(Copyright.) THE Riverside-House Mystery.

Kaipara and Waitemata Echo, 30 October 1914, Page 7

(Copyright.) THE Riverside-House Mystery.

A Story of Love, Intrigue and Intense Dramatic Action, By BARBARA KENT. . INTRODUCTION : The story opens in New York. Hyile Hastings and Sidney Raritan are rivals for the hand of a beautiful young widow, Vida Hetherford, who has, upon the death of her hus--1 and taken to the stage, and has , enjoyed phenomenal success. Vida ■ J~*< lletherford is passionately fond of <g^-uiiaii, and gently declines Hastings attentions, with the result that -I c latttr has determined to work ho utter ruin of his hated rival. Hv- itan has also been unfortunate 1 nough t o have incurred the ill-will <-;f- another wealthy and vindictive etiiemy in a mysterious recluse who, Jt,. v. ith an old negro servant has sudggpj: . de;-ily ta'^en possession of Riverside "~go' House." Riverside House is a weird, "#.'■■ lonely, and deserted habitation by the river. It is given a wide berth by travellers owing to the legends of a secret murder that had occurred within its walls 20 years before,. ; PART 2. It was late when Sidney Raritan reached the theatre. He had been detained by important business, and . was only in time to hand Vida to her carriage. As she saw him coming up the narrow stage-entrance towards her, ill the coldness that had gathered around her yearning heart, as the i hours had passed without bringing him, was swept away, and an exultation rose like wine to her brain. She let her eyes linger upon the soft waves of his amber hair above the white brow, the clear, expressive eyes of deepest blue contrasting so intensely wittfi the bronze colour of cheek and chin. His hand sought hers, and together they walked out under the stars of June, unspoken love surging in the heart of each. "Oh, why did you not come sooner ?" Vida'asked, a wistful light in her soft, dark eyes. "You know I leave early to-morrow for Narragansett, and our good-bye must be so hurried !" Sidney could scarcely control his desire to take the young face close •to his own and kiss those tempting iips until he wearied from sheer de- ■- light. "Vida, may I not drive home with you ?" he asked, 'and in the ordinary words there was a whole world of love. "Ah, but when I gave you up, I L accepted Mrs. Forster's invitation to drive home in her carriage, and she is waiting for me. I'm sorry, and —and — when will I see you again ?" she concluded, eagerly. "In three days I'll follow you, if I may." There was no time for more words. They were at the carriage-door, and Mrs. Forster was there. For a moment they stood face to face in the gas-light. "Good-bye," were the words they uttered, but in Sidney's eyes there was a passionate promise : "I'll come." And Vida's throbbing heart was mirrored in the flashing, longing gazcf that said : "I'll wait for you." A last burning handclasp and she was gone, whirled from his sight. Ha looked after the carriage, a sudden heaviness weighing upon him. "Not time for a word of all this passionate love that is torturing me ! What abominable luck ! I was a fool to fear to speak be- "^ fore. After that brute of a husband was dead three months, I might have told her, -at least secretly, how I adored her. Six months have passed, and still no promise binds us. Three days before I can see her again—an eternity. Oh, how I love her !" He hurraed away from the theatre, crossed Broadway, and entered Bryant Park to Fifth Avenue. All his thoughts, all his passionate .• x heart-throbs were for Vida. Her ,-uiist look haunted him, thrilled him, ' caused his pulse-beats to quicken with fervour. j "Ah," he thought, "she does love me ! Vida ! My golden-haired, i dark-eyed Vida ! My life is yours." "Sidney Raritan !" It was a slow, mocking, mysterious voice that spoke his name. He wheeled around, and found him- i self face to face with Clyde Hastings. Clyde's face wore a dark expression, tinged with triumphant malice. ; "Good heavens, Hastings ! And I - ,-----~ thought you were on the other side i of the world ! ' Well, old fellow, | how are you '!" and Sidney held out his hand. j To his amazement, Clyde pushed it fiercely aside, while his grey eyes narrowed and flashed dangerously. "We are friends no lender. . When I'm a man's enemy, 1 tell him so. I don't strike in the dark." A soft laugh of unbelief fluttered from Sidney's lips, and he shrugged his shoulders. i "I say, Hastings, are you mad ? What, in Heaven's name, have I done to you ?"■ " Simply this : You are Vida Hetherford's, lover. I have loved

