(Copyright.) THE Riverside-House Mystery

Kaipara and Waitemata Echo, 4 December 1914, Page 6

(Copyright.) THE Riverside-House Mystery

—-*:—— A Story of Love, Intrigue and Intense Dramatic By ( BARBARA KENT* ; ' 'Mi PART 7. ■ •■• ■ . After breakfast, Sidney surprised her in her boudoir. She was sitting against the lace-curtained window, her elbow on her knee, looking out at the horizon, where a line oi low hills trailed. She did not hear him enter, and he was impressed by the despair, the loneliness of her attitude, by the pallor of the lovely profile. "Vida, dear," he said, softly, and she started almost guiltily as he approached, a look almost of resentment in his eyes, "I think you are not looking quite yourself, darling. I'll tell you what I'll do. You and I have not had a tete-a-tete adventure in a long time," he said, sitting beside her, and slipping his arm round her waist. "See here, now ! Suppose you come into' town to-day —down town, whore the money is made, and we go to lunch at the Lawyers' Club. In the afternoon, as it's the first matinee of the operatic season, and Jean de Reske plays Faust, let's take a hansom up to the opera house in true Bohemian style. Will you, dear ? Will you?" Vida felt a mist of tears rising within her. Her hand trembled in his. Such pleasure as he described would be delightful, if confidence were between them ; but now, while Bhe doubted, while her passionate heart was torn by pain and fears, a. ghost would sit beside them and poison the joy of the otherwise happy day. Sidney was surprised to see the tears rising in her eves, while her lips remained mute. "Vida !" he said, in a voice of pain ; and, laying down his hat, which he had taken preparatory to departure, he seized her in a yearning clasp and tried to draw her to his breast. But she resisted, and before he dreamed of her intention, she had slipped to the ground and laid her head upon his knee, sobbing as if her heart would break. "What is it, my darling ? Speak— trust, me, dear. Something is troubling you ; I have known it fora long time. Do tell me all. Your grief, whatever it is, will be lighter if I share it. Oh, my wife, my dear wife ,my one love, speak—speak !" Sidney pleaded, as he smoothed the golden head bowed before him. But the storm subsided almost at birth. Her husband's tender words, "**" Ms compassionate tone jarred upon her and roused her pride, fully armed. She thought of the letter signed "Fondly, Aloha." She thought of Clyde Hastings's hints at a secret in her husband's life. Oh, he should be kneeling before her, praying for forgiveness or confessing his sin in broken tones, and she should be the sympathiser, the judge. With a hard, uneasy laugh, she started up and dashed the tears away. "What a piece of folly I" she said, with a shrug. "Sidrtey, we women are very queer creatures, are we not ? We weep for,nothing, and when real trouble comes we teach nien how to be strong." She moved to the dressing-table and lifted her hands to her hair, ar- ; ranging a stray tress more carefully. "Then your tears meant nothing more than your nerves were a little out of order ?" questioned Sidney, standing up and looking at her with grave, loving eyes. "Nothing more,'' said Vida, lightly. But Sidney was not satisfied. There had been anguish in that stormy sobbing, and he had felt as if on the brink of some revelation. "Dearest," he said, "tell me—you are perfectly happy ? Are you ?" "I am—happy," she said. "Are yon ?'-'• She turned and faced him, a mocking smile on her lips. "I should be an ingrate:if I were not," said Sidney. "Do I not love you with heart and mind, body and spirit? Are you not mine ? That alone, without any of the smiles of Fortune, would be enough to transform my life to heaven." ■; He paused, and his gaze all of love. "I have felt lately, Vida, that ■' there was not quite that perfect confidence between us which we had at first;" he took both her hands, and hi« gla.nce was earnest almost to pain. "I beg- that you will not let any trifle mar our happy life. If you have any fault to find with j me, tell me of it. Don't nurse it i in your heart. If anything troubles j you, come to me. Give me your i confidence as I know I have your heart." j "Have I your confidence ?" asked Vida, slowly, and her pulses began ! to throb heavily. "Think ! Is there j nothing in your life that confession j would make lighter—nothing that I ought to know ?" i She misinterpreted the pallor that j grew round Sidney's lipis to a sfgn of conscious guilt, despite his words. . ! "Th re is notbing in my life to troTjTJo or shame me —nothing !"

