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r.iRT TWO.
A HIDDEN FOE.
A STORY OF LOVE AND MYSTERY.
By G. A. HEITY,
V.thor of “THE CURSE OF CARNK’S HOLD,’’ "GABRIEL ALLEN, M. P." ETC., ETC.
fSYKOrSIS OF PRKVIOUB CHAPTERS.!
‘ i —ln the mouth of November, 1862,
CH ri?rheroe ft Iftdy ot fashion, at Hath, bears
her broth-r Mr Alger
T.Lhv,, of Corbyn Court, of the latter 8
u " u *- marri-MP* *(tiiteen Tears before to the
WwW- One child had been
f },, niarriaee, but tht) mother bad
momhs -ft*r the nuptials. The
i'JJ \° r bad been brought up aid educatl
fperetly at St. Male. The news causes Mrs.
n •he-oe chagrin and annoyance, chiefly on
f , 0 f the consequent iisinhentance of her
•* f who bad been looking forward to suc
~ed.n’'to me estate* of Corbyn. Arter Mr.
o ™ had informed his sister, he decide* to
rlaw ttie papers of his marriage and the birth
‘ ' hL daiiLider iu the hand* of the family
i ;.hr Mr Kerris, and then pay a visit to his
daughter at St Male lie drives with Brandon, his
servaat, to th* station, but the horse stumbles
ov/r some stones, and both are thrown out into
it - Mr. Corbyn, after being picked
UP •„ fos'nd to be ill a dying condition and
death soon puts an end to nis sufferings. The
hodv is tas-Mi to the house of Mrs. Ofitheroe.
iVhen alone, with the dead man she searches his
nockets and discovers the documents reiat
irg to his marriage and the birth of bis daugh
ter bbe resolves to destroy the papers anil to
secure M her son the inheritance of Corbyn
c -mt 111 seeking for papers Philip Clitheroe
and the family la ver discover letters from the
daughter of Mr. Corbyn to her fattier, thus in
dicating that he (Philip) was not the absolute
he r The lawyerand lilravelf. however, are un
able to nay whether the child is legitimate or
otherwise. _
Chapter hi. Mr. Ferns, the lawyer, pay as
visit to St Malo to inquire into the question of
the legitimacy of Constance Corbyn. M. and
Madame import, with whom the daughter of
Algernon Corbyn had lived since her birth, mid
who had come to look upon her almost as their
own, do not know positively that Mr. Algernon
Corbyn was mania to the child’s mother, be
yond the fact that be is stated to be so on the
in :ti.icate of the child's birth. They promise
to make nil necessary inquiries, and Mr. Ferris
takes his leave.
Chapter iv.—The information as to the death
of her father aud the visit of Mr. Ferris is
1 r ken to Constance Ouroyn. Next day Mr.
Ferris again visits the homo of tho Duponts ar.il
has an interview with Constance. He relates
to her ti e circumstances of the cases, and tell
her his belief that there has been no marriage.
She declares her intention of searching every
parish r- gistry in England rather t han her dead
mother’s uonor should be impugned.
CHAPTER V.
IN THE TEMPLE.
Philip Clitheroe was in when James Ferris
arrived.
“That is right,” he said, as the young law
yer entered the coffee-room, whore ho was
at lunch. “1 was afraid you wou'd not get
hack before 1 left. I called at y >ur office
yesterday, and your father told me that you
had yourself gono over to Bc. Male. It was
awfully good of you. Sit down and have
some lunch, and then you can tell me about
it. There is nobody near onough to over
hoar us.”
“Thera is not much to tell,” Ferris said a s
he sat down. “As I anticipated, I found
that they had no documents whatever—
nothing that would afford the slightest clew
as to the past."
Philip gave a little R'gh of relief. He
was willing and anxious to do everything
that was fair and right; but the more he
thought over it, the more he concluded that
the loss of tbe'inberitance would be a seri
ous matter to him.
“Then is it all over?” he asked. “Did
you arrange that other matter for me—
about her allowance, and so on?"
Vi ell, no. Of course, I mentioned it;
but, naturally, at present they are not in
clined to accept the fact that no marriage
took place. They have nothing whatever
to work upon except the word of the
mother. Bhe sa;a that she was married,
and they are convinced that she was so. The
daughter believes it passionately, and in
tends to devote herself to the search for the
register of marriage. Not so much, she
says, for the sake of the inheritance, but for
the honor of her dead mother. Till she
gives up that search as hopeless, she will
accept nothing from you; and, unless I am
greatly mistaken, Philip, it will he a long
time before that event occurs.”
J, 1 ™™ {My Borl 7 t ’” Phili P Clitheroe
r “ awfully sc ry. Marriage or no mar
fair’r.vhr tn'n Und<s ' S and has a
r,ht to hi* unentailed property it is a
wronging a woman.”
yo ," ca liot ca,! it wronging”
Ferri9 remonstrated. “She has no
legal rights in the matter." kUB nas 1,0
has natural rights, Ferris. VVe
unclsap c> Jl am that how ”ver my
L 7 , toward her mother and hersOf
v would, had he left a will, have prorided
•very*pains
weli’tKril ? er > both Bpeak Knelish
ZI J? 6 wo,lian > Duport U a j ir
beon at , "'’“her; anyhow she has
weh. and fn anoth Bhe carries herself
hlv good another year will be remarka
au,o,^ n a qUißt Style; "he has
a r ‘‘hlte ,noS (mIT and
'agister 0 f .. . ' 1 thought thero was a
Should sav tlia/sh 'ferriage in existence I
fir.d it,’’ lt 'at she is just the woman to
>^e a on R it /’i P l l . li P “• irritably,
h'l before If ff e l a , b L gKer rc Z ue than one
! re: mh "oman n 8,1 a flighty little
“ > • mum, t ? f would not have mmded
'• U>. it Kiri such as you de-
Wual rig| t ., rl g‘ e - 1 only "ant to do
* rl 1 "ill M„ J ? U ° W ' and “pen mv
I ‘ ,r :eberrlghte.” any Way 1 cau to
I James ri k bt ' 8 ’ Ido not doubt you
I ; that if 1 bad n r . U ( IWlid ‘• "i Cttu assure
I I 'r'hl'i havei situated os I am,
I . tr '* rv if‘(. ai,, luclllie< i to place myself
I ‘^ ta 'li.ap;, lJ ‘ , “ UKh 1 arn Kllre that noth-
I ‘nt'nentcauooiueof it. Bn
■ " ll 't tr, "hi" "ition,as solicitor to tha
■ i,. " lddi.nJ of the question. How-
In••*h , I ; ,? 1 ' n* r 10 f “"
B Uv? "he ~, ‘1 u P -'• little
B m, r -' a,ld do nothing,]
■ ’ to K° friend of
B its,,”' k'M "wo* 1, W j”’ WIU <wtai"ly
R 8 v#f y large share of the
[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.)