* " " ncr m vain ior two years. When she was a girl of sixteen 'I asked her to marry me. She refused, to-night I asked her again. Again she was like a stone. You had won." "I see no reason for discussing Mrs. Hetherford in this way," replied Sidney, in a cold, forbidding tone. "Don't you ? Wait until you hear me through. I never envied you any of your luck among th.i mines. I never cared a jot when the beauties of San Francisco and the English girls at Honolulu flung themselves at your head. Fortune, the admiration of women, were less than nothing to me. But"—and the words were hoarse —"I do envy you every glance from Vida i-letherford's , eyes. Had she not met you—who I knows ?—my constancy might havi I touched her. I might have gained j her for my wife. You don't know ; the bitterness of this thought to mo. Heaven !It is like wormwood poisoning my heart ! You shall not have her !If you persist in marrying- her" "Well ?" asked Sidney, coolly, although his eyes flashed dangerously. "I'll ruin you," was the answer, harshly given. "May I ask how? It isn't in your power." "Don't be too sure. Perhaps you don't think I know one little secret of your past. You hated a man once, and he went away with you across the prairies. He never returned. It was as if the ground swallowed him. Where is lie, Sidney Raritan ? What have you done with the body of Allan Love ?" Although Sidney paled at the horrible question, his gaze met the accuser's unflinchingly. "What do you mean ? You talk in riddles !" "Where is Allan Love ?"- ---"I don't know." There was silence for a moment, as Clyde's hand fell heavily on Sidney's shoulder. "They say you murdered him !" came like an adder's hiss from Hastings tense lips. CHAPTER IV. "They say you murdered him !" How those words echoed and throbbed in Sidney Raritan's brain, as his horrified, angry eyes stared into the set, pale, triumphant face of the-man who had only just declared himself his enemy ! Outside the small, leafy enclosure could be heard the sieepy city sounds of a night in June. Sparrows, half awake, made soft, sleepy plaints in the trees rustling above them, a belated organ-grinder churned out his last tune : Oh, love for a year, a. week,,, a day; But alas for the love that loves alway ! The plaintive refrain surged into one voice with the echoing jar of a | tram-car down the half-deserted thoroughfare, and the words he had just heard seemed by some magic to have merged themselves in the air of the love-song, beating, burning, throbbing in Sidney's brain : "They say—they say—they say you murdered him." At last the cold horror relaxed around his heart, and his deep-blue eyes under the dark, thick brows flashed with the light of defiance. "It's a lie ! A cowardly lie of your own coinage !" he said, in slow, contemptuous tones. "You mean to say you were not the man Allan Love went across the prairies with so mysteriously ? Is that what you mean ?" "I am not here to answer your questions," said Sidney, hotly. "No ; but you look guilty. Every one in Honolulu suspects you." "Then let them prove their suspicions. lam ready." The evil frown on Hastings's face grew darker. "Brave words enough. But there is one who saw the face of Allan .Love's companion the night the two men passed through San Francisco on their mysterious errand. That man is the murdered man's son, Felix Love. Will you face him ?" Sidney folded his arms across his breast and paused for a moment before replying, Then these words flashed out ; "You said you would ruin me. Try it. I defy you !" "You keep your secret well." "I have not said I had a secret." "I know you have. Do you deny there was trouble between you and Allan Love over the Latour mine ?" "No. He thought the mine worthless, and sold it to me for almost nothing. I made a fortune out of it, and he, with the injustice oi a mean, narrow nature, turned his hatred and disappointment on me. What other information can- I supply you with ?" "I know more than you think. Don't be so satirical, my friend. I wonder what Vida Hetherford will say when she finds you identified as j a murderer, and knows that not the Latour mine, but love for a woman, was the motive for the crime. My , bargain with you is this : Give, up" j "I make no bargain with you !" cried Sidney, furiously. "Then you're a fool," was the answer, in a strained, hot tone. "For if you would give up Vkla Hetherford, my lips would be dumb. Seek to carry out your intention of marrying her, and I will expose j you. Now do you understand ? , Either way you will lose her. Choose j the easiest." ; After these words he turned and walked back towards Broadway. , Sidney remained in the narrow, . winding path looking after lam. ' Now that he was alone, an expression of keenest pain darkei.od his

