(Copyright.) THE Riverside-House Mystery.

Kaipara and Waitemata Echo, 6 November 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. ] Clyde Hastings and Sidney Raritan \'■ are rivals for the hand of a beauti- ' ] ful young widow, Vida Hetherford, i ' who has, upon the death of her has-: ' \ iiai'.d t,:ikiu to the stage, and has j ' '■issz^^tl ?njoyed phenomenal success. Vida ' Hj^^V*. MVtherford is passionately fond of ' -ij^yiirUan, and gently declines HastIngs attentions, with the result that che latter has determined to work the utter ruin of his hated rival. Uaritan has also been unfortunate ] enough t 0 have incurred t lie jll-wiU ' of another wealthy and vindictive enemy in a mysterious recluse who, with an old negro servant has sud- ' [^^ de.ily ta'en possession of Riverside J Hems;'. Ui\ei\side House is a weird, [ lonely, and deserted habitation by : the river. It is given a wide berth ; hy travellers owing to tlie legends of a secret murder that had occurred -within its walls 20 years before. Mr. Fairleigh, the new resident at Riverside House engages the services of Theodore Griggs, a New York detective to watch Raritan, and report every detail of his life. At the same time Clyde Fastings price's to entangle the r common enemy in a charge of murdering a man named Alia;; T.ove with whom Raritan was last seen on the prairies of Mexico, PART 3. They scarcely uttered a word beyond short, glad greetings, ere Vida turned her horn's head homeward from the station. "Are we going to your cottage now ?" asked Sidney ; and the light Louch of his hand upon her own sent her blood in stinging currents around her heart. "Yes ; aren't you hungry ?" "No, no ! Let us drive on by the sea for a .Jlttl-;; way.) This delicious crimson haze will not last for so.long. When we are alone, with sea and sands and sky, there is something I want to tell you." Her cheeks wore flushed with happiness as they drove on to gel her, s n 'erstanding fully the yet unspoken love ; and at length, as a lingo boulder came in sight, apart from f~- .j houses, and with the lonely sea — *■ beating its rei'rain against the ragged stones, Sidney quietly look the reins from her. " fortunately, that unused bath-ing-post is convenient, and i can tie the horse tin re, while we get out and walk a little. Shall we?" "Delightful !" It v. a-; so hard to talk when her heart was throbbing madly. They paced along the sands marked by waving lines as the tide encroacke ' ; the sunset heavens, with here and there a .great star glitteri'ig in its hush like watchful eyes; the shuddering, tenderly-tinted sea, the silvered sands, sivming all part <;f a beautiful ure. m to Yida, and : he a'lMOjt feared t lie words that would break" that soell. She was so happy ! Perhaps never again could she be quite so happy. Now she was confident, peaceful. She | knew Sidney loved her ; there was no sting, no jar. What if it were the delicious prelude to an awakening, perhaps? For love, as she well knew, even love at its best, walks never free from heartburning and su!Sp< ir-:f and fears. In the years to come there would be love, but there would also he small sorrows in its wako —death, M perhaps the anguish of necessary partings—all the trail of events that crowd life. Ah, that happy moment in the crimson hush by the sea ! llowl often in the days and nights of suspicion, angiii:;h, terror, she recalled it with vain yearning ; how 'often in sleep it came to her,, only to make more bitter the real morn- | ing ! Sidney's vibrant, magnetic voice, k-jitvy with "love, broke on her rnusand dir.;pcllod th:<m. I id a, dear, is there any need for : words between us two ? Ho you not | know all that is in ray heart ? How i love is welling there for you, and has almost from the first moment I saw your face ? I love you, Vida — I love you !" i His face, a'.ove her, was pale and , rot, and not even the sunset light could rob it of its pitiful, pallid intensity. Something in the dark, shadowy eyes smote her heart ; there was more than passion here —there was --- agony —there was gloom ! "~""\ With a yearning cry, she flung out : her arms and they closed around his neck ; her soft cheek rested . tenderly upon his. "Sidney, my heart is yours—yours always ! You are my life, my world ! I have, no wish, no thought that's no"V woven, with love of you!", and her passionate whisper swept his soul as a breeze wakes music from a harp. "My darling Vida !" he said tenderly, drawing her to his isreast and kissing her. Then he suddenly held her away and looked deeply into her eyes, as if he would search her very soul. Mow lieaTitiful she was 3 Oh, the