property to put thing* right,” Philip said.
“However, as far as X can see, there is noth
ing to be done at present.”
"There is one point upon which yon may
possibly be able to to give me some infor
mation.”
"What is it?”
“fhe name of the girl’s mother was Con
stance Purcell, do you know anv such name
in your part of the country?”
“No,’ Pnilip said, “but it is possible
there may be such a name among the
farmer* or people within a few miles of the
Court.”
“I think that it would be as weil for you
to make inquiries. Philip. Of course, we
do not know that she came from that part
of the country, still it is likely enough, and
if one did but know their position in life,
the character she bore, and the report* that
were current when she went away some
eighteen years ago, it may turn out useful
I should sav that is the point at which they
will begin to look for a clew. At any rate,
that is where I should look myself if I had
the matter in hand.”
“I will make a point of doing so,” Philip
replied. “I will just note the name down
in my pocket-book, for I never can remem
ber a name for five minutes. I suppose you
still think I had better keep the matter from
my mother?”
“I do not see that anything is to be
gained by telling her, it would naturally bo
a great worry to her, and u less the girl V
successful in her seatch which, as I have
told you over and over again, I consider to
be unlikely in the extreme, there is no rea
son why sue should ever hear. 1 ’
“I am glad you think so, Ferris. It is
bad enough having to bear such a bit o
business on one’s own shoulder, but you
who ku v my mother will understand tnat
it would be still more heavy if she knew it.
You know her ideas about the family, and
I do not think she would see this thing in the
same light that Ido.”
“No, 1 should think not,” young Ferris
said, dryly. “I should sav that even when
the search is given up, and you are able to
persuade the girl to acceitt a settlement, the
matter had much better bo kept entirely
among ourselves.”
A week later Constance Corbyn and
Madam Iluport arrived in London, and took
modest lodgings in Pimlico. The first two
days after their arrival were devoted to
sightseeing. Mada-.no Diioort, taking great
pride in her knowledge of the capital. She
took Constarico long journeys in omni
busses, her object being chiefly for the girl
to see the magnitude of the
task she had undertaken, which, al
though she had said no word to discourage
her, Madame Duport in her secret heart be
ltved to be absolutely hopeless.
Constance was not disoouraced, although
she certainly felt, far more than she had
done before, the enormous difficulties of her
search. She had heard of London as a
great city, and knew it was many times as
largo as St. Malo, but until she saw it she
had been unable to form even a remote idea
of its immensity.
“It is e tormous, it is oppressive, Annette,”
she said when, on the evening of the second
day they returned to their lodgings, "that
view from the top of St. Paul’s made my
heart sink for a minute as I looked at that
wilderness of houses stretching away every
where as far ns I could see, and the steeples
and towers were countless,
“However, the sooner one begins, you
know, tho sooner one will get it done. To
morrow morning wo will go to this Mr.
Harbut and learn from him what is the
best way of setting about it; ho lives in
tho Temple. What a funny name for a
street. ”
“It is not a street, Constance; it is a col
lection of narrow ianes, with a big square
or too, and ail the houses are full of law
yers.”
“It does not seem a pleasant idea,” the
girl said, with a little shudder; “it is some
thing like one reads in the book of fairy
tales of entering a castle full of ogres ”
“But you did not think Monsieur Ferris
an ogre, met petite .”
“No, he ws nice, and not a bit like the
lawyers one reads of In books.”
“I do notsupp >se Mr. Harbut will be like
them either, for Mr. Ferris spoke of him as
a friend and as a young man. Well, we
shall see to-morrow.”
“ What a curious place,” Constance said,
as they climbed to the third floor of a house
in Pump Court. “What curious old stairs,
and these black doors with the names over
them. Well, here we are, there is his name
and another name, too. Are they partners,
I wonder?
Madame Duport shook her head; her
knowledge of London did not extend to the
Temple and its ways.
“We shall soon see," she said, and taking
the knocker she executed a knock similar to
that which she was accustomed to hear on
her mistress’ door. A lad of about sixteen,
with hair cut very short, and his eyes opened
in astonishment at the nature of the sum
mons, appeared at the door. Such a knock
had never been heard before on the third
story of Pump Court.
“Mr. Harbut lives here, does he not?”
Madame Duport said.
“Well, these are his chambers," the boy
said. “As to his living here he may or he
may not. I should say that you had better ask
him about that when you see him. I hardly
know myself. You take a feller's breath
away knocking like that.”
“It is a knock a lady always gives,”
Madame Duport said sternly, with Con
stance, who had herself been startled at the
portentous length and variety of her com
panion’s knock, could not help smiling.
“Is Mr. Harbut in at present*" she asked.
“Ye-<, miss, at least I will see if he is iu,"
the lad said more respectfully, as he looked
at her for the first lime, his eyes having
before only been on Madame Duport, whom
he recognized as being aforeiguer. “What
shall I say?”