eyes, his pale face becan.- set and cold, he moved slowly for a few steps, then sank upon one of the deserted benches in the small park. •'And so the whole, hideous story , niu.st come out," came in a shuddering- ; reath from his lips, as he leaned his head upon his clenched hand. " 1 wuikLt where that scoundrel, . Allan Love, is hiding ? For he has : fCLTeted himself in some corner, I I know. I wonder what are his re sons for keeping dark ? Probab!y"—and here a light flashed into ! his eyes—"for the very reasen that has arisen. To throw suspicion on ' 'me as his murderer. This is part jof his revenge." iHe shuddered. j "Oh, that night of darkness, fear, and pain ! Poor Aloha, so bitterly wronged ! Poor child—her story— \ must it now become the property of the newspapers ? How I grieve for her ! How she prayed to be saved from shame ! Poor little soul, the shame will cling to her now, for ever ! The story will hang like a shadow over her, and my silence, so j long, will be of no avail." Was that a step near him ? He turned quickly, but the path was deserted. And yet—and yet—he could have sworn he had heard a i movement. A clock near at hand struck twelve, and with a shiver, even in the warm night, he stood up. and hurried on. "Will Vida, my Vida, believe me ? ! Will she trust mo through all ? Oh, i my darling, to think that one day ; you may look into my eyes, your own full of doubt, and ask me a question which I cannot, dare not answer. The thought drives me mad !It must not be !It must not be ! And yet, can I treat this so lightly ? Can I hide Aloha's story from the world ? Can I clear myself ? Where is Allan - Love ? What does his silence all these months mean ? What if by some accident he mot his death after we had parted ? What if another's hand had murdered him, and the finger of suspicion points directly to me ?" As he hastened down Fifth Avenue, a shadow seemed walking at his side. How cold its presence was ! How icy its fingers that seemed pressing on his heart ! What warning words it whispered to him ! "Fool !" it seemed to say. "Buy your enemy's silence at any cost. Is one girl's love worth—your life ? Fate has you in its toils. Oh, fool, staking so much on one woman's kisses ! Are there not others as fair for your choosing? Let Clyde [Tastings win Vida Hetherford if he can, and so make him your friend. (Jive Yida up. You are innocent, you say. Yes, so you are. Hut in j this world, are the guilty only pun- ' ished ? Ah, the countless innocent ones that have sat in dark cells, hoping to the last that light would come, the truth be known, their innocence proven ! Thus have they sat hoping—yes, to the very shadow of the gallows. And their last cry, ' I am innocent ?' has been received by an unbelieving world with shrugs or open unbelief. Beware ! The first cloud has darkened your path. Others are coming. Beware !" Horrible warnings, indeed ; they chilled Sidney to the core of his heart. "Vida !" he called aloud. " Vida, my love, my life !" Ere he reached home he had come to a determination. He would follow Vida to the sea, tell her he loved Ker, and, "also, that there was a barrier at present to their union. If she would wait arid believe in him, well and good. He would have a brave heart, and set out agaiii for the West, and seek to un- j ravel the mystery of Allan Love's I disappearance. He crossed to the window, and, ■ standing in the shadow cf his cur- i tains, looked out upon the sleeping j city. j How white and troubled his brave, j handsome face had become ! The , shadow of a story of sorrow and sin j had been roused to-night by Clyde j Hastings's words, and the memories hurt him bitterly. As he stood there, he became aware I that a figure stood in the,deepest' shadow of the opposite street. He could see the whiteness of the white, upraised face in the fitful gas- j light. He knew he was being! watched. "Is this Clyde Hastings's work ? Am I not to take a step unmark- : ed ?" he thought, his breath coming fiercely. "There was more than hate - in his face to-night. There was a bitterness and disappointment almost fiendish. Who knows ? Per- ; haps he is contemplating having me • disappear as mysteriously as Allan Love." ( Again and again he came back to l the window, and always the crouch- i ing figure waited beyond the shadow. Had he been able to see the man's face closely, and recognised him, he would have been still more troubled for the eyes wore the watchful, keen 1 eyes of Theodore Griggs; the lynx ■ < of New York detectives. As it was, he pushed the fair hair ', ] back from his forehead, and, draw- [ ing a chair up to the table, ar- ■ , ranged the rose-shaded lamp, and, '■ ] setting out writing materials, lean- j ■ ed his head upon his hand. ~ "I'll go to Vida to-morrow. Hut, i in case there is foul play thought i of —in case I might meet with some i accident and lose my life, I will leave her a silent defender of my > honesty. I will tell her the story j of that winter's night in New ( Mexico —the last time I saw or s spoke to Allan Love." ! CHAPTER V. June 21st.—Midnight. 1 I am all alone in my _"den" here. (

