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r
and well. You cannot conceive how I have been
toiling under the hot sun of Australia. But I must
S0ii her ^
‘Laburnum Villa,’ said Black Ralph; that is the
address; and now let us have a quart of ale togeth
er, for old acquaintance sake.’ „ . , . ,.
‘No boozing for me, Ralph,’ said Bill, taking his
hat and his latch-key from the wall. Just a S lass >
and then I shall hurry down to Forest Hill.
‘As you will, old pal, 9 returned Ralph, as they
quitted the house. ‘I suppose you have brought
home a few nuggets, though; for you have been
away longer than the time vou were logged for.
•All for Nelly, Ralph—all for her !’ said Bill,
earnestly. ‘It will be the sole redeeming feature in
a misspent life, if I can help to make a bright wo
man of my neglected child. And Natty Bill hur
ried to London Bridge, whence the next train con-
veved him to Forest Hill.
‘Master is not at home.’ said the servant who re
sponded to hie summons, on his arrival at Labur
num Villa. ‘Will you call again, or leave a mes-
num
sage
‘1 am Ellen’s father,’ returned the anxious man.
‘Is she well?’ Can I see her?’
‘O Master Ellington, here is Nell}" s father ! her
real father !’ exclaimed the servant.
‘Nelly’s father !’ echoed our hero. ‘Have you
brought us news of her, sir ?’
‘News ! repeated the ex convict, in a tone of sur
prise. ‘Is she not here, then ?’
‘I hoped you had brought us news of her,’ replied
waiter. ‘She went out yesterday, in the evening,
and has not returned.’
‘You have no reason, I trust, to believe that she
went out with the intention of not returning ?’ said
her father, anxiously.
‘Oh, dear, no !’ exclaimed the servant. She was
one of the best girls that ever came into a house,
we are afraid she fell into the hands of that terrible
man, Ralph Cranston.’
‘I think you may relieve your minds of that fear,
returned the convict. ‘I saw Cranston this morn
ing, and he it was who informed me that she was
here. I do not think he would deceive me.’
‘Then her disappearance is involved in greater
mystery than ever !’ exclaimed waiter with a sigh.
‘I may, perhap, learn something through an ad
vertisement which I had put in the papers before I
knew where she was,’ observed Natty Bill. ‘If I
do, I will let you know; and you, I trust, if you
learn anything, will communicate it to me, Mr.
Chatfield, at Mr. Ashbourne’s, York Road, Lam
beth. ’
waiter promised to do so, and Mr. Chatfield re
turned to his lodgings with little hope.
‘Two more persons about that advertisement, Mr.
Chatfield,’ said the landlord. ‘Two women this
time Said they would come again; but I think
you would find them over at the ‘Duke of York.’
The anxious father darted across the road to the
public-house indicated.
There were two women, meanly clad, sitting in a
corner with a measure of gin and a couple of glasses
before them on the upturned head of a barrel.
‘Are you the persons who have been to Mr. Ash
bourne's about an advertisement ?’ he inquired.
‘Right you are !’ responded one of the women.
‘what is the reward ?’
‘Tell me where the girl is, and if I find her there,
you shall have this,’ replied Chatfield, taking a
sovereign from his purse, and balancing it on his
forefinger.
‘Sit down, then,’ observed the woman, ‘and as
the measure is empty, perhaps you won’t mind fill
ing it.’
Chatfield placed a shilling on the head of the bar
rel, and sat down.
‘You must know,’ said the woman, lowering her
voice, ‘that I lives in Long’s court, and I goes out
charin’, and, in course, I cannot be nice about the
chara’ter of the houses I goes to work a’ seein’ as I
have got my livin’ to get. well, sir, I was at a
house to-day which is a werv queer one indeed, and
I heard the people of the house talkin’ of a young
gal as had been brought there last night, and as
how she must be the Ellen Cranston as was adver
tised for. I got a peep at the newspaper, and there
it was. ’
‘where is the house you speak of ?’ inquired Chat- murder b xg' his strength which had been
field. ' . considerably spent in the coaibat. Taen top,
‘Come with me, and I will sb#w..Y.Qibii° ; "who. | while teotipi.^to^ that in sjfitvle cocnb.at p^.ane
■‘I crowd'll)*?rie table of cut melons, mac/e | ecnid *cpa * ith’bfcii, he hired that \ounded as
Li| you ialitio.'get vjir.y- -.tp. o-ieevV “Ladies and I w “ s > ^ay might overpower him, and feeling
soon.’ , - .,“hey,d“»e not harm ns,’ h« alac- .-'.y
In a few moments a cab was bearing them swift- room uu,u . .’-u-tuenr.
ly away. ...
