one of his fier-cely-clenched hands a dagger still glistened. "He is not dead ?" Vida whisper-, ed, in an awed voice. "Yes ; I felt his heart. He has died from the bursting of a bloodvessel in the brain," said Sidney, in a .Quiet whisper. "Dead ?" .said Vida, still in the same strange voice, as if she could | not realise the appalling truth. I " Dead ? Pie is dead ? He is dead ?" she repeated. As the last words left her lips, a weary sigh fluttered from them, aud she sw'ooncd in Sidney's arms. CHAPTER 11. It was six months later, the middle of June, but not the sort of weather one might expect from the | sunny month of roses. This day was wet ; a chill wind stirring that robbed tho apple trees of their radiant pink bloom in shoals. The sky was heavy, a brooding, leaden grey ; the cows browsing; in the damp pastures shivered and sought the shelter afforded by the blustering, swaying trees. All the landscape was drear and cold. In one of the suburbs of New York, just where all traces of the city's life were being lost in the green and solitude of the country, there was a long, narrow road that cut through a wood, sloped down a hill, and then followed a straggling-reed-edged stream for more than a mile. On this road there stood a strange old house. It was lonely, shuttered, out of the regular track of travel, and distinctly under a cloud of some sort. Silent, weather-beaten, forlorn, it remained apart, holding within its walls the secret of a murder that had been committed there twenty/ years before. [It was known as " Riverside i House," and few of the people livi ing in its vicinity ventured p;i.st" itafter nightfall, or even in the full afternoon of a cheerless day like this. 1 And yet—surely there was now on the soft soil the muffled roll of carriage-wheels ! * Presently down the hill a mudstained carriage appeared.and paused at the long, unused gates of River- j side House. <■ I The door was opened,,- and while the driver from the small northern station stared and stared at these visitors to the place ss.6 long shunned, an old negro, whit-e-haired and bent, stepped out, followed by a' man—but whether master or fellowcould not be ascertained. "By the hokey-pokey, what's the ! matter with the . man ?" was the half-frightened thought in the dri- j ver's mind, and instinctively a chill ! ran through him. ' "Nayther whin he got out of the thrain not whin he got into the carriage nor now, have I been able to get as much as a peep at his face." That strange figure was a man— this the broad shoulders and poise I of head denoted—but so shrouded i was he in the strange, long coat, his head wrapped in black silk, and | the lower part of his face protected; by a great, thick shawl, between ' ; which the dark, restless eyes alone | were visible, that his personality was - completely hidden. As the driver saw the old negro unlocking the door of the mysterious 'house, he looked around at the wet, bleak landscape and then at those two lonely figures, and his ! broad, good-humoured face grew , pale. j -"A fitting pair for such a place. saints protect us, if strange ' '■'things are not done there before j long. When a man cooms wid his j Jface covered as if he had the tooth- ; ache and headache and small-pox all in one, and' takes a house that every livin' hem' shuns as they would- ouM Kick, look out. That's all—look ci:l." With this wild reflection, he whip- , ped up his horse and rattled away, pausing, however, on the top of the hill to look back once and shake his head. It was some time before the old negro v.oi)ld make the key turn in the rusty lock, and the strange new-

' comer struck his hand impatiently against the door. "Hurry, for Heaven's sake, ReI mus !" came in a softly modulated i but imp?rious voice from between j the folds of the shawl. j "Here, 'tis, massa. 