“Madame Duport and Miss Corbyn.”
"It is curious, the boy not knowing
whether Mr. Harbut is in or not,” Con
stance said to Mudamo Duport as the lad
disappeared down a passage, leaving the
door open. “It seems a small place; how
could it be that he does not kuow whether
the gentleman is in?"
"He knows,” Madame Duport replied;
“that is his way of saying he doesn’t Know
whether Mr. Harbut will sea you or not.”
in a in unont the iad returned.
“Mr. Harbut will see you, please to walk
to.”
His manner was much more respectful
than before, but Coust&nce detected a griu
of amusement on his faoe a* he lsl the wav
up the pa-sage aud opened the door. It
wus a small room, uncarpeted, with book
shelves all round it, a largo writing table,
and two chairs—one of which was also piled
with books-besides that on which a gentle
mau was seated at the table. Constance
looked at him with an astonishment so great
SAVANNAH, GA„ SUNDAY, AUGUST 111. 18!!0.
that she paused for a moment at the door.
He was rather a short man, with a largo
pair of spectacles, through which his eyes
seemed to stare out. How he was dressed
or what he was otherwise like Con
stant* did not at the moment know. Her
gaze was riveted on his heal. Never in
her life had she seen such extraordinary
hair. To begin with, it was almost white;
on the top it seemed to stand straight up,
and then there were four regular stiff
curls that went rig it round the head. As
he rose she saw there were two little stiff
pigtails down the back, aud a black patch
in the very center of the scalp. A moment
later she precived that this extraordinary
head gear was a wig, and that it was
considerably awry. .Surety this must lie a
madman. No one in his senses coul l wear
such au astonishing wig. She glanced
nervously at Madame Duport, but saw -o
her surprise that she was unmoved at the
spectacle.
“I am glad to see you, ladies,” he said,
in a short and business-like manner, “pray
sit down. Oh, there is nowhere to sit, 1 see;
please take this chair,” aud ha pushed the
one on whiob he had been sitting toward
Constance. “I don’t often have two visitors
to gether,” he went on. "Ferris has told
me all about your case; glad to do anything
I can to help you. Not very busy, you
see, worse luck, now; let me hear your ideas,”
and tumbling the books ff the third c: air
with a crash on to the floor, he again
seated himself behind the table, and dipped
a pen into tho ink and prepared to take notes.
“One moment, if you will excuse mo,” he
said, touching a bell uoon the table. Then
the clerk entered and received somo orders
as to papers that had to be taken over to a
solicitor. The lad then stepped up to Mr.
Harbut and whi.-pored something iu his ear.
"Wig!” the latter exclaimed in surprise,
“bless me, I had quite forgotten I had it on.
I was just going to the Court wnen you
were annouiic and, Madame Duport, and put
my wig on, y. u see, and had just taken up
my gown. I threw that down and forgot
all about tho wig,” and be removed the
article that had excited such a surpri<e in
tao mind of Constance Corbyn. and after
looking round aud seeing no place available
for it, threw it into the waste paper baiket.
Ho then took off his spectacles and laid thorn
on the table beside him. Constance now
perceived that this wig formed a portion of
a legal outfit, a id was relived from the ap
prehension tnat she had at first entertained
an to the sanity of the gentle nan upon
whose advice she would have so much to de
pend. He now appeared to her a yon-ig, in
deed, a rather boyish-looking personage,
with short out but rat her wavy hair on his
head, and a smooth face characterized by an
expression of fun and humor.
“Let me see. Yes, this is the outline of
the case my friend, James Ferris, has given
me: ‘Mr. aud Mrs. Corbyn arrived at St.
Malo in September, 1850, took up abode at
Madame Duport’s; two mouths later
daughter Constance was born. Register at
Mairie as daughter of Algernon Corbyn
and Constance Corbyn, nee Constance Pur
cell. Mother died a few days after b rth of
child. Mr. Corbyn left daughter in charge
of Madatna Ditpjr. ; wasiu the habit if com
ing over once a year to sea hor. Mads allow
ance for her ln-unte.ia ics aid education.
Upon no occasion spoke to her anout her
mother. Upon the oocasi in of last visit
said that he should probably when ne next
came take her away aud place her at the
head of his establi-hment. No papers or
documents of any kind in the possesion of
Madame Duport or Miss Corbyn. Madame
Duport states that in coaversatio i witn
Constance Corbyn,sen or, that lady ulluded
to the marriago.anl Madame Duport. is con
vinced that such marriage had taken place.’
“Now those are the notes Miss Corbyn,
that I took when my frieud, James Ferris,
told me the story. No w before you begin 1
wish to tell you that my position in this
cas-i is irregular. The legal profession of
this country- is divided into two parts: the
one consists of solicitors, whose business it
is, among other things, to work up cases,
investigate dceds,aud so on; they submit
tile cases for the opinion of men belonging
to the other branen of the profession, who
are called counsel or barristers. They take
tho case as handed to them by the solicitor,
get up precedents, aud argue the case iu
court; they- only work, you see, whu set iti
motion by the solicitors, and it is entirely
opposed to the etiquette of the profession
i hat they should be in direct communication
with their clients. Thus, if lamto do any
thing to help you in this matter,
which I can assure you I desire to do,
partly because I feel flattered that Ferris
has had the acumen to select me for the
business secondly, because I regard it as au
extremely interesting case; and in the third
place, if you will permit me to say so, be
cause now that I have the pleasure of seeing
you, Miss Corbyn, I fell that we shall work
sat isfactorily together. ”
“That is French, rather than English, is
it not?” Constanoe asked, with a little
smile.