Ngia ;n her deep, dark eyes, the ex _uisito tenderness and changefulness of lips and glance ! What a fitting picture for her—the sobbing sea, the pink, twilight hush, the glamour of summer on every breeze! And, oh, the anguish of the coming parting ! How it racked Sidney Raritan's heart !To b.e on the very threshold of happiness and to have to pass it by for weary months, perhaps for years ! "There is something else, dear," he muttered, in a. choked tone ; and across Vida's eyes a shadow flitted. "Some bad news, Sidney ? ph, yes—yes ! I have felt "it from the mom* nt you stepped out of the train. What does it meau ? Ah, intuition was right—you do not look so pale, so sad. for nothing. What is it, dear ? Now I must share every sorrow, every grief, you know, just as if I were your wife, as I soon shall be." "Soon ?" he echoed, drearily. "Ah, no. Vida, not soon, dear !" "U'hat do you mean ?" and her voice trembled, her eye's darkened. "You are not going away, are you ? You don't mean that we must be parted ? Oh, darling, you don't mean that ?" \ "For a while, yes ;" and there was a pang in Sidney's heart. "I cannot tell you why. Vida. You must believe in my truth and honour without proof, or we must part for ever to-night. You must believe that I could not leave you if the matter that calls me away were not more important than my life." "Oh, what can it be ?" came in a little stifled cry from the beautiful lips so near his own. "Your face tells me that you have suffered. What can it be ? You did not look so the night you said god-bye to me at the stage door. Sidney, Sidney, I cannot let you go !" "There, there, darling"—and his fingers wandered caressingly over her hair—"you must he brave, or I shall forget all. for you. That must not be. I have to go. There is one thing I wish you would do for me. My sister Bebe returns from the school she has been at in Ottawa j very soon, and I expect her in a week or so. Before —before the necessity for my going away arose, I had intended to have her stay with me until we were married. But now I ask you to let her live under your roof until I return. Y rou will like Hebe, lam sure. She's 11 bit wild, but lovable, and very pretty. 1 shall stop and see her at the school before I leave for the West. This will not trouble you too much ?" She gave him a slow, reproachful giance ; her arms fell heavily to her sides. "You know it will not," she said, (j'lk'tly, almost coldly, while in her heart there pulsed one burning thought :"I will not let him go. Anything but that. Oh, God help me to keep him !if he leaves me now, I feel that I shall never see him again—never." Sidney could see that her face had altered—it was like a grey mask, hei\ features rigid. She moved slowly, languidly to the. great, .grey boulder by the fretting .sea, and, sinking down upon it, stretched her arms out and hid her* face upon them. Sidney was beside her in a second. "Vida !" he commenced ; but she interrupted his pleading, and gently pushed him back. "No, no ! There is no use. I know what you would say," she said, latterly. "You love—you have won from me a confession of love —and now', manlike, you shut me out from your heart and confidence. You tell me you must go away for an indefinite time, and you will not tell me why. You will have all the excitement of change, the eagerness in your -mission, whatever it is, and I will remain alone, eating my heart out, not knowing your interests, and in terror always of the unknown, the mystery surrounding you. It is cruel to me to do this—it is bitterly cruel and-most unjust," she said, a dry sob in her voice. "Don't say that, Vida. I" came in a harsh breath from Sidney's lips. "What if it is something that if you knew —would make you think— no, I cannot telT you !I am silent to spare you added pain, love. Believe me, this is true. Your trust and patience are what I crave. I I want you to believe in me, no matter what comes—and to wait." "I do believe in you !" she said, passionately ;"I always shall ; but 1 I want your confidence. Keep your : secret from all the rest of the world,' j but let me share it ; for I should ibe as your very self, with no interests apart from you—your sorrows mine as well as your joys." j CHAPTER VIII. For a moment there was a heavy silence between them, while the ; waves sobbed almost like a human voice, and the red in the we.sl, ci'.-•■-ged to a glow like that which comes from a dying fire. t Could he tell her ? This was the thought that torI tured Sidney Raritan. Ho fel.t her persuasions so strongly, her power over him was so great, that once let him break the silence about Allan .Love, and might she not win from him the whole story of Aloha's marriage ? Of this he had sworn never to speak. Ho had sworn it to his own soul, to Mr. lirysdale and to • Aloha. Better silence altogether than that that old story should be poured even into Vida's ear. He turned impulsively and took her cold hand, crushing it in both of his. Ah, whatever the secret., no mat-