'Twar mighty stiff. You know it's a monf since I war here last." He flung back the door, and the i strange, muffled figure entered with a stately stride. "I fixed youah room, dar, sah ;" \ and the servant pointed to a door to the right of the narrow, oldfashioned hall. Within there was a • comfortably ; furnished study, a pile of fagots on the hearth ready for lighting. "You have provisions, matches, everything ready ?" "Yas, massa. In a minute I'll have a mighty suppar ready for : you. I'se got the chickens and even-thing right here in this yer hamper." As he went towards the fireplace to start fagots into a blaze, his master moved nearer, stretched out his arms, and they were clasped around the old servant's shoulders. Was that a sob that came from the unseen lips ? "Oh, Remus, Remus, you are good —you are of gold ! How shall I j ever let you know what my heart , feels for you ?" ; " 'Taint nothin1, mas'r, 'taint noi thin'," Remus answered, his dimmed j eyes clouding with tears. " 'Tis just this way :Ef you hadn't b'en good to ol' Remus all his life, he i wouldn't be yere now. So, 'tis only j you'se reward, Mas'r Love." "Not that name, Remus ; never that name again," came in a shuddering whisper from the other's lips. "Of cose, Mas'r Fairleigh, I mean. i I fo'got jes' for a minute. But you mustn't feel so bad. You'll be right comfo'ble here, and dere isn't no better cook in de hull country | dan ol' Remus, ef he does say it I hisself." j "All right and comfortable—yes," was the answer, tinged with an awful melancholy. "So I jy'ill be. Safe, well fed, and quiet. I will be all of that., But what of niy 'life, Remus —my hopes, my dreams ? What of the great, bright beautiful world, ' closed to me for ever—lost—lost ? Remus, what of that ?" He sank into a chair, and in the silence that ensued 'in the shaded i room, the pattering of the raindrops could be heard falling like silver ! drops upon a pall. It was a picture that was all of , grey—the shuttered room, the dark \ figures, the fireless hearth. j "Don', mas'r, don' say it !It breaks my heart to heah you !" prayed the old man. But a sudden agony of regret ; and despair had seized the other, j and he flung out his arms with a cry that voiced' the revolt of attorn heart, a sick soul. "Oh, God, if instead of giving me ; this ghastly secret to keep, you had killed me outright ! What is death to this ? Why, it is something sweet j —sweet. And yet, coward that I j am, I dare not snatch its forgetful- : ness for myself. I loved the world —nwn —the sunlight—fair women—my son—my friends—my ambition—and I lost all !Is this fair? Oh, what ft picture—what a picture !It is Mack without a gleam of light." f As he spoke, the old negro lit the wood, and it blazed up cheerily. j "Draw your chair up, mas'r, and forget sech thoughts ; come—do," he pleaded. • :- "I will in a moment, Remus," he answered, in a voice that was horribly quiet now, after the storm of feeling. "Leave me for a moment —a little while." ! Obediently the old man hobbled out, and the strange occupant of Riverside House was alone, the great tongues of flame seeming to lick out towards him like friendly things, bidding him welcome to the gruesome abode. He sighed, then a vtofsper, slow* , and fateful, left his lips. "I said I had nothing to live for j —nothing. And I forgot him. I ! forgot that here, in my seclusion, I ■■ could deal him the blow I have : often, longed to strike straight to his heart. Oh, yes, this much is left me. And I' shall not fail to , know of his every action, of his i hopes, his plans. I shall wait un- ' til the time is ripe before I strike. , It will •be when he is happiest—when he loves happily, when there is no cloud in his sky—not one. Then the thunderbolt will fall." A- dreary laugh floated from his lips. It echoed in the shadowy corners like the sound from ghostly lips. "A bitter purpose for life—yet it has sweetness in it. I hate him. j" And to think that once he was dear, to me as a brother. Love and ' hate lie close together. He wronged me, and I swear he shall repay me with what is dearest to him— his happy life." -'■ I He sat for a while longer look-, ing at the fire, then rose -wearily, • ; and, going behind a curtain that shielded one of the corners of the ! room, changed his damp clothes, that ' were also wrinkled and dusty from ! long, long travel.. j When he emerged he was robed in ! a brown garment,.draped as a friar's robe. The long, flowing, pointed sleeves fell down, completely hiding his i hands ; the cowl fell over his face so that only his dark beard was visible. What sort .of a man did that garment cojiceal ? What kind of a ' heart beat under those folds ? What manner of brain was covered by that gloomy hood ? No hint was given. The man was a mystery, and none shared his secret but the faithful old servitor