“Well, yes, I suppose it is, Miss Corbyn,
but it occurred to me at the time, and I
generally say what I thi ik. The pith of
what I atn getting to u this: You soe, ac
cording to the rules of my profession, this is
not the business that a barrister caa under
take for a client, and, therefore, if you,
after thinking the matter over, agree to put
it in my hands rather than those of a s ilici
tor.it is absolutely necessary that you should
not stand in the position of a client but of
a friend. Do you understand V ’
“But do you mean, sir,” Constance said,
after a pause, “that you are to"—aud she
hesitated —“receive no payment for your
professional services?”
“That is exactly what I m-ati, Miss Cor
byn,” Mr. Harbut replied, briskly. "You
see. I could not take payment for such
work; it would be unprofessional altogether.
I might be complained of, disbarred, and
suffer all sorts of hideous penalties for un
professional conduct.”
“I don’t see," the girl began, “that we
could anyhow—” and she looked appealingly
at Madame Duport.
“But we have funds to meet all ex
penses, monsieur.” Annette said; “we have
come to England prepared to spend
money.”
“No doubt, and you will have to spend
money, aud that pre ty freely, before you
have done, madame,” Robert Harbut re
plied. “You will want every half-penny
you have got, you can take my word for it.
Of course, if you would rather go to a
solicitor and spend ou him a good slice of
the money teat might be much more use
fully spent in other directions you cau do
so, but in that case I am bound to say that
I consider the very high opinion that Fer
ris expressed to me of Miss Corbyn’s good
sense will be by no means justified.”
"But I do not see how we could possibly
aooept such a service at tue han Is of a
stranger,” Constance said, hesitatingly.
“Well, 1 shall be disapponted if you do
not, Miss Corbyn. Ferris knows that so far
the solicitors of this metropolis are not im
pressed as they might be with my talents,
and therefore leave me so severely alone in
the mattor of briefs that I have plenty of
spare time on my bauds. In toe second
place, lie kuew that I rather pride myse.f ou
*6eing further into a stone wail than other
people, and teat it would he a matter of
great interest and pleasure to me t > aid you
iu ferreting out this case. I can assure you
that X have no ulterior views, that I shall
neither delude you into signing a bond in
my favor, or snail expect you, in the event
of your recovering your property, to re
wurd ms with vour baud, being, m fact,
otherwise engaged,” and he broke into a
merry laugh, in which Constance joined,
"Well, madame, what do you think? It
seems to me that it would be foolish to re
fuse this extremely kind offer which Mr.
Harbut is good enough to make us.’’
“It is for you to decide, my dear," An
nette said, catiously. "You know I only
came over hero to take care of you, it is
your expedition altogether.”
"Well, then, I accept, sir,” Constance
said, “and feel very grateful to you for your
kindness.”
“That is settled then. Now let us go
straight to business. You have nothing to
add to what Ferr s has told me!"
“Nothing; that is as far as I can see the
exact state of the case.”
“Well, 1 have, of courts, been thinking
it over since Ferris told me the story, and
perceive that it is difficult task tuat is be
fore us."
“Is it wrong for me to ask what you
really think of my chances, Mr. Harbut?”
“As we are working as friends, Miss Cor
byn, you can ask exactly what you please,
and I will auswer to tho best of my |>ower.
I believe that Ferris told you frankly that
he did not think that there had been a mar
riage; in fact, that he is of opinion that the
chances are very strong indeed against it.
Now I admit at once that as he had the ad
vantage of some kno v ledge of Mr. Cor
byn’s character, while I only know by
what he has told me aiiout it, hm opinion iu
tho matter is of more value than my own;
but on thinking the matter over in every
light I am bound to say that I regard the
chances as far more favorable than he doe#,
aud that I think it more probable thau not
that there was a marriage.”
Constance gave a little exclamation of
thankfulness and pleasure. It was an in
tense satisfaction to her that an unpreju
diced person should see the matter in the
sane light that she did. and especially that
she should not be working with one who,
although ready to give her every assistance,
regarded the mission upon which she was
engaged as an altogether utopian one. She
was not aware that James Ferris had said
to his friend, “ab >ve all things, Robert, you
must load the girl to believe t,hn you think
her claim to tie a just one. If you don’t slie
will never listen to your advice, and will
end by putting herself into the hands of
some shark, who will flatter her up with
false hopes and floeoe her till her lest penny
has gone. You would not dissuade her
from her search by throwing cold water
upon it. You would simply throw her into
other hands.”
With this Robert Harbut had agreed,
but thinking the case over he found that he
could, without s raining bis conscience,
take that view of the matter.
“Of oourse the matter turns very muoh
upon Mr. Corbyn’s character, and you
will excuse mo if I pain you in discussing it
freely, but it is absolutely necos-arv to do
so to get a fair view of the caie."
“I will toll you his character,” Madame
Duport said. “Ail these ye >ra that I have
taken charge of the child, I have watched
him, for I liked not this position in which
ho kept her, although 1 benefited from it.
He was a man who thought himself to be
strong, because he was accustomed to have
his own wav, but who at heart was weak.
He was a man who thought of himself aud
his position more than he did of his daugh
ter. 1 think he meant well, but he was
weak aud shrank from sacrifice; he was
kind to Constance when he was with her,
but that, 1 tuink, was not because ho loved
her, but because his visits were more agree
able to him if she were pleaded and grati
fied tuan they would have been otherwise.”
“Yes, that is about the estimate I formed
from what Ferris told me; an easy going,
somewhat selfish man, proud of his family,
aud shrinking from anything like a scan
dal; especially afraid, I fancy, from what
Ferris tells me, of the opinion of his elder
sister, a woman witn a sharp tongue and
passionately fond of hor only son, who
would he deprived of his position as heir of
the Corbyn estates, by the appearance on
the scene of a daughter, born iu wedlock, of
Mr. Corbyn. At the time the alliance—
whatever it was—was formed, Mr. Corbyn’s
father was alive and, in fact, survived until
Miss Corbyu was 7 years old. Mr. Corbyn,
Sr., was, I hear, a very proud and imperious
man. VV Pettier Mr. Corbyn tho youngex*
went through the coremo.iy of marriage
with your mother would have depended so
greatly upon her character, Miss Corbyn,
that it is impossible for me, not knowing
her, to form the lightest opinion myself os
to whether there was a marriage or other
wise, but tho very strong opinion held by
Madame Duport, who had the advantage of
knowing her, counts, of course, for a good
deal in the matter.