| ter how deep his silence, he truly loved her. Vida saw that, as again her prayerful eyes met his. Ask me what questions you will,Yida, and I will answer those I can," he said, tenderly. "The secret is not all my own, else I would share ii. with you." With a woman's intuition, she knew' from the accent of her lover's voice that somehow or other there was a woman in the case. She knew then, too, how madly jealous she could be of what she loved. Oh, the poignant twinge that pierced her heart like a poisoned needle ! A fire seemed to mount to her brain, her fingers grew cold and trembled, the sunset picture of sky and water swam dizzily before her ej'es. '.'No," she said, icily, as she rose ; and looked down on Sidney. " I shall not put yuu through a set of i questions as if you were a schoolboy and I your mentor. Preserve your silence intact. Go, as you i have said. Better that than a halfhearted allegiance and- confidence.! You will wot forget me more surely j than I shall make my heart forget | you !" ' "Forget you ! Vida, are you dreaming ?" he asked, as he started I up. "No, I have been; but I am awake now. We understand each other. You love me in a sort of way—not altogether—not very much ;" and | her proud, short upper lip was lifted |in a light disdain. "I want no j such love. We will forget our vows, Sidney. Fortunately, they were not very many." She started to walk past him to , the dogcart, but he seized her hands I almost roughly, and compelled her to look at him. His level, dark brows met in a i frown of pride and pain above his eyes, flashing so sternly He was j masti-rful, strong, and just. As Ihe held her hands against her will, and looked at her with his deep, ' half-angry, wistful eyes, she loved him_ better than in a tenderer mood. j "It is you who are unjust ! I ; will not believe you mean what you '< say ! You .give me up easily, but i I shall be stubborn and hold you to i what you have said. You love me I —me, and some day you will marry ! me—if we both live." j "No ! When you return to tell 'me all, it will he too late. I am wrong, perhaps—wayward and unreasonable as women so often are ; but if yo** y;o away now, I feel that I shall ""'mothing foolisb—desj perate ! 1. wv ~ *^en marry some one else, just to ~-•— ;ou, even if I crucified my own hearc." As the last words left her lips, she broke into passionate sobbing, and flung herself upon his brenst. ""Oh, Sidney, stay with me ! 1 ! need you ! Nothing could matter to ' such love as mine !" j "Nothing ?" he asked, slowly. | "Nothing, unless—unless"—and her eyes darkened —"you had been play- ; ing a double part all these months ■ and some other .woman was bound to you," she faltered. I "It is not that. I was as free as that-seagull 37-011 der until I met you. Hut what if I tell you that I have : been charged with a dishonourable . action ?" ! "Is it true ? I ask, ;\,though I . know it cannot be. Sidney, \» it ' true ?" "It is not true." * ; "Then I care no more for it than , for the fading marks of the, tide on I the sand. Oh, Sidney, don't go I away, filling your life and mine with unhappiness, all because of a false charge. Stay and face everything —anything ! Sin.cc you are inno--1 cent, the keenest stabs of your I enemy must be futile. What guilt '. might toiieh you, let it touch me. 1 Should that ever occur, perhaps then you might tell me all, and I could help you. Oh, yes, a woman can - often do more in searching and unj ravelling knotty points than the j sagest lawyer in the world." j Her enthusiasm, her flashing eyes, i the warmth of her arms, now close I around his neck, and the knowledge i that after all his mission might be fruitless, made him hesitate. What if she spoke truly, and it I would be better to rely fir.idy upon j his innoGence, and trust to chance jto right him ? "Oh, Yida, you break down all my I resolutions by a glance-—a word. I I long to stay with you, as you ask, I love you so—l do love you so," he said, in tones of deep, repressed passion, as he strained her suddenly ]to him and kissed her with a ; warmth that thrilled her to the core of her heart. "Are you willing, dear, to take me on faith ? You I will never regret it ?" "Never," she said, in a low, thrilling whisper. "I know my heart. It is yours, Sidney. I love you. I can say no more." His saddened eyes brightened and a new enthusiasm flashed from them. I "'1 hen 1 shall throw a lance at fate. If I stay in New York and wait until your year of mourning is up, God only knows what horrid plans may not be afoot to separate us. Will you marry me soon I and give a shrug to conventionali- : ties •>" • "Oh, whenever you say ! .Anything —but do not think again of leaving !me !" she whispered. i "To-night ?" asked Sidney ; and he waited breathlessly for her an- ; suer. "To-iiighi, and no one to know of our intention, until the knot is firmly tied ? Will you, darling, will you ?" j "To-night," she said; and surely it was more than that last streak of gold plunging - for a farewell glance from a purple cloud that softere 1 the velvety deeps of her dark <v . She i I no fear of the future. The mystery Sidney had hinted at seem-