It was not long before they arrived m the vicinity
of Leicester Square. ‘There, you see that white
house at the corner of the street ? That is the house,
and a hawful bad place, it is, I tell you.’
‘Mr. Chatfield, ‘ exclaimed a voice at his elbow,
and, turning round quickly, he beheld Walter El-
helped to roll him over in the dusty road, and the
more disorderly of the mob raised an exulting cry.
‘Who will fetch a ladder ?’ cried our hero.
A young man ran off, and returned in a few min
utes with a ladder, which with Chatfield’s aid, he
planted against the upper window.
‘You come with me !’ exclaimed the policeman,
as he grasped the ex-convict by the collar.
Walter at the same moment nimbly ascended the
ladder, and, opening the window, sprang into the
room.
Chatfield threw the policeman off, and quickly
followed our hero.
‘I will have somebody !’ exclaimed the exasper
ated policeman, and pouncing upon a little boy
who was about to pick up a stone, he dragged him
off to the station-house amidst the derisive cries of
the mob.
As Walter and Mr. Chatfiejd proceeded with
their search they saw two or three girls, but Nelly
was not to be found.
‘Oh, dear !’ cried the servant, as another stone
came through the window. ‘They wi.l break ev
ery bit of glass in the house. Do go away, sir, you
can see the girl is not here.’
‘Where has she been taken to ?’ demanded Chat
field, suddenly seizing her by the arm.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘You are hurting
my arm. Let go, and I will tell you. She was
taken to Brighton this morning, and that is all I
know. ’
The grasp of the ex-convict gradually relaxed,
and he moved toward the door, from which Walter
had already removed the chain.
Half-a-dozen policemen came up as they emerged
into the street, and in the confusion they had no
difficulty in getting away from the spot.
CHAPTER XX.
BRIGHTON RACES.
The evening of the same day found our hero and
his strange companion at Brighton, located at one
of the principal hotels.
They immediately placed themselves in commu
nication with the police, and waited the coming
day, in order to commence their almost hopeless
search for Nelly Chatfield.
It was the first day of the races, and the town
was thronged with visitors.
After a stroll on the beach, Walter and his com
panion proceeded to the race-course.
They had not been long on the ground, when
waiter felt his shoulder tapped by some person,
and, looking quickly round, beheld his cousin.
‘How do you do, dear boy ?’ said Somerford, ex
tending his hand. ‘You do uot bear any malice, I
hope, why cannot we be friends ?’
‘Mr. Somerford,’ replied our hero, ‘I made you
aware of the reasons why we cannot be friends.
But I bear no malice, what I seek is not revenge,
but justice.’
‘You will not shake hands with me, then ?’ said
Somerford. ‘Be it so; but, at least, tell me if there
is anything in which I can serve you ?’
‘Nothing, I thank you,’ replied waiter, coldly.
‘As you will,’ rejoined Somerford.
He moved away from the spot as he spoke, and
in a moment after, Ralph Cranston approached.
Chatfield shook his head as the poacher came to
wards them; but Ralph saluted our hero with a
slap on the shoulder.
‘The young gentleman knows me,’ he observed.
‘Don’t you, Master Ellington ? How is Nelly ?’
waiter related the circumstances of Nelly’s dis
appearance from the villa, and Chatfield completed
the story by repeating what they had already
learned.
‘You can aid us in the search,’ he continued,
‘what say you ?’
‘with all my heart,’ responded Ralph.
At this moment there was a ciy from the crowd
around them, ‘Here they come !’
The next moment a murmur went through the
throng that a horse had won the race that had not
been named by any one of the prophets of the turf,
and that the favorite was nowhere.
waiter and his companions were moving slowly
through the excited crowH. wh«-. x-cnr "
manner this wondf>* u l discovery was to recoil up
on himself.
Placing the phial m his pocket, he proceeded to
the smoking room aa .d ordered a pint of sherry.