who would gladly have died lor him. When the round table was daintily laid for dinner in the firelight's glow and old Remus was busily tempting hie master with the broiled chicken, salad, and ruby-tinted wine, a loud knock sounded on the door. "Lawd !" gasped Remus, "who's a-comin' visitin' already ? Who knows we wuz Jhere ?" "Don't be alarmed, Remus," answered Mr. Fairleigh, and eager quaver in his voice. "I expect this visitor. He comes in answer to a letter I posted in New York. Show him in here." / "But —but—mas'r, ain't you afraid ain't you scared ? Ef he should find out about you ?" faltered Remus, pausing half-way to the door. "Do not f,ear. I have a part to play, and J» will do it well. You can trust ~me, Remus;" and waved , his hand , commandingly. ■ "Hurry ; it is no weather to stand outside." Mr. Fairleigh rose and stood in !an attitude cf waiting as he heard j the do6r opened. A man's voice , spoke --his name questioningly, and then footsteps followed old Remus . down- the hall the short distaiice to | his door. Yd- was a small, spare m a n with a shrewd, grey eye, who stood there upon the threshold, his hat grasped in his hand. An expression of suspicion and curiosity overspread his face as he | took in all the details of that j room, only half revealed in the fire- ! light. The figure was not the sort of man he had expected to see. What mystery was here ?" "Pray be seated, won't you, Mr. Griggs ? I believe this is Mr. Griggs, of the New York detective force ?" and Mr. Fairleigh advanced a step. "The same, sir." "I am Mr. Fairleigh. You are doubtless surprised at the costume I wear, which so Completely hides me. It is due to sensitiveness, which, I hope, you will, not think foolish in a man of my years ;" and there' was a pitiful ring in the ; deep voice. "The facts are these : : A few months ago I was injured in a boiler explosion, and since then I have been an object of loathing in face and body. I would rather die than let the eyes of another rest ; upon my face, which is awful beyond words. My hands are shrivelled to hideous things that do not look human. I have hidden myself from the world, and here I will die. I But I am wealthy—enormously wealthy—and I have a purpose in view ; for which I require your help. It is for this I need you." He sank into a chair as he finished speaking, evidently exhausted. "That throws him off the track, I think," was his hasty thought. "My dear sir, you need say no more," said Mr. Griggs, bowing. "I will respect your secret." But to himself he said : "Has he spoken the truth ? I'll never rest until I see that face." "And now to explain why I sent for you," said Mr. Fairleigh. And even under the monkish sleeves, Griggs could see that his hands were clenched fiercely. Ho leaned towards the detective, and while the rain pattered drearily on the roof, and the wood crackled fiercely, these words left bis lips in a hissing whisper : "You are in the world where I cannot be. I want to hire your eyes to do the work mine cannot. I want j'ou to watch oivj man, and j tell me just what his life is ; send me a detailed account of his actions every day, as far as you can see them. ' This is all." "Why, that is easy enough .< And your reason—am I to know that, too ?" '" "All in good time. Not now. You ! must take me on faith, as a gentleman, a man of honour ; one cursed by fate so that he "must withdraw : from all communication with men, ' but, nevertheless, so intensely interested in the life of this one man, ! that he must know all—all about ' him ; who his friends are—his j sweetheart, if he has one—his plans— how he spends his days and nights. I would hire you to watch and report. Are you willing '?" "Of course, if you pay enough ;" and Griggs, the detective, chuckled shrewdly. "You can set your own terms," said the voice from the shadow. "And unless they are.beyoncl reason, I will not object." "And how long will this shadow- : ing continue ?" "I do not know; perhaps for] month's, 4 perhaps only for days, per- i haps" for years." i '-'■'-Well, I'm your man," said Griggs, heartily. "■' "You can commence at once ?" => "Yes.y Mr. Fairleigh arose, leaned heavily on the table, and so strongly did his feelings sway him that his voice was breathless as he said : ?""At-the Albemarle Hotel you will find the man of whom I speak. You are to be like his shadow. Under one guise or another you are to enter the society he frequents. Spare no expense—no trouble ; I will pay' you. Become his friend if you can ; learn to know his heart —his secrets—his" aims—his dearest desires. Can you do it ?" "Try me. The matter grows interesting. Who is the man ?" " His name is Raritan—Sidney Raritan —and he came from Honolulu six months ago. I have follow- . ed him here Sidney Raritan ; remember the name." , ; CHAPTER 111. : Nine o'clock. The first act of "A White Lie " ' was over, and the plaudits were still