Ed less than a shadow to her. He would be hers, she his, and, lovingeach other as they did, it would be strange indeed if they could not defy the traducers and accusers who might try to part them. * * * • A cosy, delightful dinner, tete-a- ---' tete, followed at the bride's cottage, tbe light from the shaded candles falling on her lovely face and making her cheeks out-rival the American beauty-roses heaped in the middle, her lips the scarlet buds that fringed it. She was adorable, queenly ; and as he gazed at her, Sidney forget the shadow that lay over the fate erf Allan Love, who, according to report, was last seen alive with him—forgot Clyde Hast- : ings and his burning threats. ; It was to be their wedding night, and the suddenness of it, the infor- ; niali'y of it, was far more delightful to him than any ceremony arranged on conventu mil plans. i "Get ready at once, darling," Sidney whispered as they left th« i table. i Would \ idas heart evsr thrill | again as it did that night when she stood before her mirror, arraying herself for her sudden bridal ? Her eyes were dark wells of light, made shadowy and velvety by h«r great happiness. Her lips were like fresh rose-leaves. She wouJd wear no black to-night —not the smallest touch. Adiou to those false signs of a wo«. she t-ever felt, and, with them, adieu to every memory of the bitter past. Sidney's, wife ! Oh, how she loved him ! She thought of the snowy winter night when he had found her, maddened by fear/and pain, shuddering at her own door —a shivering outcast where she should have been unquestioned mistress. She thought of his dear eyes, his voice, and her heart throbbed with a rapture beyond words. He had saved her from despair that night, perhaps from death, that she might love him. "I loved him then," she thought, as she fastened a spray of white hyacii ths at her throat—"l loved him then, and will for ever. He talks of enemies, of secrets. I know he is true ;so what matters the rest ? I would die for him !" Sidney was waiting in the richlytoned square hall for her, and surely theie i ever was aught more lovely thiin Yida .as she came towards him down the stairs in her spotless while draperies. "A letter for you, madame," said a pretty French maid, appearing with one upon a salver. Ah Yida lifted it carelessly, and tore , the edge of the envelope, something- familiar in the handwriting caught Sidney's eye. He laid his hand lightly on Vida's and she looked at him, faintly surprised. Surely his face was paler. - "Do you know the writing ?" he asked ; and his voice was dry. "Why, let me see. No, I can't say T do," she said, lightly. "I do," he answered,; and his hand tightened its hold on hers. "Well, what of it, Sidney? Who is it from ?" "Vida, do not read that letter— now," he said, drawing her to him and looking deeply into her i eyes. "Why not ?" " I cannot tell you. You see, dear, thi's is the first time that I must ask you to trust me blindly. There may be others. I did not dream I should have to make that request so soon ; but I must. Vida, do you love me enough—can you— may I pray of you to give me that leMer without your ha.ving read one word •of it ?" he asked ; and there was something proudly appealing in his glance. She hesitated, a little frown on her white brow*, a look of pain deepening in her eyes. j "M'!:si. this mystery stand between us, Sidney ? May I not know all?" i she prayed. I "Remember your words on the beach ! You said you would take me on faith. I know who has written that letter to you ! I can almost tell what is in it. It is a lie—a cruel, devilish, despicable lie j from beginning to end. Read it, if j you like : but if you trust me as you ■ said you did"—~ 1 "Yes, Sidney"; if I loved you, what would I do ?" she asked, sudi denly softened again by the voice she could not resist. "You would.refuse to read it, and believe in me." At th".' words'she tore the i^tter into a hundred pieces and, going to thn window, flung them out seaward. The wind caught them up and carried them out to the ocean wastes, like a flotilla of white butterflies. So Clyde Hastings's stabs at a | man's honour failed miserably. His j journey to Virginia would not have j been so pleasant could he have wit- : nessed that short scene between i love and distrust in Vida's 'Cottage. I And, oh, that drive under the i moonlit sky, along a beach that was surely made of molten silver ! ; What words of love and promises :of fa-ith and happiness were whispered, as Vida Hetherford drove on by her lover's side ! Oh, night of witchery and delight, ending fitly in the sweet, rapturous, solemn scene in the clergyman's tiny parlour, where they two, alone, knelt hand in hand and heard the solemn, sweet words : "Until death do ye part !" Life holds many happy moments, but never such a moment as this. CHAPTER IX. "Antoine I" . It was Clyde Hastings who spoke, and his valet appeared, bowing obsequiously.