“At any rate, Mr. Corbyn, Jr.’s, con
duct with respect to you does uot appear to
be at all inconsistent with tho fact of his
marriage Up to the time of his father's
de ith he would put off declaring his mar
riage for fear of his father’s anger. Had
ycur mother lived he might have brought
himself to do so in order to place her in her
proper position, but after her death that
motive no longer existed. He would have
said to himself that you wore well cared for
aid happy, and that there was nothing to
be gained by an explanation which would
be painful to make. When his father died
it was, of course, open to him to fetch you
home and proclaim the marriage; but he
was averse to facing the public talk and
scandal, the wrath of his sister and other
unpleasantness, as long as the evil day
could be put off. Before you came of age
it was possible—l do not mean that be had
at all counted on that—but it was, of
course, possible that you might die, an ! in
that case the necessity for declaring the
marriage would be altogether obviated.
But I expect that ho argued chiefly that it
would be better and more pleasant to defer
the matter until you were at au age to be
presented to society as his heiress, foreseeing
thit your appea- atice would go far to make
matters easier for him, and would create a
far more favorable impression than if he
had presented you as a child or as an un
grown girl, with nothing in your favor. The
fact that he told you that on his next visit
he should take you back and put you at the
bead of his establishment would go far in
support of this view of the case.”
“But surely it quite proves it, Mr. Har
but,” Constance broke in, “he could never
have placed me at the head of his establish
ment if—if he had not been married to my
mother.”
“He certainlv could not have placed you
at the head of Corbyn Court,” Mr. Harbut
agreed, “but you see you knew nothing
about Corbyn Court nor about his position,
aid he may only have intended to have
taken a h -use somewhere in londou.and
established you there, spending a portion of
his tune with you, but still without intro
ducing you to any of his friends. Ido not
say for a moment that this was so. 1 only
bring it forward to show that what he said
is not necessarily conclusive as to hi* inten
tion to introduce you publicly as his heiress.
You see we must necessarily look at the
matter in the light in which our opponents
will regard it. Now this is the position.
Mr. Corbyn may or may not have married
your mother, that is a point we have to
prove if we can, but there is at any rata
nothing whatever in his conduct to you in
consistent with the fact that he was so mar
ried,
“Now, having gone so far, wo must see
wbat our first step should tie. We have,
you see, the maiden name of your mother.
1 will -upp'-se that the name given in the
register is the correct one, because, as bL
own name is given, there are uo reasons
why bar's -houFl uit also be correct Now,
the ilrst step is to mid out who she was,
where her people lived; w hot tier her parents
are still alive, and It s >, whether they ware
parties to uer man doge with Mr, Corbyn,
and if they were not, under what cir
cumstances she left them; whether
they d.seovered that she joined Mr. Corbyu
iu Loudo ior elsewhere; in fact, learn from
them cr from any surviving relatives
w bother there is any clew us to the locality
in which the marriage took place. That
once established, we can proceed to addre-a
circulars to the clerks of every church in
that locality, offering a reward for the dis
covery of the register of the marriage. If
that method fails we shall understand that
the clew was a false one, aud we had better
follow it up in some fresh direction. How
does that meet your views, Mis* Corbyn ?”
“Perfectly, sir, that seems to be the very
thing, I feel sure that wo shall succeed,
That seems quite straightforward aud easy
dcoi it not, Annette?’’
“I think so, my dear. 1 was ready to stay
away hero with you or long as you like, but
I was sure that you oculd never do as you
talked of and search the books of all "the
churches in Eugland, it would take many a
life time, but this seems to give a fair
chance of finding out this register that we
do so want.”
“Aud where is Corbyn Court, Mr. Harbut,
for I suppose it will be somewhere near
there that we must search for my mother’s
family to begiu with.”
“Corbyn Court lies three or four miles out
of Hath, and Hath 1* about three hours by
rail from Ixindon, But you must not be too
gure of flnding the family there. Mr.
Corbyn may have met your mother at Ox
ford-I learn from Ferris that he was at
that university—or he may have met her
abroad, or when upon a visit to London, or
i: a railway train or elsewhere. If no clue
is to be found to the existence of snob a
family within, say, fifteen miles of Hath,
we must insert some advertisement
in the papers saying that the
next of kin of Constance Purcell,
who left her home toward the end of the
year of IB4U, are requested to reply to me,
and they will hear of something to their
advantage. We must put that last bit iu,
you know, because otherwise they might
think that perhaps a whole family of Con
stance Purcell* was likely to be thrown
on their hands.”
“Then we can start for Bath at once and
begin, Mr. Harbut.”
“Well, I will think that over. Would
you mind calling again to-morrow; it is a
matter that I should like to consider well
before a stop is taken, and to sketch out
some sort of plan of campaign,” and so
with renewed expressions of gratitude,
Constance ar.d her friend took their leave
of Mr. Robert Harbut.
“Well, madatno, what do you think? We
are in luak, are we not?”
“He is very young,” Annette said gravely.
“He can’t boas young as he looks. Mr.
Ferris spoke of him os his friend, und 1 sup
pose that ho must bo about the same age,
tnough he really looks almost a boy. But
he must tie very clever. Y'ou saw how ho
had thought it all out, and how ho was ablo
to put us in tho right way of g iD£ to work
at once, instead of perhaps wasting years
and years searching horo, aud no* good,
perhaps, after all. But didn't be look fuuuy
when wo went in? I never saw such a
thing as he had on his head, tjf course I
have seen wigs, lots of them in St. Malo,
but never a thing like that. The way it
stuck up, and those funny curls and tho
little tails and the black patch at the top”
—aud Constance burst into a tnerry laugh
that startled the sparrows hopping about in
the court, and caused two or three hurry
ing men to look round in surprise.