From one window Broadway stretches into space, so quiet now, although during all the day a roar . rises from it as from a -r.cn. Opposite, Madison-square shines whitely in the glow of the electric light. Cabs rattle by lights flash from many windows. It is New York. j But my eyes seem to look tonight upon a far different scene—a scene wild, dreary, remote from civilisation. Before me lies the prairie ; white, wind-swept, lonely. I seem to stand again under the midnight sky n New Mexico, on one of the wildest nights that ever visited that trackless region. I am not alone. In the stagecoach, that creaks and sways, there is another figure. It is a man,: and the small lamp which sways with every motion of the crazy vehicle shows his face, pallid, revengeful, morose, yet sullenly subdued, i That man is Allan Love. He accompanies me because he dare not disobey. 1 know of dealings of his with poor miners he has cheated that would send him to gaol for the best years of his life. He hates me—l know it—but I have force! him to come with me. Whore ? He does not know. After being driven onward in silence for a few moments, he suddenly lifts his head from the big fur collar that shields it. I see his devil-may-care, handsome face— the face that, even at forty-three has made such havoc with the hearts of trusting women who have been unfortunate enough to cross his rath. Who would dream that a heart of stone was masquerading under those dark, expressive eyes ? Who would believe that he lived only for his own pleasure, nor cared a jot what ruin he left in his path ? I don't believe he loved a being in the world except his son Felix and the old negro who had followed him faithfully sin"c babyhood—old " Remus the Faithful," as- he was called. I meet his eyes steadily,/never heeding the burning hate in them. "Where are we?" he asks. "Are we going to ride all night in this stage ? rerhaps this adventure suits you—it doesn't me. I'm chilled, to the bone. How long is this farce to last, anyway ?" "It will last—for another hour," I answer, ralmly, as I look at my watch. "Remember"—his voice comes to me a sain —"if you are tricking me — getting me into a tight place—l'll make you smart for it, Raritan." I answer nothing, and the rest of the journey is continued in silence. At last, breaking upon the surging voice of the storm and the shouts of the driver to his almost exhausted horses, come other sounds and voices, and the stage draws up at a wooden shed that is a sort of apology for a station in this benighted spot. "The waggon is here, boss," I hear some one say at my shoulder, and I turn to see a youth for whom I have been looking. "There is another short drive," I say to Allan Love, motioning him to precede me. y Not once during the iourney has he followed me. Blows from the back are of too frequent occurrence in those scenes of danger. I take no pains to hide the revolver that my hand grasps. It is not the first time I have taken my life in my hands, and Allan Love knows it. Once more we are hurrying over the snow, this time in a heavy ox- ] cart. My companion utters no word, but I see that his eyes are globing like coaLs. How he hates mo ! And to think that once we were friends, close friends ! That was before I had read his narrow soul, before I knew that all the I truth in him 4iung upon his plausible tongue. I know that tonight's work will add another bit of fuel to the fire of his wrath, but 1 do not care. Tt is not of him I am thinking as I feel the snow stinging my face. The ache and troubles of my heart has nothing to do' with his part of this night's story. Before a roughly-built cabin on the banks of a shallow, frozen pool, the ox-cart halts. How clearly I seem to hear the driver's cry as he draws up ! I pay him, tell him to wait a short distance away, and Allan Love and I are left alone, under the sloping shed. "Well, does it suit your highness ' to speak now and explain this cursed mystery ? Isn't it time to ring the cutain up ?" he asks, with an oath. "I am about tired of this, I san tell you. What have you wrought me here for ? What do you want with me ?" "Yes, the time has come to speak." I seize my revolver more fiercely ; I look straight into his blazing eyes. "I have brought you here to-night that I may witness your marriage with Aloha Brysdale." ; You have cheated her. After yau had told the infamous truth that the marriage you had had performed was no marriage, the poor child iuul fled i'lOin you. Did you know* what had become of her ? No. Did you care ? Not a bit. I daresay you hoped she was quietly dead. Oh, it is such as you who shame the nune of man." 1 strike on th::> door sharply but softly five times. At this signal it is ope.iccl. Allan Love, as white as !e.--vth, stands staring into the small, shabby, firelit interior. "Co in," I command. "I'll fol- : ow." He has to obey, and holding his lead up, while his guilty eyes search i .lie room, he waveringly enters.