"But one's life may be all wrong, and yet one might feel no twinges as a result. That, you know, is largely a matter of conscience. One man makes his living by murder ; ! another writhes hi agony for a wicked thought," .she .said, her cheeks' j suddenly burning, her eyes defiant. '■ "My conscience is a very trouble- ' some one, or would be if I gave it ' reason, no matter what, you may i think, Vida, to the contrary," said j Sidney, .sternly, his heart contract- , ing at her glance and words. "I j hide no guilty secret." ! "Yet," she continued, "what of that secret which almost separated us before our marriage ?" There was a, moment's silence between them. "You promised to bury all memory of that. You urged me to I stay when I wtould have gone away j and cleared myself of the faintest \ suspicion," was Sidney's reply. "I ! can no more explain it now than ; then. 'You were willing to take me ': on faith in those happy days. Why not now ?" And he held out his arms. "Mysteries are very pleasant in books. I can't say I fancy them in I real life." And ignoring his loving gesture, she turned from him. .1 ust then Bebe came tripping into the room, and Sidney, seeing that j the time was past for further words I on-*hc took tip his hat agaiu^ "By the way, Vida," he said, in a constrained tone, "do you care to lunch down town and go to the opera, as I suggested ?" "Thank you very much, dear," she said, with a provoking smile. "Hut unfortunately I have an engagement for this afternoon. "Yes ?" "I am going for a ride with Mr. Hastings." Sidney turned on his heel and left the room without another word. CHAPTER XX. A MORNING INTERVIEW. But his mind was made up. The time had come for action. Sidney swore in his heart that: Clyde Hastings should not , ride beside his wife that afternoon, and that the friend- | ship daily strengthening at the cost of her trust in him should be stopped at once. The coachman who drove him to the station noticed his pale, stern face, and wondered what had gone wrong. The passengers who sat opposite him in the train saw plainly . that he was far from his surroundings in thought, and the thoughts were far from pleasant. Instead of going far down town by the train, he alighted at a street in the Fifties, and soon found himself in Fifth Avenue. "Half-past eleven. He is up by this time, I suppose," thought Sidney ; and he entered • a large house at the corner where Clyde had his luxurious bachelor apartments. He was still at his breakfast when his visitor was announced, and sprang up with every appearance of friendly welcome. "Ah, Raritan, who'd have dreamed of seeing you round at these diggings so early ? Have some coffee with me ?" His quick eye had read Sidney's face aright, and he was quite prepared for his next words. "My mission, Mr. Hastings, is not a pleasant one. No, thank you, I will not sit down. I have only a few words to say, and but a moment to say them in." "Nothing wrong at Applethorpe, I hope ?" and Clyde paused in lighting his cig-arette. "There seems to be more wrong at Applethorpe than I can understand since you began visiting there," said Sidney, in a low, distinct, ringing voice. You understand me ? I want to tell you that 1 no longer believe in your friendship for me, nor that you think you did me a wrong in the past. I believe you took that way of entering my home and trying to destroy my peace." "Why, have I done so ? I was not .aware of it. Aren't you alarming yourself unnecessarily ?" and Clyde looked almost languid as he leaned back. "You have not succeeded as ye and you shall not. I shall see to that, you may be sure ;" and Sidney's voice was hoarse with passion. "I was a fool to believe in you. Since the day you first entered my home a coldness has come over my wife's manner to me that can only be explained in one way. Your lies have poisoned her mind against me—your lies—do you hear?"-----"I hear quite Wei]. Go on." "I had not meant to say this much. My definite command issimple. You need not present yourself at Applethorpe this afternoon to accompany Mrs. Raritan on her ride, for I shall be there to go with her, if she wishes it, and I don't want you. More than that, I will not permit your visits at my house in future !" He went to the door, and when his hand was on the knob, Clyde's voice arrested him. "You've been very kind to come out of your way to save me the i trouble of a ride up town. I won't I forget it. Good morning." i But, while the words were being spoken, Sidney's eye had caught sight of a portrait lying on the j disordered desk. For a moment he thought he was surely the victim !of a burning fancy, for Vida'.s deli- : cate colouring was reproduced on j that disc of porcelain by an artist hand. j Before Clyde was aware of his mii tention, he had crossed to where it . lay, and was gazing at it with stormy, haggard eyes. ! Yes, it was Vida, and this painting was a reproduction of a pho-to^-raph taken very recently.