“Oh, here is another,” she exclaimed a
minute later, "just tho same sort of wig
and with a black gown on. What does it
mean ?”
“ I hat is the regular dress of barristers in
court,” Annette said. "I know, because I
once went as a witness. One of the footmen
stolo some silver and be was caught and
they tried him,and 1 had to go as a witness,
and there wore lots of men in court just
like that, and two of tuem asked me ques
tions and one was very rude and wanted to
try and make out that I had been lying. It
was shameful, and I almost cried before the
people. But shall we go home, Constance?”
“No, I should like to walk about this
funuy old place for a bit; let us go through
this arch way. Oh, what a groat square ad
ho iv green the grass is iu it, and there is the
river. Who would oxpeot to find such a
place as this in the middle of this smoky
town."
“I dare say that it is very nice in summer,
child, but 1 think it is cold and damp and
triste at present.
“Nothing seems triste to me, Annetto. I
feel so full of hope and confidence now we
have got Mr. Harbut to help us, and ho
seems so kind and good natured —though he
1b funny and boyish and unliko what I
thought a lawyer would be —that I don'i
think anything could look triste at present;
but never mind, we will go home and sit by
the fire aud talk it all over.”
The next morning they again called at
Pump Court; this tune Robert Harbut was
without his wig, and two chairs were
olearod ready for them to sit upon.
“I have been thinking matters over. Miss
Corbyn,” he began, as soon as they were
seated, “and I think I shall run down with
you for a few days. I want a holiday, and
this is a good oxousa to take one.”
“Oh, but we could uot think of troubling
you in that sort of way, Mr. Harbut, it
would be too much altogether.”
“But you see, I do not consider it any
trouble, quite the contrary. I regard it as
a most interesting outing, and, besides, I
think that just at first you are scarcely
likely to set about things in the rigiit way.
You see I have taken up this matter as a
sort of professional exercise, ond because I
have the detective spirit strong in mo.”
“But I can assure you that we shall get
on very well,” Constance persisted.
"Yes, uo doubt; but just give mo an idea
as to how you mean to set to work. We
will suppose you are established in lodgings
or some quiet hotel iu Bath. What would
be your first move?”
“Our first move would, of course, be to
search,” Constance said, stoutly.
“Yes, I quite understand that, but how
will you begin your search? You cannot
sally out and asked the first person you
meet ‘ls your name Purcell?’ ‘No.’ ‘Well,
do you kuow any one by that name living
within fifteen miles? 1 When you have
asked about fifty people these questions,
you might not improbably find yourself
locked up under suspicion of being a wan
dering lunatic at large, and, anyhow,
you would not be much nearer than you
were when you started.”
Constance joined in tho laugh with which
Robert Harbut concluded, but there was a
cerlMfn ring of vexation in it.
“You must think me very foolish, Mr,
Harbut ?”
“Not at all, Miss Corbyn; upon the con
trary, I think you are a very sensible young
lady, but still unaccustomed to our ways;
if i have beta mistaken toll me how you
propose commencing f’
“Well. I should begin—” Constance com
menced fluently and then stopped, "I should
begin by inquiring of the police."
“Well, that is not a had idea, but the
Kilice of a largo town would be very un
ceiy to kuow anything of the resident* in
a country village, and with the exception
of the names over the shop doors would
kuow very little of tbae even on their own
heat. Now, I should not have thought,
Miss Corbyn, that selfishness was a promi
nent trait in your character, hut 1 see that
you waot to have this hunt to yourself and
to keep too from having any shore or in
terest in it.”
Constance again laughed, this time with
out any senile of vexation. “Very well,
Mr. Harbut. After that I can say no
more against it and accept your Kind offer
to accompany us and give us our first les
sons in detective work. When will you bo
ready to start ?”
“To-morrow morning,” he said promptly.
“It i* no use wasting time; I have nothing
t i keep me here and ain honestly longing to
get on this trail. You’don’t know how sick
one gets of going into court every day aud
sitting there doing nothing, and what
a pleasure it is to have a case that one can
throw oneself into and puzzle out for
oneself.” H? touched the belt “Bring me
a Bradshaw,” ho said when the boy appeared.
“Now let me see, Bath, (Treat Western.
Yes, hero it is, 10 o’clock train, first, second,
and third class. We shall travel third
class, of course, Miss Corbyn; we do not
know how long wo aro going to be over this
business, and must begin by being economi
cal. Can you arrange to meet me at 9:45
o’clock on tne platform at Paddington with
vour tickets in your hands aud no more
mKFge thau is absolutely necessary V
“How long aro we likely to want it for,
Mr. Harbut ?” Mmo. Duport asked, speaking
for the first time, her instinct as lady’s
maid coming at onoe into play.
"I should say for a week at the outside,”
he replied. "We ought by that time to
have ferreted out any Purcells there may
be withiu fifteen milos of Bath; but I think
it will lie wise for you to pack up a small
trunk with a relay of clothing, and tell
your landlady that she is to send that on to
you at onoe if you write for it."
TO BE CONTINUED.
CABBIE CARBLHSB3’ GOSSIP.
Tolls Borne More Tales out of School.
(.Copyright.)
New York, Aug. 9. —During this season
of the year New York presents a most un
usual appearance.
The people who read about our oitv should
never visit it in midsummer, or they will
vote “Ye ohrouioles of ye time" greater
romaucors even than they are.
The gay turnouts that flash up Fifth
avenue and round the park are oithcr iu
tho country or put away for the summer.