‘When master Elhngton comes in, tell hirp I
should be glad to sp 6 ®* with him for a few mo
ments,’ said he tot#e waiter.
As the man want 011 *, Somerford glanced around
the room to make s* re that he was not observed,
and, drawing a sec* n< I glass towards him, poured
into it a few dro^f the liquid contained in the ti
ny bottle. Then filled with sherry the glass
brought by the waiter, and lit a cigar.
He had smoked aid sipped his wine in solitude for
about a quarter of » n hour when Walter Ellington
entered the room.
‘You wish to speik with me?’ observed the youth
coldly.
‘Sit down, dear Dy,’ said Somerford blandly. ‘I
feel so sorry that you should have repulsed me
in the manner youBd on the race course, you can--
not think. Come shake hands! Margaret wishes
very much for oarreconciliation, and you know I
can refuse her mjtimg. ’
Walter’s resolution to be reconciled wavered
when his cousin gccleverly introduced his wife, of
whose gentleness ind kindness of heart our hero
retained a vivid collection. He did not take his
cousin’s proffere^and, but he sat down.
‘Take a glass of rine,’said Somerford, eager to
follow upjiis adwtage.
‘Have you disco ered who it was that stole your
papers, Mr. Somaford ?’ inquired our hero.
Somerford starfcd at the question, and the tip of
the decanter touefcd the edge of the glass. The
liquid at the botteglass was slightly agita
ted, and the jinglidrawing Walter’s attention to
the glass his quideye detected the presence of the
liquid, and obsenrig at the same time that Somer-
ford’s hand trended.
‘Your question pminds me that I suspected you,’
replied Somerford as he poured out the wine with
a shaking hand an half averted countenance, and
then filled up hj^f jfc glass. ‘But I am convinced
now that I waswfofe, and did vou an injustice,
though 1 have not sfceeeded in finding out the real
culprit.'
tVere the docunAfls you lost of great impor
tance to you?’ inqiiHfi.our hero, repressing the feel
ings that were stirrmup within him by the suspic
ion of his cousin’s mentions towards him.
There was only hmself and Somerford in the
room.
If he rushed out ail accused his cousin of an at
tempt to poison him, was it likely that the glass
would not be einptie before evidence of the crime
could be secured ?
If he seized the glas to bear it away, would it
not be wrested fronhis grasp by Somerford, or its
contents spilled in tfc struggle?
These queries preanted themselves in his mind in
a moment, and he raplved to await events.
‘Well, rather,’Tftpfed Somerford, with some con
fusion at the questioi
‘Was there a will tfciongst them?’ inquired Wal
ter.
‘Still harping uporfthat idea,’ returned his cous
in, averting his head :o conceal his confusion.
Walter was nervouly holding his glass, and won
dering what he had >etter do under the terrible
circumstances.
As he saw his cousii’s countenance turned away
from him, the idea otchanging the glasses sudden
ly flashed across his nind.
This was done quietly and noiselessly, and when
Somerford looked towards Walter again he was
raising to his lips the glass which had a moment be
fore stood close to the latter’s hand.
‘You do me as much iujustice in that matter as I
did when I attributed to you the abstraction of the
papers, Walter,’ observed Somerford.
‘I hope I do,’ rejoined our hero.
‘You do, I assure you,’ said Somerford, raising
his glass. ‘Some day, I trust, you will yourself be
convinced of it. In the meantime, I drink to our
reconciliation. I have wished it for the sake of
Margaret, with whom you were always a favorite.’
He drank the contents of his glass, and as he set
it down upon the table, observed that our hero’s
-* * - rr. fixed intently upon his countenance,
heaven as they for
lington.
‘Well met, young gentlemen.’ he exclaimed, ‘you
can aid me in the rescue of my daughter. She
knows you; me she knows not, and she may not be
u filing to go with me unless you accompany me.’
‘Where is she ?’ inquired our hero, eagerly'.
‘In that house,’ replied Chatfield. ‘One of the
worst deDS of infamy in the city ! Come, my lad,
to her rescue.’
‘I am with you,’ rejoined Walter.
In a few minutes they were before the house.
Chatfield raised the knocker and let it fall with a
clang. The door was opened to the extent of three
or four inches, and the face of a man appeared—a
sharp-featured and prematurely wrinkled face, with
a grizzled moustache and shaven cheeks.