The beating of their hearts could . be heard as the two men looked at each other. Then Sidney lifted the delicate thing- and sent it crashing to the hearthstone, where he ground it to fragments beneath his heel. With a cry that was like a snarl, Clyde started up, his hands clenched, a torrent oi' insensate oaths leaving his quivering- lips. "Strike me," saj'd Sidney, calmly, j "and I'll kill you !" The words seemed to calm (Hyde's passion to iciness. and a sneering smile curled his lips. "Who's had the better part of this little scene this morning, you or I?" he asked. "Why should, I strike you ?" " Perhaps you think I fear you. It would be easy to combat you, Mr. Clyde Hastings, if one stooped to use your weapons—treachery, revenge, duplicity. Even without ihose I will conquer, and T advise you to keep out of my life unless you want to taste defeat." For some moments after Sidney's departure, Clyde sat gazing steadfastly a.t the fragments of porcelain strewing the hearth. "Three hundred dollars thrown away for that miniature ! Well, no matter ! To see his face blanch and his lips tremble when he caught sight of that pictured face was worth a good deal more—yes, by Heaven, a good deal—worth every penny I possess !" He rang the bell violently. "More coffee, Antoine." While sipping the hot, black fluid, he sat absolutely silent, and what his reveries were might be guessed from the cold, evil light in his narrowed eyes. "A telegram, sir !" said Antoine, entering again, with the yellow square of paper in his hand. Clyde started from his dreaming, and tore the envelope open with trembling eagerness : j. Everything ready. Watch for Wednesday or Thursday morning. MARKBY. "Good ! What a treasure the man is ! What grit ! What nerve !" I Clyde muttwed, as he sprang up and commenced pacing up and down the room. What did he see in fancy ? Some lonely spot in a far-away, western wilderness, a black pool, where frogs piped their eerie chorus at the death of day—silence everywhere, except for the raucous cries of vultures wheeling against the blue sky visible above the tall, slender trunks of pines. And what else ? Was there no human creature there —no face —no form ? Yes, surely there, in the deepest shadow, where the grass was longest in the slimy pool and the shadows thickest, uncanny—something with only a passing resemblance to a man—a drowned body, with "blurred features, its sodden rags bearing a mark that proclaimed it was once Allan Love. Oh, a ghastly cause for joy, truly! Clyde Hastings could never have accomplished the fraud himself. But Mark by, whose God was money, and who seemed to have been created without a heart—he had succeeded. He was once an army doctor, and had made a specialty of knowledge concerning acids and poisons. He knew how to give a newly-dead body the semblance of decay—a, • nonth's residence in the ' sluggish waters bearing out the ghastly truth. As for the rest—that was easy. The mutilation of the water-soaked clothing, having faint initials somewhore to identify the body, needed only the efforts of a master in swindling. Everything was ready. "We shall hear of it here on Wednesday night or Thursday morning. And this is Monday ; there is but I <me night between. I must see Vida ' before then. Ah, yes, of course — she will doubtless be at Mrs. Franklaud's ball on Wednesday night. I'll carry out my original plan— then." A moment later he threw out his arms and laughed. "Forbidden to ride with her today ! Very well. Forbidden to enter her home in future ! Very well. What matters it ? Soon her home will be my home, and Finis will have been written to Sidney Rarit;;n/s career. It's likely he'll he sent to prison for life, as the evidence won't be absolutely coiivinc T ing after this lapse of time : but it's more than probable he will escape that by killing himself. An old grudge—one of long standing— will be paid, and the woman T have always loved will be my wife." If Clyde Hastings made an attempt to justify his treachery to 1 himself, it was by saying thai he i did not believe Sidney Haritan ; worthy the love of a woman like ] Vida, as, despite all iack of po:-;i----tive proof, he considered him >he , murderer of Allan l.ove. In his , opinion. "Markby, through fraud, was i bringing a real offender to justice. jHe believed that the end condoned , the means> employed. j Meanwhile, after leaving the house. j Sidney had ,gone direct to the office of n. steamship company, mid ; had engaged passage for himself j arid Yida. on the following Thursl day. It was a peremptory action, perhaps, and quite different from . Sidney's usual method with Yida. . Now she was to have no choice— she must go with him—she would go if she loved him at all—and he woidd never be content until he had put , the ocean between her and the man . who was secretly trying to ruin their lives. : besides, they had long talked of a trip to Europe. Then why not go now, when, it suited his plans so vvoll ? Bebe could be left with his mother's sister in Washington, Applethorpe could be closed, and they