An old Indian woman sits smoking over a bright fire. There is a cleri-cal-lcoking man in one corner, a tall countryman at the* table, holding a glass of hot brandy in his hand. I know him to be the sheriff, and I know he is there at my bidding. There is dead silence in the room. Allan Love does not move, and the only expression upon his face is keenest defeat. "Ah ! you have come—at last !" Aloha's voice flings out that passionate, bitter cry—the cry of a woman who has lived in the most woeful sense. He does not answer. "After you marry me," she says, without a tinge of bitterness or forgiveness, "go away—out of my life —out of my sight for ever, and I will pray that I may never look upon your face again !" Though I live a century I will never forget that scene. Allan Love's unwilling hand is in the loose clasp of the girl's white | fingers ; the clergyman ioom.s up in | the ruddy glow of the fire ; the ' sheriff watches behind. I stand aa j one witness, a revolver in one hand; j the old Indian servant is the other. I Poor, beautiful Aloha, what a bridal ! My heart swells with wrath and pity all through that gloomy ceremony, but at last it is finished. Allan Love stands with folded arms, looking at his newly-made wife, then at the clergyman, at the sheriff, at me. At last he breaks into wild, disdainful laughter. "What a farce ! Is it quite finished ?" and he looks with mock entreaty at ,me. "Have I your permission to retire ?" ■ "My part in the scene .is completed," I answer. "Then L,may conclude that mine is, too. Gentlemen, good-night !" He opens the door, that smile, like a mocking devil's, still upon his lips. "Sidney Raritan, I have a word for you in private," he says ; and I follow him. The wind sighs round the dilapidated house, the baby's cry mingling with it eerily, as' lor the last time I stand face to face with the man who hates me. "I have only one thing to tell you. It is this. The time may come when our positions may be reversed" "Never !" I interrupt. " Don't speak of what you don't understand. What do you' know of honesty, of self-respect, of truth ? I can never stand where you do to-night." A sneer curls his lips, and again he laughs. "You think you know me well," he says. "You think you understand me. I tell you I shall surprise you yet. Oh, you are successful now. You have the whip-hand ; you have made me eat humble-pie tonight. But if at any time in the future you find yourself ruined, body and soul, look for the hand of Allan Love, and you will find that it has crumbled the edifice of your life about your ears. I don't know how, yet. ■ I don't see my way clear now, but I can wait ; and we are told that the waiting ones at Fate's door are always successful." That white face, those teeth flashing in a distorted smile, those sombre eyes, heavy with hate, they rise before me like a ghostly face patterned upon the air. He strikes from my side towards the cart, and is driven away through the" whirling • snow. I have never seen him since. A fortnight later I stand at the r.earest railway station, wishing Aloha good-bye; believing she is bound for her father's home, and a good woman as nurse is with her. Imagine my surprise when, a few days later, T receive this note : Dear, Dear Sid, —You have done for me all that one human being could do for another. I will never forget it, never ! Thank God I am married, and that my child's portion will not be shame. What I have to say now will surprise you. I cannot go back to my father, to my old home. A gr/^at gulf yawns between me and the old life. I have written to my father, and this time I am really going to New York, where I shall begin life anew for my child's sake. I have enough money of my own to make me independent of the man whose hated name I bear. When I am settled I shall send my address to you and to my family. Until then, 'good-bye. God bless you, my dear, dear friend. If I yet make something of my life, remember the credit will be to you. Farewell. ALOHA. This letter I received months ago. Since then I have heard from Aloha's father that she had gone to England. One thing lam sure of, that Allan Love is as one absolutely dead to her. And to him ! They say he is d^ad ! It is hinted that I murdered him. As solemnly as if death awaited me the next moment. I swear that I have never seen him since the night he left me in the snow outside Aloha's dwelling. They may question and suspect me. To the end I will be silent about the events of that wild, '< never -to- be - forgotten night—for ! Aloha's sake. No one dreams that she held a nameless babe to her heart before ' Allan Love was forced to call her ; wife, and no one ever shall know from me—while I live. But I leave this truthful record for Vida Hethcr- i ford. j SIDNEY I!AKITAN. ! He folded it, sealed it in an envelope, with this written upon its face : To be opened . by Vida Hetherf ord in case of Iny death or mysterious disappearance. I SIDNEY RARITAN. (