"Yes, monsieur." "You-are sure," his master asked, with a frown, "that these archil the le;. tors which have come for me during my absence?" and he tossed aside a heap of bills and invitations. " That is. all, positively, monsieur." "No visitors other than these ?" and he glanced contemptuously at a number of cards on the salver. "None others, monsieur." The frown deepened on Clyde Hastinsjs's brow. "Think again, Antoine. Was there no—lady—here to see me while I was away ?" he asked, slowly. "Not one, monsieur. lam posi- , tive." "You can go. Yet—wait. Should a gentleman C&11 here this morning and give you the name ' Mr. Felix Love,' show him in here without waiting, and after that say I am not at home, no matter who calls." "Yes, monsieur." I "So Vida has paid no attention to |my letter," Clyde said aloud, when ihe was alone. "Surely what I said must have awakened her curiosity. , She can't be such a fool as not to know that I would not dare accuse | her lover of murder unless I had i good proof of what I say." ! There was a settled, fierce thirsting for revenge in the expression of his eyes as he strolled to the , v indow and looked down at the I glittering vista of Fifth Avenue, sparkling in the early sunlight of that vivid July morning. i His heart was aflame with love I for Yidu, the woman who could | look so coldly on him, while her i heart thrilled so gladly to another man's touch. What if she had dared to let his accusations and warning pass unheeded ? What if his poisoned shafts have failed ? "N, "If she defies me, and if Sidney Raritan holds her confidence in spite lof all, I'll make her heart bleed for jit !" he muttered. The forced inactivity of the summer days in town was maddening to Clyde Hastings. He had been back from Virginia a week, and no amount of questioning or search could tell him what had become of either Sidney Raritan or Vida. The cottage at Narrangansett was closed for the time being. None of the society papers had an inkling of their movements, nor had they taken any of their friends into their confidence. "It looks queer—very !"" he mused. "Perhaps she has determined to spend this summer romancing with him without letting him dream that I have warned her, and when she receives news of my return from the papers will come and face me, to make me substantiate my claims. I wish I could feel positive of this —and, oh, that Felix Love would come ! He is to be my trump card. He is young—l'll mould him —I'll lead him to my will—l'll fill his mind with doubts—l'll make him the weapon in my hand !'' "Mr. Felix Love !" It was Antoine who spoke, and Clyde turned hastily, a deep stain of excitement mounting his dark cheek. "Yes, there was Felix Love, the big, handsome, clear-eyed fellow, whose manly figure and air made him look somewhat older than his twenty-two years. "Good morning, Mr. Hastings !" and he gripped Clj-de's hand fiercely. "Your telegram was sent after me from San Francisco to Canada. I came as soon as I could." As he spoke he sank into a chair, and a troubled, weary expression passed over his handsome face. " Your news was very sad. It came like a blow to me !" he said, in a choked voice. "You see, somehow or other, I always fancied that my father's disappearance would be explained—that he was not really dead. But you say you have found the murderer. Who is he ?" The last question was only an eager, burning breath. His eyes of dark hazel flashed with the fire and determination of a' young judge. He was clean-shaven, and the lines of his mouth visibly hardened. "He loved his father, scamp though he was," thought Hastings, with a delighted heart-throb, "He'll make a good enemy." After that he started to win Felix Love's confidence and liking. "You must be tired. Let's have some iced wine, and then we'll talk the matter over," he said, as he went out of the room to speak to Antoine. i j The, moment Felix was , left alone, | he started up and commenced to pace restlessly to and fro. j "What a brute I am, to be able to think of love or a girl's face at such a time as this, when lam to learn something of my poor father's fate—l am to stand face to face with the assassin who struck him down—and still, I can think of her !" Over his handsome, manly face a faint colour spread, and he drew a small photograph from his pocket. No need to ask if he loved the original of it. His eyes mirrored his heart's devotion, and his strong, slender hand trembled as he held th ■ piece of pasteboard where the li ' ' fell upon it. It was the face of a very vo.. girl, laughing, saucy, dimpled, tl ■ eyes flashing a pretty defiance from beneath the shadowy brim of a big, rose-trimmed hat. '■ One glance- at it told, that she was a little coquette—a creature of s•Mishine, laughter, and pretty, teasing , ways. Underneath it, in a big, dashing hand, was penned one wori' — i "Bebe."