need not return for a year at leaat. His business affairs had never been in better bar.ds or better taken cara of. He reached Applethorpe just as the maid was announcing luncheon,; and Vida was startled to see him enter, startled by his worn, young face bearing the marks of sudden and deep sadness. "Oh, you are back early !" cried Bebe. "in l-'elix coming to.dinner just the same ?" Like one awakening from sleep, Sidney passed his hand over his face. "Poor Bel), I quite forgot." "Forgot about i-"clix !" pouted Behe. "Then I know what I'll do —I'll send Ruggles down on horseback with a note to him. May I?" " Certainly, dear, anything you like." Luncheon was rather a silent meal. Before the servants a strained conversation was kept up, but it was easy -to see that something was troubling Sidney. Even Hebe became silent. When, at length, Vida was alone with, him, she /turned tm.l looked anxiously into his eyes. "What's the matter, Sidney ? You look like a man who has received a blow," she said, a tremble in her soft, velvety tones. "No "matter. Do not ask me, Vida," he said, quietly. "But I want to tell you this : Clyde Hastings must never again cross the threshold of this house ; and you will come with me to Europe on Thursday." She grew wiiite to the lips. "You have quarrelled with Clyde Hastings ?" "I have told him my opinion of him. Let his name never be mentioned between us again." A pain like a needle shot through Vida's heart, and she grew white and cold. Something in Sidney's face awed and stilled her. Ho did not touch her hand. There was none of the old love in his attitxule or glance ; only a calm more sad than passionate reproaches. "You will be ready to go with me oil Thursday ? It will be best so. Believe me when T tell you. It will lie best." "Yes, I will go," she answered ; and lov-e was very strotig in her heart as she spoke. if she could only have back the old faith !If she had never listened to Clyde Hastings !If she had never seen that name—Aloha ! "I will try to believe him. I will help him. He looked wounded to the heart. Oh, Sidney, 1 will believe you, my love !" CHAPTER XXT. IMPRISONED. The wintry dusk was deepening with surprising swiftness as Felix Love rode rapidly on toward Applethorpe. Already tho west was a mass of cold purple, and in the tawny gloom above a few stars had gathered. There was something in the poise of his head, in the satisfied glow: } n his eyes which spoke of exultation. He had travelled over those roads so often before, but never with the joy in his heart that now welled there —never with the prospect liefore him of seeing Bebe freely, openly, of spending hours with her in her own home, which he entered a.s a. lover. No fears, no doubts troubled his young heart. Once, having decided that his suspicions of Sidney Raritan were an insult to the man, and realising that no tangible proof connected him with his father's disappearance, he had been quick to admit his mistake and ask pardon for his unjust suspicions. * Meanwhile his father's fate remained a mystery. Every attempt at finding a clue resulted in a silence as complete as death. No one had .seen Allan Love after that snowy night when he went away with Sidney Raritan ; no one had heard from him. Could a man live and so completely seclude himself ? The joy in Felix's heart subsided a little as jhe pondered upon that question, i Would he ever know, or would the i maddening, terrible word "missing" for ever overhang his mysterious fate ? "Who knows," thought Felix, with sudden, obstinate hopefulness, "perh.ips some unforseen trifle, some strange turning of the wheel of destiny may reveal all that now seems so inexplicable? I feel sure that somehow or other I shall one day hear of my father, or stand face to face with him again." ! Putting away the perplexing problem, he let himself dwell on his love for Hebe, on what their lives would be together. Hope, confidence, passion, reverI ence, were all in that young vision < which fired his brain and heart, and :he felt he had never known the i meaning of life until now, when his happiness was bound securely and entirely in one small pair of hands. He looked at his watch as he enterud the road which, about half-;!-milo distant, lo<' f past Applethorpe. It wanted ten minutes to six. 'Provoking ! They did not dine until seven, and he would probably reach the house at a most inconvenient, time—perhaps when Bebe was at her toilet. To kill an intervening twenty minutes, ho took a. circuitous path that, deep •in shadow, skirted a small river, which reflected the varied colours oi the evening sky. For a Jong way the path was singularly deserted, and only the regular beat of his horse's footfalls broke the evening calm. "To think,-" mused Felix, "that this place is realty a suburb ot the