So when one rides up the great thorough
fare of much brown stone and little brown
study, one sees only boarded windows and
doors and forbidding iron gates. The girl
wbo used to promenade Broadway on sunuy
afternoons is gone too. I mean the girl
with the latest Paris gown, suede gants,
laced parasol und all that. In her stead is
a nut-brown maid iu n print gown and a
straw hat, who g os flitting front store to
store, and who gasps hurriedly as she
passes another of her kind, "Isn’t It horrid?
I shall bo so glad to get back!”
On the step* of tho club houses are not one
of the well-dressed fellows, with immacu
late suits and high hats, who belong thore,
but a lot of fellows with unshorn chins—
the Vandyke’s the thing this summer, you
know—and sun-burned faces.
They loungo about in a flannel shirt and
trousers, n sash, and russoi shoes, with a
shapeless flannel thing on their heads, aud
au uir of most provoking unconcern. I
heard one of them say to another: “Look
bore now, you ought to be shot for tryiug
to talk business to a follow this weather."
I saw a girl on Twenty-third street the
other dsy whom I didn’t know, though it
seemed as if I ought to, and I asked who
she was. “Why, that is Miss Paul of
Philadelphia. ”
“Auy relation to Mrs. W. W. Astor f
“Yes, a cousin, I think. Isn’t she pretty—
but what an odd gown."
It was “odd” sure enough, but she looked
like a picture in it. She was a blonde—a
real one—and her fine white skin was just
a bit creamy from the sun, not
browned nor burned. She wore a bluo
cotton gown, mado plain, with a very
short waist and very higli sleeves.
There was a puff at thej shoulder, thou a
baud, then another puff that came to tho
elbow anil met long chamois skin gloves.
Her hat was a big shirred affair, made out
of a piece of hor gown and tie 1 under her
chin, while her yellow hair crept out all
around it. Hhewoe little pointed patent
leather shoes, and on her arm was an old
fashioned blue cotton bag. Someone with
a snap-camera ought t > have been there to
have caught an ideal picture of tho summer
girl.
Down at Newport the other day, while
strolling under the rocks, I became inter
ested in a young couple who seemed to bo
studying geology, so steadfastly did thov
regard a jutting ledge above them. Ho in
tent were tiiey upon their researches that
they neither saw nor heard me. Suddenly
the girl said:
"1 can do it, Jack, if you’ll just boost mo
up on your shoulder.”
“All right,” said Jack, and without more
ado he lifted her lightly and easily and set
her on his shoulder so that her feet hung
down behind him. Then with the hook of
her parasol, she pulled a root toward her,
got a good hold of it, gave a little scramble,
and up she went. This was a girl from the
Quaker city too. A girl whose hair still
floats down her back, tied with a ribbon.
The “Jack” could not have been Jack
Astor?
This is the season too, when, of a Satur
day night the tired man of business ruus
down to the sea, to rest aud cool off.
"Mother ond the girls” have been there
ever since the warm weather b gan, but
somebody must pay the bills, you know, and
it’s the most natural thing in the world that
papa should be the one to stay homo and
earn the money to do it. All the week
long the dear girls have been planning
who should get h <ld of the old man
first. The one who does hugs him most ef
fusively, tells him bo w sorry she is that he
has to work so hard in that “toiling office,"
then she pats his bald head, and then—she
whispers iu his ear. Hut the answer isn't a
whisper—it’s a roar. “Thunder and light
ning! Auother new dress: Why I haven’t
got your last ones paid for yet.” "Well,
hut—papa—” But it’s no use—he won’t,
and t ion she pouts, ami by the time he has
g ne through a like scene with five of them,
the poor old man is in such a state that he
is ready to swim back to the city to get the
rest he is searching for.
This Is the season, too, when the lady
from England ruin over to America to give
us a few lessons in speech and manners;
not in dress, for she borrows a lot of ideas
about that to take back with her. But she
teaches us how to be calm and composed
and indifferent to everything around us;
how to awe a flunkey into silence and sub
mission by merely looking at him; how to
give just the proper breadth to the a; and
when wo have carefully surveyed the real
article, we realize, more than ever, what
wonderful imitators the American women
are.
People don’t go to Long Branch any
more—at least they don’t say they are
going to Long Branch. There is no deny
ing the fact that there are lots of pretty girls
at Long Branch this summer, girls with
mg, soft, velvet eyes, clear olive skins,
full red lips, aid beautifully rounded
shapes. They dress well, too; a little
loud perhaps, but then the effect is good.
Their manners, la the eyes of the English
dames, inigut not be exactly the thing, you
know. But the flash of the write teeth and
the gleam of the glorious eyes make you
forgivs that. And, os she oouies ridir.g
down the avenue, sluing erect and well-
Knsed, you say to yourself that she might
the daughter of a king, so royal U her
appearance.
PAGES 9 TO 12.
The neglige blouses that have been worn
this summer have gotten t! ie ladies iDto very
bad habits, for they are almost invariably
worn without corsets. Despite all tha
furore that was raised about it last season,
there wero re illy very few women who took
off their corsets. In one of the Turkish
baths the other day, a well-known lady said
to her attendant: “Annie, what makes me
so fleshy here?” placing her hand* ju*t above
the waist line. “I never was *o before this
summer.”
“You’ve been going without corsets,
haven’t you, ma’am?” asked .Annie, and
the lady admitted that she had. The at
tendant informed her that thit was what
was the matter, aud that a great many
ladies were afflicted in the same way.
“And, you’ll lose your shape entirely,
ma’am, she added, "if you don’t put ’em
on again.”