Felix's ,1-irk e.j os rested aj <,'i«3tiona">!y on that name as on the radiant' face. "Who are you, Bebe ? iattle tyrant ! Beautiful, teasing mystery, will I never see you again V To think that I know no more about you than your first name and the fact that you are somewhere in New York. Hebe ! What a pietty name ! I love it—and I love you, ; too." "V ho is she, Felix ?" asked Hastings, at his shoulder. He had approached so noiselessly that the young fellow had no idea 'of his having re-entered the room. | "There, don't be offended ; I di'ln't mean to pry into your secrets. It was admiration that overmastered nn ;'•' and he laid his hand on Felix's arm. At the last words, uttered so emphatically, Felix felt his heart glow. "She is lovely, isn't she ?" he cried. "Here, Mr. Hastings, I'll let ; you see the portrait—l don't mind '. it. And perhaps you know her ?" ; Clyde looked long into the picj tured, girlish face. "I don't know her. Who is she ?" "I don't know." "Amazing ! Where did you find the portrait ?" asked Clyde, in surprise. { "Oh, it's just this way—l didn't | find the portrait at all. This j young lady gave it to me;" and Fej lix flung himself into a chair. "We , were fellow-travellers through Canada. We were both coming to New York. There was an accident, and \ I managed to be able to render her : pome assistance. If it weren't for I that delay, I'd have been here a weok ago. We were put up at the same farmhouse to recover from the shock. Her injuries were very slight, but I got a sprained foot." "I see ;" and Clyde smiled as he handed the iced champagne to Felix. "You got to know each other, fell in love" "I did ! The pretty stranger seemed to like me, and to my many prayers that I might know her name and some day call myself her friend, she left me on the morning of her departure this pretty portrait and a note, saying we would in all pro! a'dy meet in New York. There you are ! There's the whole story. She left a few days before I did. Oh, it was maddening not to be able to follow her, but the doctor ] forbade it. I am ashamed of myself, Mr. Hastings, but I almost forgot the; terrible mission which called me to New York in my sudden infatuation for her." He started up and held out his hand to Clyde. All the softness and tenderness had goue from his face. The eyes were flashing now* as revengefully as' Othello's ; his breath came in quick, choked gasps. "But I am going to make amends for my weakness. Do not. fancy me thinking only of love ; do not fancy me unfit for the work of bringing the murderer of my father to justice." And Felix's clear voice thrilled with passion and grief. "Why, there never was a kinder father in the world than mine was to me. My mother died when I was a little chap. My father was all to I me. I have heard people say that he was wicked, and I know he had many enemies ; but he loved me, and I'm going to avenge his death. Now tell me who is the man, and what proofs have you ?" "Good !" cried Hastings. "I see that you are the right sort. But I'm not ready to tell you all yet." "What do you mean ? Let there be no delay, for Heaven's sake. I have always suspected Sidney Raritan. Is he the man ?" Clyde tried to hide the sudden joy in his cold, grey eyes. "Why ?" was all he said. "Well, he and my father were not such good friends towards the latj ter part of their acquaintance as I they .were in the beginning. Then the night Raritan reached San Francisco from Honolulu my father was j with him. I was then living with ;my cousins in San Francisco, and, quite by accident, I met my father with Mr. Raritan. They were on their way to the railway station, and seemed trying to get away without being recognised. I. asked !my father where he was going :' To i the plains. See j'ou soon.' These were the last words 1 ever heard from his lips. Mr. Raritan was on ahead by this time. I saw him ', turn and wait for my father. I had a glimpse of his face." "Yet you could swear it was he ?" . And Clyde leaned across the table eagerly, his face sharpened by his longing for revenge. "Yes, I could swear it. There is j not the slightest shadow of a doubt." ', "Then there is nothing more to be 1 said. Let him be arrested on suspicion. As you say, you have waited too long, hoping to hear news of your father." And* Clyde brought , his closed fist down on the table. I "Now is the time to act." ! "Then the man you, too, had in mind ,is Raritan ?" asked Felix, I quickly. I "Yes." "And you have discovered some | conclusive proof against him ?" | "Well, nothing positive;" and Clyde I did not look into the frank eyes be- j fore him. "Sidney Raritan hated your father ; there was some trouble v-bout a woman. That much I. have learned. He was the last man seen with your father. Don't you think it's time to arrest him on suspicion ? That's the only way the mystery -can be unravelled." ! "That's true," cried Felix. "Where is he now ?" "I don't know, but 111 find out very soon. Think over what I have said and come here to-morrow. By