big town that lies to the south, a wilderness of brick and stone, filled with the turmoil of traffic. One might as well be in the very heart of a mountain solitude. Not a house in sight, not a sound of life, no movement but the sway of tho branches and the soft, velvety flow of the river What's that ?" The last words came in a low, dazed exclamation, as Felix, holding his horse well in, leaned forward and peered into the darkness at a figure which had crossed the path to the bank beyond. There was something so uncanny about the muffled form, lie felt his blood grow thin and cold. It was as if a. ghost had put on dark, heavy, formles folds to match the darkness in which it moved. The figure stood just at the back of a large tree, and Felix saw the draped arm raised, the cowl lifted a little. But what lay beyond he could not (ell. No feature was disclosed, and the light of the eyes, if eyes there were, was hidden. As he paused curiously, the figure gave a start and a strange, strangled sort of wail. The sound not only made the listener's heart quicken with that haunting, inexpressible power of the mysterious, | but his horse gave a violent leap, . a snort, and then, with rearing head and straining mouth, leaped forward. Felix realised that the moment was full of peril. He forgot all about the monk-like traveller, and I bent all his strength to the calming of his now thoroughly frightened horse. It uas useless ; the nervous, blooded creature had flung of! all control, a.nd, with the bit securely between its teeth, tore wildly on. Just ahead lay the pasture where he and Beb had had their never-to-be-forgotten twilight talk in August, and the stile separating it from the road was now a. serious barrier to further progress. In vain Felix tried to twist his feet from the stirrups and jump, even at the risk of his neck. 'He was firmly in the saddle when the horse, at full tilt, rushed against the bars, only to be flung backward. Horse and rider went down, and Felix felt himself, hurled with cruel force against a rock on the right hand. iHe tried to rise, although the swimming pain in his head blinded him, but fell back, his last conscious knowledge being that the ; horse's hoof had struck his shoulder and chest, .as he turned to bound away in the other direction. Not more than twenty minutes had passed when a. stumbling old man came towards the spot where he lay, looking eagerly, to the right and left. At sight of Felix lying with upturned face, the marks of | blood and dust on throat and | cheek, a quivering cry of gladness and fear broke the silence. "Yas, 'tis Mas'r Felix !Daid ? No, but mighty neah it !" and old Remus—for it was he —bent over the silent body. "Drag him into the shade of the •trees quickly ! There's some one coming!" said a peremptory voice from the sheltered bank opposite. "Yas'r," answered Remus.. "Now go as fast as your legs can carry you and bring Griggs. Get him out here on whatever pretext you like ; but don't come back without him." The men whose voices had been heard came on. laughing and smoking, not dreaming that behind the trees at the entrance to the meadow lay an unconscious man, guarded by an old negro and on the other side by a shrouded form, which seemed as devoid of life as the tree against which he leaned. As soon as the way was clear, old Remus hurried to Applethorpe, and in twenty minutes returned with the detective. "See here, Fairleigh, it will never do summoning me this way whenever you take the whim. Remember I'm paid wages over there in my role as valet, and I have a few duties to perform. Mr. Raritan doesn't think me sufficiently ornamental to hand out his shekels just to have me in the house as a sort of attraction. Now, what is it ?" "Didn't Remus tell you ?'