ecnomg m Vida Hetherford's ears, as, gathering up the flowing satiu train of her exquisite gown, she hurried into her dressing-room. "The' last night—the last night oi triumph this season," she though!,, as she stood with flashing eyes, dia-mond-bright, and sweet, flushed cheeks. "Will Sydney come — toj night ?" ' ,-' A great change had come over young Mrs. Hetherford's life since we saw her standing at Sidney Raritan's side, gadvig v. ith av.ostricken eyes at the dead body of her . husband, who had made her I young life a series of horrors. With her freedom came the knowledge that her husband had squandered his money madly, wantonly, and died a pauper. The old Hetherford mansion went down under the auctioneer's hammer to the highest bidder. Poverty 7ifted its lean face^ to peer into the | eyes' of the sad-hearted young widow who was left either to dependence upon her own or her husband's relatives, or to battle with the world single-handed. | She chose the latter. Work promised so much to her ; a chance to escape, from her thoughts—the sweetness of helping herself, that suited her high-spirited temperament better than dependence. It was then that she remembered her success as an amateur actress before her unhappy marriage ; and she turned to the stage as the nlfne that was to yield her a fortune. And it had. For throe months now she had been before the New York public .in a difficult and dramatic role, and a great future was prophesied for her. Her beauty was talked of everywhere ; even the European papers held copies of her lovely, radiant, girlish face. And yet all this adulation was as nothing to her, compared with the music of one voice, the approval and love from one pair of eyes across the footlights, often close by, whereever they met. And- the voice and eyes were those of Sidney Raritan. Oh, how Vida loved him ! That awful hight when he held her little, shivering hand in his, and led her gently ,in again to her desecrated home, was always in her memory, enshrined in her heart. He had been her champion, and through the months, th-fit followed there had sprung up between them a friendship that hovered on the borderland of love. "Surely he will come to-night. He knows that I leave, for the seaside to-morrow ; that this is the last night of the season." And sho sat down, leaning her bare firm upon her knee, while her heart beat fast and anxiously. "He loves mo. I could swear it. Have not his eyes told me so a thousand times ? But to-night, when,he comes; perhaps he will say the words that will transform this old world into an Eden of beauty for me. Sidney, lam waiting for you. I love you, my darling ! I love you—l love you I" The whispers had scarcely died away upon her crimson lips, before she h-ard a strange voice in the passageway speaking her name. ' Her heart san'.c with a throb of bitterest disappointment. This was not the lover for whom she waited, for whom her quivering heart cried out. "Mrs. Hetherford doesn't usually see her friends behind the scenes," she heard one of the stage hands say. "But I'll take your card in to her." A knock sounded on her door, and a second later a card was handed her—"Clyde Hastings." A frown gathered on her pretty brow, and she gave her snowy, bared shoulders a shrug of impatience. Yes, she knew the name. This man had been an unsuccessful lover before she had married Ripley Hetherford. She had never liked him ; his love had never moved her even to Pity. There was something about Clyde Hastings—perhaps it was his oily, deceitful smile, qr the restless movements of his long, white fingers, or his stealthy way of walking—some- ' thing—that had always repelled her. ! He had been away for two years, ' travelling wherever his fancy led him, for his wealth was great. How ' provoking that he should return on this night of all others, when she was longing for a delightful talk with Sidney between the acts, her heart pulsing with the almost sure ! knowledge that when.he did come he would say something more ten- '■■ dor than "good-bye." : "Toll this gentlemen I will see him in the green-room." Then, as she passed out, she said to her maid : ! "Marie, should Mr. Raritan come, ! hurry and tell me." She. moved easily, lightly along the heaps of scenery to the small room in white and gold .vhere some of the other actresses sat chatting with their friends. I As she entered the room, the heart of the man who rose to meet her commenced a nervo'is beating, that made even his bronzed, 'swarthy face grow pale. No wonder he had loved her ;no wonder her face had.haunted him . over strange lands and peas, and that nothing had helped io make him forgot her and the passionate1, love she had refused. . j Sho was lovely beyond words. Her ■ golden hair and velvety, black eyes and her pouting, scarlet lips sent a fierce thrill to his heart. "Yh'a. you are glad to see me ?" j he asked, in a-hard, intense, almost |. bitter tone. "Oh, say you are ! ' Arc you glad ? I would give ten < years of my useless life to hear you

, say it, and know you meant 11 i from your heart." i How strange and fierce he was, and how.hungrily he gazed at her ! t The sight made her shudder. Sho , almost feared him, and unconscious- ■ ly she shrank from him in keen rel pulsion. "An old friend returning, Mr. Hastings" she said, with her pretty, ■ engaging manner. But he allowed her to go no further. He loosened her hand almost roughly and drew back. "No polite greetings between us, for Heaven's sake !" he said, in a maddened whisper. The coiner where they stood was screened, and the hum of other voices prevented their conversation from being beard. "Yida, I was in the South Sea Islands a month ago, when I heard for the first time you were free," he said, his keen, grey eyes commanding hers with a power in them which she hated. "And what did I do ? Perhaps I was a fool. You alone can tell me that to-night. J set my face homeward, my one thought to see you—my one desire to tell you that time has made no differcn?e with me." ! She raised her hand as if to interrupt him, and he could see there I was no welcome, no Hght in the half-averted face:. i "No ; let, me finish,'1 he burst out :n smotiierel tones.. "Let me tell you all, Vida"—and, despite her resistance, his hot hand grasped and held hers—" I love you ! My life is in your hands ! You can make of-. i 'mo what you will, a beast or a hero, I I have journeyed for hundreds of i miles just to tell you this again ; | for it is no new story to you. One summer night, two years ago, on the deck of Lord Gower's yacht, I told you all you were to me. All that I said that night I mean now, | You are free. I have never loved any but you. Will you marry me ?"■ ' "I am sorry,'; she said, in a whisper, shrinking from him. "Oh, lam sorry to hurt you, but" A laugh that was like a dirge floated from -Clyde's lips,, and his strong face blanched. v | "The same old story," he said, with a sigh, and then an impotent fury seemed to seize him. "Heaven! Why can't you love me ? Others have. I. say it without vanity. Yes; women no more to me than a passing shadow have given me their .hearts ; and you, a girl for whom I .would sacrifice heaven, are like ice to me !" His head sank on his clenched hands, and a dry sob shook his strong frame. Oh, the intensity of his passion for her ! It could make him sob like a\woman —this man of nerve and will. "Mr. Hastings," she said, hastily, and there was a touch of pity in her tone, "I believe that no one ever loved me better than you do. Oh, believe me ! I fell keenly the honour of winning your heart. But who can solve the mystery of love ? You ask me in one breath why . 1 cannot love you, and in the next tell me of women who have cared for you, for whom you could summon up no touch of sentiment. Doubtless, to unprejudiced eyes, these women were as fair as I am. and quite as worthy of your love. You passed them by, and loved me ! It is a pitiful story indeed, but as old as time. I respect you ; you have my friendship ; but, although you love me, I must pass you by, and —and"—her voice was full of feeling as she faltered—"and lovejanother." Clyde started up as if stung by a lash. \ "You are right. Say no more. It is the bitterness of my fate to lose you, but I cannot be resigned. I cannot ! I cannot ! I hate this man who has won you, whoever he may be ! I hate him !" He grasped her hand fiercely and was gone. (To be Continued.)