An old Indian woman sits smoking over a bright fire. There is a cleri-"

j 11 was almost three o'clock before - he fell asleep, and his last thought *, was : "Vida —love— I shall see her tos morrow." CHAPTER, VI. ' And while Sidney slept, two scenes . were being enacted that were bound c to have an influence upon his fus ture life. jln Riverside House the lights were I still burning, as they so -. if ten burn- - ed far into the grey dawn. For i what was day or night to the t man who was letting his life drift jby there ? The shaded lamp in the sombre , ! study had a cheerful effect upon - the dismal place, and before it Mr. 3 Fairleigh sat, his shrouded hands [ ; clasping his knees. The whole form c that was so complete a disguise. ' ,He was waiting for some one. L 1 "Don't yuh want .anything to eat, | mas'r ?" asked old Remus, putting I his white, woolly, head in. "I got a i i nice bit o ' supper heah. There's I 1 waffles and a bit of boiled fish you'd i I smack youah lips after, to say 3 nuthin' of a cup of Turkish coffee ; you're always in trim for." "Bring the coffee, nothing else. - Perhaps Mr. Griggs will be hungry. Keep the rest hot for him." I "All right, mas'r, but so ;.iuch eof- - fee, without food, ain't good for yuh—no 'taint,;" and mournfully I shaking his head, he retreated. 3 "Three o'clock. He was to have 5 been here by one," came from Mr. 3 Fairleigh's lips, as, going to the window, he drew the heavy curtain - j aside and looked out. "But per- '- haps something important detains • him—perhaps to leave in time to keep his appointment with me • might make him lose some valuable information. Ah, that's more mi.- . portant. I ought to be willing to wait." i He strode away from the window, • muttering to himself : 1 "And to think that I can never - dare look in Raritan's face ! Never dare say to him, as he stands • before me, with every hope crushed, ■ his life a tomb, ' You see I have '' kept my word and ruined you.' This i revenge is all 1 live for. Oh, may it be sweet !" But all reflection died, and he l lifted his head eagerly, like an animal which scents blood, as a knock - sounded on the door. Into the rosy half-light came t Theodore Griggs, his sharp eyes fastened upon the strange employer he served. - "You are late ! Why ? Did—did. he detain you ?" asked Mr. Fair- - leigh. I "Not consciously," was the grim . answer. "I didn't know but that he might leave town at midnight, so I waited opposite his windows until R I saw his light go out." "He is in New York—asleep at this moment, I suppose ?" "Yes, I could swear to it." Old Remus entered with the supper, which Mr. Griggs did- full justice to, and when it was over and he had lighted a cigar, he began to talk. "The man whom you suspect—or hate, or whatever it is—is a mighty fine-looking fellow." "Yes, he was always handsome," came the unwilling reply. "He seems happy, successful ? Tell me all ! Describe him to me ! Don't you see how eager I am ?" There was something cruelly revengeful in his voice, and a shiver of aversion crept over Griggs. Then followed a recital of the events of the night. Griggs had indeed been a good watcher. And he had used histongue, as well as eyes and ears, for every one that might know anything of Sidney Raritan's past, present, or future had been questioned closely. As he sat beside the mysterious figure in the room lit by the woodfire, he sketched Vida Hetherford, the fair young girl Sidney loved ; he told of the return of Clyde Hastings, and at the name a cry of delight fell from Mr. Fairleigh's lips. "Clyde Hastings ? And you say that he, too, loves Vida Hetherford ?" "Yes." "Well, he'll win, or make Sidney Raritan rue the day he ever saw her face !" he hissed. "You know him, then ?" "Yes, I know him." The conversation between Sidney and Clyde in Bryant Park, where Griggs had been listening, was also given. "Say that again—again !" was the hoarse reply. And in his excitement Mr. Fairleigh laid- his hand, shrouded in its sleeve, upon the detective's shoulder. A chill struck him. Good Heaven! What sort of a creature was this man he was serving ? What was his secret ? There was something strange about the hand that rested on his shoulder. It seemed dead. No warmth came through the cloth. Griggs swayed uneasily from the touch, and the man moved away. "Tell me again he accused Raritan of murder," came the voice from beneath the cowl. " Yes, of murdering a man named Allan Love. Raritan denied it. I think it's all gammon myself. Rari-* tan doesn't look like that sort." This was received in silence. "That's all," said Griggs. " I know that Rarilan made some sort of an appointment with Mrs. Hether- ' ford at her carriage. Do you intend to prevent his marriage with her ?" i A laugh of delight ?nd cruelty came to the detective through the firelight. "Not for worlds. Let him marry , her ; the sooner the better. Oh, yes, : the sooner the better," he said, i gloatingly. j ****** i There was another man whose ,