* "Oh, he was muttering something about Felix Love and a horse running away" "Look there," said the tenant of Riverside House. And following the inclined arm, Griggs saw the senseleas figure, the white face of Felix Love. " Good heavens ! Unconscious ! How the deuce are we going to get him to Applethorpe ? They're waiting dinner for him over there by; this time." "Pie's not going to Applethorpe." "No ! What—why" "Please don't waste words asking questions, Griggs. I want you and Remus to lift him and carry him—to my home." "The deuce you do ! And what are you going to do with him when you get him there ?" "Your tone is an insult. Your suspicions are absurd. Are you a fool ? I'd see you dead, and twenty like you, rather than have a hair of this boy's head injured. Do you understand ?" And the words came thickly, passionately. "I knew: his father —well," Mr. Fairleigh added, as if explaining his sudden enthusiasm. "'l'll wager you did, and no one knew better," was Griggs's thought. "Well, I suppose, as I'm under your orders, I" must obey and ask no questions—at least, at present. Come on, Remus." Between them they lifted the wellknit, lithe figure and bore it to the silent house on the river-bank. The settled blackness of a chill

night was brooding over the land as they carried Felix in. How many days would dawn and die, nights come and go, ere he stepped from those doors again ! 1 "Not here—not near me," said Mr. Fairleigh.' "Take him upstairs to the room in the attic." i It was with chill grace that Theo- ; dore Griggs obeyed, but at length the task was done, and Felix lay on a small cot. j "Remus will know what to do for ' him," said Mr. Fairleigh. "Come, ; let us go down." But before following- Griggs, he paused to say Ito the old servant, "Remember, have mo light in the room, and when you bring him back to consciousness, remember lie is not to see you.'' j A moment later he faced Griggs |in the room be-low. " Well, what does this action moan ? What are you going to do j with him ?" asked Griggs, sharply. j"I won't have anything crooked in this game, you understand ? You hived me as a watcher, but once let there be any tricky work, and I wash my hands of the whole concern." Mr. Fairleigh sat down, and Griggs could see the trembling of his body under the close brown cloak. "Good heavens, man, you madden me by your suspicions ! You ask my meaning-. Jt is this : Felix Love, you tell me, is to marry Bebe Raritan, the sister of the man who ruin?d, perhaps killed, his father. He dare not ! I want him here for the present. In a little while he will bo free to go. At that time he will realise what a gidf lies between this- girl and him. Ho will know that heaven and earth might better meet than that he should 3iiake her his wife." "What- are you going to do?" asked Griggs, curiously. "At present, nothing. Now, you had better return and see if they are still waiting dinner for him. Come here to-morrow." "All right. I'm in your employ, Mr. Fairleigh, and you pay like a prince ; but no foul play ! That's all I insist on—no foul play !" He retreated, and Mr. Fairleigh stood alone, facing the closed door. "He does not know for what lam waiting, and it is coming soon— soon. He does not dream that while I have paid him to watch Sidney Raritan, I have had another watching Clyde Hastings. Ah, the moment for which I have longed and prayed will soon ]je here ! I have tasted waters of death, and lived. The cup is near Sidney Raritan's lips now. Patience—a little longer."

CHAPTER XXIT. No night in Bebe's life had ever dragged like this one, on which she had waited for her lover's coming and waited in vain. "I don't understand it," she had said and thought a hundred times. "If he had not sent an answerback by Ruggles, I should not think it so strange. Something must have happened—something very unlooked-for and very important." The pretty face was clouded, and her heart very heavy. Vida and Sidney tueated the matter lightly. He had been called out of town, perhaps—some business had prevented —it would be explained in the morning. But dinner was a doleful meal. There was a restraint between the husband and wife which, though scarcely visible, could be felt. Despite Vida's sudden, remorseful Jove and the burning desire to give Sidney all the old love and faith, "the little rift within the lute" bad left some faint, false notes in the music. The night passed almost silently. Sidney had many letters to write, preparatory to "his departure abroad; Bebe felt some ease for the disappointment in her heart by playing a succession of minor chords from the keys of the grand piano ; and Vida, in her trailing black gown, sat before the wood-fire, her eyes impenetrable, her hands locked in her lap. It was a night she was to remember when this scene would be of the past, and peace a stranger to her heart. Plaintive and sweet came the blended harmonies from the shadowy corner. The wind sighing outside made the warmth and quiet more cosy and delightful, and Vida tried to quiet the doubts still