that time I'll have news of Some sort, I'm sure." A few moments later Felix took; his departure. His mind was burnin/.';, his thoughts were-in a whirls To think of his father as really deatf —murdered in some out-of-the-way; ravine, or his body hidden in some' still, deep brook—filled his heart* with pain. "Is he dead? Can he be dead ?! Father, father, somehow I cannot feel that -I shall never see you again ! And yet all efforts to win a response from you have been in vain. Advertisements, personals, clues followed—all resulted in nothing !" he thought, as he walked clown the sunny avenue towards the rooms he had taken. "Bah ! Let me not hesitate any longer. Let me not dream that to-day or tomorrow, or in a week, he will suddenly come back. lam not worthy :to be called his son if I do not give over hoping and'now seek to punish his murderer. " Ilaritan shall tell what he knows, and tell it before a jury, by heaven !" I "Mr. Love !" What soft whisper was that, thrill- . ing him to the very depths of his ! heart ? All thoughts of revenge faded away, and instead a flood of i love subdued and almost overpowered him. Was it a dream, or ! did he see before his eyes the witch- ! ing face that had enthralled his soul and his senses ? "Yes, it is I—Bebe," she laughed; and how pretty and aristocratic she looked in the pearly summer silk , and big rustic hat, her blue eyes I like violets blooming in a cool sha- ! dow ! He seized hor little hand, and surely she could read the love in his voice. "I've been hoping to meet you every moment since you ran away. May I walk on with you ?" he asked eager ly. "No, for I ran out of Delmonico's when I saw you. Oh, every one there was scaudalized when I 'jumped up. But I couldn't help it, you looked so —so grumpy. Com« in. I was lunching there with my brother and his—but there, that's a secret. I promised not to tell. Come in, come in ; they must thank you for all you did for me." Felix followed her tripping feet gladly, but as they were about to turn into the famous restaurant he caught sight of a face at the window, and growing as white as thehyacinth in his coat, he fell back a step, his eyes flashing, his mouth hardening into set lines. "Sidney Raritan !" The name came in a breath, and he was scarcely aware of having spoken until Bebe stepped back and looked at him in surprise. "Oh"—aiid the dimples came out in her cheeks—"you know my brother !" For a moment Felix seemed stricken dumb, then a questioning horror overspread his face ; a look that made the' light-hearted girl grow cold with a fear for something ghastly and as yet unknown. "Your brother ?" came at last from Felix's whitened lips. "Is he your brother ?" "Yes ; my name is Bebe Ilaritan." CHAPTER X. Everything seemed to go topsyturvy as Felix heard that nama from the red, smiling lips of the pretty girl beside him. "Bebe Raritan 1" Those few syllables, simple and sweet-sounding—how they crashed through the dainty fabric of the dream he had been cherishing ! — how they chilled his heart and weighed upon his spirit ! Raritan ! Was it not the name he was sworn' to hate ? Had he not pledged himself, only a little while before, to cover it with ignominy ? His impulsive, young heart knew in that one bitter moment what hopelessness and disillusion meant, and Bebe, glancing at him, was startled by the sudden expression of sadness and despair that lo.oked at her from his eyes. But she thrust the feeling from her, and entered Delmonico's doorway. "Come, don't stand there like a goose !" she said, making a pretty little face. Sid's the dearest soul, and he'll want to thank you—l know he will." There was nothing to do but follow, and this Felix did like one in a dream.: At a corner table, commanding a view of the sunlit avenue, he saw the man whom he suspected of a cowardly crime. The sunshine played upon his face, and by very force of contrast he recalled where he had last seen it on that winter night in San Francisco, when in the gleam of the crude gaslight he had caught a glimpse of the stern, handsome features, the set mouth, the clear eyes, dark with an indomitable resolve. "Can it be true ? There is no mark of Cain in that face. And yet the mystery of that night, my father's disappearance, Raritan's silence and sudden journey East ! Is there nothing in all this ? But, oh, the bitterness of it, that he should be her brother—her brother !" (To be Continued.)