I heard the other day rather the most
amusing story that has been told regarding
Mrs. Leslie aud the marquis. It come
direct, too. She saiJ: “A few days before
I left Loudon, I asked the marquis to return
my letters. He said that he would do so,
and a few days later they came. Aud what
do you suppose that ridiculous man had
done? He had made a little ooffln of black
walnut and li.ied with satin. It was just
large enough to hold the letters. On the lid
was a little silver plate, which bore the one
word ‘vale.’ Wasn’t it droll?”
ludeed, Mrs. Ijeslie seems to have an idea
that nearly everything the marquis say* ia
very funny. A lady- w'ho is very fond of
her and at whose receptions she always
appears, said to mo the other day: “Do
you know, I believe she likes the man, for
she never tires of telliug how brilliant and
how witty and how entertaining a id how
accomplished he is. And she is always
repeating his funny speeches. Mrs. Leslid
told me that when she was in Lon*
non she had upon her mantelpiece two
pictures, one of Tommy Russell and the
other of young Mr. Hope. One day tha
marquis called, surveyed the pictures crit
ically through his glass, and asked who tney
were. Mrs. Leslie replied that one was Mr.
Hope and tho other was Lord Fauntleroy.
“ ‘Ah,’ answered the marquis, lo iking
through his glass again, ‘er—which is
Fauntleroy 1’ ”
Homebody says that Mrs. Leslie’s relations
with the marquis and her Paris dresses and
diamonds ought to make her lecture tour a
success, leaving everything elso out of tho
question.
The dress which sbo likes the best Is in
tier favorite combination of black and
white. It has a petticoat of white satin,
covered wilh jet embroidery. Tha bodice
and long court train are of heavy black
satin, brocaded with big creamy roses.
Cakuib Careless.
WILDFIBB ON THE PKAIKIE.
A Graphic Description of tha On-
Coming of the Wall of Flame.
From the Detroit f-'ree Press.
We all sprang up to see one of the saddle
horses—a veteran in years and experience—
standing with his head high in the uir and
pointed duo west. While he looks as fixedly
as if his eyes had lost their power to turn,
his nostrils quiver and dilate with excite
ment. Wo watch him a full minute. Ho
was the first to exhibit alarm, but
now one horse after another throws
up his head and looks to the west.
“It’s fire, boys I”
Had it been night we should have seen
the reflection. Had thero been a strong
wind the odor would have come to us
soouer. Thero is only a gentle breeze —
languishing, dying under the fierce sun, but
resurrected and given a now lease of life ut
intervals by an unknown power. But now
we can sou the smoke driving heavenward
and shutting tho blue of the west from our
vision—now the horses show signs that uo
man could mistake. A great wall of flame
fifty miles in lengrh is rolling toward us,
fanned and driven by a breozu of its own
creation, Put coming slowly and grandly.
Is takes me two or three minutes to climb
to the top of oue of the troos, and from my
! elevated position I can got a grand view of
the wave of tire which is driving before it)
everything that lives.
We work fast. Blankets are wet at the
soring and hung up between the troes to
muke a bulwark against the sparks and
smoke, the horses doubly secured, camp
equipage piled up and covored, and before
we are through wo have visitors. Ten or
twelve buffaloes coino thundering—pass the
grove—bait and return to its shelter,
crowding as clobh to the horses as they can
and showing uo fear at our presence. Next)
ooine three or four antelopes, their bright
eyes bulging out with fear, aud their nos
trils blowing out the heavy odor with
snorts. Ono runs against me and licks my
hand.
Yelp! Yelp! Here are half a dozen
wolves, whico crowd among the huffalues
and trem le with terror, and a score of
serpents race over the open ground to seek
the wet ditch which carries off the over
flow of the spring. Last to come, and only
a mile ahead of the wave, which is licking
up everything m its path, is a mustang—a
single animal which has somehow been
separated from his herd. He comes from
the north, racing to reach the grove before
the fire s all cut him off, and he runs for
his life. With his ears laid back, nose point
ing, and bis eyes fixed on the goal, his pace
is that of a thunderbolt. He leaps square
over one pile of camp outfit, a id goes ten
rols beyond before he can check himself.
Tnen he comes trotting back and crowds
between two of our horses with a low
whinny.
Ttiere is a roar like Niagara, The smoke
drives over us in a pall like midnight. The
air seems to bo one sheet of flame. The
wave has swept up to the edge of the bare
ground and is dividing to pass us by. We
are in an oven. The horses snort and cough
aud p.unge; the wolves howl and moan oa
the heat and smoke bocorae intolerable.
Thus for five minutes, and then relief
comes. The flame has passed, and the
smoke is driving awav. In this path is a
breeze, every whiff of which is an elixir.
In ten minutes the grove is so clear of
smoke that we can see every foot of earth
again. A queer sight it is. It has been the
haven of refuge for snakes, lizards, gophers,
prairie and gs, rabbits, oovotes, wolves, an
telopes, doer, buffaloes, horsos and men—
eumity, antipathy and hunger suppressed
for the nonce that all might live —that each
might escape tho fiend in pursuit.
For half an hour nothing moves. Then
the mustang flings up his head, blows the
last of the smoke from his nostrils, aud
starts off with a flourish of his heels. The
buffaloes go next, the dear and the antelope
follow, aud in five minutes we are left
alone.
For fifty miles to the north, west and
south there is nothing but blackness -a
land cape of despair. Away to the oast the
wall of fire is still moving on and on, im
placable, relentless —a fiend whose harvest
is death, and whoso trail is destruction aud
desolati' n.
Do rou iso* how many f 1 hills it takes to weigh
as much as a {SO gold piece) says s writer in the
St Paul Pioneer-Press. liriring out to White
Bear recently, one of those walking compen
dium* of useful information sprang Um above
query, and Ino opinion* that It elicited siiow a
remarkable range Oue inriule-r of the party,
whose hualm-*> is to handle m mey in large
•liius, after profound thought suggested that
the number would he from 1.0 k) to l lM) Ot era
guessed down ilie line to too, but uo ooa le si’,, n
lost number After all hail planed thelu-dv. s
on record, tbs compendium stated that ibe num
ber of blits was thirty or thirty cmw, eccoiduig
to their couduiub as to dirtiness, trnd age.