a thoughts were busy, with Sidney L Raritan on this June night. i It was very late when Clyde Hast- - i ings reached Ms hotel. His face was white and grim, marked by a fierce determination. As he entered his room his valet 3 handed him a telegram, and, after I reading- it, it fluttered to the - ground, a stifled curse leaving his lips. i "What hard luck ! Jf he had ar- ■ ranged the whole matter with Fate, • he couldn't have fallen ill at a more ; infernally inconvenient time. Uncle '' Silas always was a nuisance I" He picked up the telegram again. '! Uncle Silas is dying. Come at L once. MINA. \ ' His cousin had sent it. Of course he was expected to go, and; of course, he must go. Not from afTec- | tion or duty, but because Uncle Silas ! was worth millions, and Clyde want- ; ed to see him before he died. It was so easy to disinherit a fellow. ' This is what uncle Silas might do, if ! his dutiful nephew preferred to linger in New' York instead of making his last farewells properly to him. The old man had a hot temper, and if Clyde failed to go he might , be cast off with the traditional dollar. "But to leave New York now, of [ | all times ! If the old man should linger on, and I be kept a prisoner j in Virginia, who knows what might happen here ?" He called for brandy, and sat fax into the night, his brow frowning, his lips set tensely. What burning thoughts racked hi» heart, thoughts of Vida, as ' her | imagined face, in all its seductive beauty, rose before him, her eyes so like black pansies, her rosy lips ! To go away and let Sidney Raritan have the field to himself ! It was more than madness. And yet what could he do ? But, yes, there was one thing. He A light leaped to his clouded face, "By Heaven, I'll try it !" Ere he flung himself down to try to sleep for a few hours, before taking the early train South, he left a letter addressed to Vida Hetherford, and a telegraphic message to Felix Love. The telegram said : "Come to New York at once. I have found your father's murderer."Both were to be sent in the morning. CHAPTER VTI. BESIDE THE SEA. . Vida was ready for her drive along the sands. In white, with just a touch of black at throat and wrists, a big, white hat shadowing her exquisite face as the shady hats immortalised by Gainsborough shaded the faces of the beauties in olden time, she was indeed a fair picture. Over sea and land a soft, evening haze ]ay. The waves trembled in waning crimson. It was the hour for romance, for rapture, for love. Vida looked intently and seriously into the mirror, as she gave the last touches to the lace at her throat. "He does love you—he does love you !" she said, the softest, tenderest pink rising in the satiny pallor of her cheek. "You are a very lucky young woman, Mrs. Hetherford.—very lucky. Sidney is going to reveal his heart to you to-night. Can you believe it ? How is it you can look so calm, although your pulses are .capering like mad things ? He is coming to-night, sooner than he said—sooner T" And drawing a telegram from her bosom, she kissed it in a shy, intense way that told, better than words, what havoc Sidney's dark-blue eyes had made with her heart. She swept from the room, hei fleecy draperies sending out the faintest, subtlest odour of violet, as she went with her own graceful, loving eagerness down the stairs. Outside the door of the pretty cottage a small footman stood beside a light dog-cart, his hand on the bridle. "I shall not need you to-day, Thomas," she said, as she stepped in and took the reins. . Oh, how delicious it was to trot along in the tender, evening light, the sea on one hand, far-reaching, mysterious, cruelly beautiful, the oddly-shaped summer cottages, in which the lights were beginning to twinkle, on the other ! Every turn of the wheels brought her nearer to the man she loved so passionately, and the surge of the waves, the trot, trot of the horse's feet wove themselves into a haunting melody. "Oh, my dear —my dear ! He is coming—he is coming !" But her elation sank a little as she came face to face with Sidney at the station. The ravages of unrest had i left their marks upon his features/ He was pale, and the expression in his eyes was intensely thoughtful as he gazed at Vida, as if seeking to imprint upon his memory every detail of her charming, changeful face. (To be Con tinned).