lurking in her heart—tried to accept all that she could not explain and believe in Sidney as sincerely as she loved him. Suddenly the wind ceased, and Bebe crossed the line of firelight and sank on her knees beside Yida's chair. "Hasn't the wind an eerie sound to-night ?" she questioned, giving a chilly shrug of her plump shoulders. "It almost seems as if- some one were knocking at the window. I remember a story one of the English teachers used to tell us at school, that the wind held the voices of the disembodied spirits returning to the scenes where they spent their lives; a soft, plaintive wind that only | that left earth peacefully, but these sighs and sighs comes from a soul ! | wild, uncanny shriek ings are the I voices of people who died violently. Listen ! the wind is rising ; there is going to be a storm. Oh, I feel so cold, so unhappy !'' I "You are a bit fanciful, Bebe !" and Vida's hand strayed tenderly ' over the bowed head. "In the morn- | ing, in the sunlight, these fancies ! will all leave you." [ Bebe raised her head, and her blue eyes were a little misty and de- j fiant. | "Why do you and Sidney cush off ' to Europe in this mad style ? I call it a shame," see said, in one

of her wild bursts. ! "Well,you can come with us If yott I like. I rather fancied, however,' j that you would prefer to remain in ; America as long as a certain young ! man had his home in Uncle Sam's [ dominions. Just as you like, dear. • |Jf you would rather come with us; than stay with your aunt in Wash-' 1 ing-ton, Sidney would be delighted." "No, I think not;" and a conscious blush overspread Bebe's lovely face. ' "But I don't see why you two want' to do that, either. I thought that in another fortnight we'd be back in town, in time for the Horse Show, and from then until the end/ of the season I'd have the sort of agreeable time every debutante expects. Now, without a moment's warning, comes this European rush. Why? Why?" It would be impossible for Vida to admit that she was unable to explain Sidney's impulse, and, in a hazy tone, she answered : "You see, petite, Sidney and I have often talked of going abroad. It happens that just now Wallstreet and everything else is in a favourable condition for the flight, so Sidney, like so many rich men, follows an impulse to get rid of the season's conventional obligations, and travel. Being- able to fling off responsibilities is one of the luxuries of life. That's all thero is to it." "Well, I don't like it. You sail on Thursday. But you're going to Mrs. Fraukland's ball to-morrow night ?" she added, with feverish anxiety. " You'll never miss that. A Russian prince will be there, and an English duke and the Tarkish ambassa d or" "To say nothing of Mr. Felix Love," added Vida, laughing lightly and pinching the girl's pink cheek. "Yes, we'll go. The vessel doesn't sail the next day until four o'clock in the afternoon, and we shall have plenty of time to rest before going. What will you wear ?" "Why, my new white, with the daisy trimming, of course !"• cried Bobe, almost indignantly. "Pardon me, Miss Raritan. To think I should have forgotten the new white with the daisy trimming !" "And what will you •year ? Oh, Vida, your scarlet go-.vn—the new velvet ! You look simply heavenly in that !" "Scarlet, my dear J It's a sort of orange rod, and tremendously low at the shoulders. I was going to have it altered." "I wouldn't have yon take it up an mch —you have such divine shoulders, and in that gown they look simply brilliant. Then if I were you I wouldn't wear a single' gem with it except your big. diamond star in the front of your hair. In that costume, if you don't bring down the prince, the duke, the Turk and every one" "Except Mr. Felix Love, of course. Go on." "I'll be very much surprised." An hour later Applethorpe was wrapped in slumber, but the wee sma' hours of the night had passed before the light was extinguished in the. lower window of Riverside House. Bebe was the first one down to breakfast the next morning, a.nd fairly pounced on the letters that lay beside her plate. They slipped through her fingers, while an expression of pain and pride succeeded the blank amazement which had overspread her face. There were notes from school-friends, one from her rid-ing-master, but the masculine writing she had expected to see was not there ; no letter of explanation came from Felix Love. "I don't understand it ! I don't understand it at all !" were the words that rang in Bebe's brain, while a burning B ob rose in her throat. "Why didn't he come? That was strange enough. But why hasn't he written ? Perhaps he expects to *ide up during the morning." (To be Continued.)