‘Vat you vant ?’ demanded the man.
I want a girl who was brought here the night be
fore last from Forest Hill,’ exclaimed Chatfield,
thrusting his foot between the door and the thresh
old, to prevent it from being closed.
‘Dere is no such girl here,’ was the reply.
‘I know better,’ returned the ex-convict. ‘The girl
was taken away from her home, and I have reason
for believing she was brought here.
‘You are wrong; you have been deceived, my
goot man,’ said the man of the house in an impa
tient tone. ‘Dere is no girl in dis house but my
servant who have been vit me a long time,’
Walter, wtxi had been looking up at the windows
of the house, saw at this moment the face of a dark
haired girl peering from behind a blind, and called,
‘Nelly !’ ‘Nelly !’ when the face was immediately
withdrawn. ,,
‘You must move your foot, and let me close the
door, monsieur,’ said the Frenchman.
‘Will you allow us to see your servant?’ said
Walter, approaching the door.
‘It is von strange request, but you shall see,’ re
plied the man, and he called “Marie,” two or three
times, and the call was responded to by a girl,
whose tangled auburn hair, confined behind in a
net, strayed over a dirty and unprepossessing coun
tenance. . ....
‘That is not the girl I saw just now at the win
dow !’ exclaimed waiter. ‘The man is deceiving
US ‘Sacre P growled the Frenchman. ‘Viil you take
your foot from my door ?’ Go avay ! Go avay !’
‘I shall not go away without my daughter, or the
E roof that she is not here,’ returned Chatfield, and
e threw himself heavily against the door.
It was secured, however, by a chain that resisted
all his efforts. , . A „ .. . ..
Seeing this, he resolved to appeal tor aid to the
group of idlers whom the altercation had caused to
gather about the door. ,
‘what is up, guv'ner ?’ inquired a butchers lad.
‘Mv daughter is in that house, and that French
scamp denies her to me,’ replied Chatfield, loudly.
‘Have her out, guv’ner,’ said the butcher s lad,
for whom the prospect of a row was sufficient in
ducement to linger on the spot.
‘Come, move on, here,’ saida policeman.
To the representative of authority, Chatfield made
his complaint.
‘You had better go to a magistrate,’ said the po
liceman. ‘You must not make a row here, you
know.’
‘I shall not go away without my daughter,’ was
the reply.
‘Do not give it up, sir,’ said Walter. ‘I will
stand by you.’
‘If it was my girl, I would smash every window
in the house !’ exclaimed a woman.
‘Hooray !’ cried a boy in the rear of the fast-in
creasing cfowd, and a stone whizzed through the
air, followed by a crash of glass, the fragments
of which fell rattling on the pavement.
‘You had better move on, and not incite people
to break other people’s windows,’ said the police
man to the woman.
‘I shan’t move on !’ returned the woman. ‘Why
don’t you help the poor man to get his daughter
out of the house ?’
The policeman made a rush at the woman who
thus defied his authority, but at the same moment
a well-aimed stone knocked off his hat. As he
stooped to recover it, several outstretched arms
It is wilford Jones, the man who put the watch
in my pocket!’ exclaimed waiter.
‘And who got me out of as nasty a mess as ever
I got into in my life,’ observed Ralph. ‘Speak of
a man as you find him is my motto, and so here
gloomy and dismal i. ( frc : ,vii|*|{ ramparts of
the.jmtlM of
row chuied a :ips iuinily mui-
arod^^yj|. foqkfag ill. xitiv _ ju la
thing that may ha»1; disagreed with you?’
‘Ma Hnnr Knir 1 r/vnliuH Xnmprfnnl nc h
want you here; she has found you a situation, and
you are to go to it at once. A sickly, lonesome
place, farther south, where there is a cross, jealous
woman and a re 1-faced man, and their two spoiled
brats, that you are to teach. By the time you have
tried these awhile, you will be glad enough to come
and live here as mistress. Yes; as mistress, for I
know a thing or two that will make the Madam
willing to take a part of the money and go. And
we can live here in peace, with nobody to torment
us: not a soul shall come. We’ll make old Ivy Hall
our bridal nest. Yon know I love you.’
‘I know nothing of the kind,’ said Vale, indignant
ly. ‘The way you act and speak to me, shows ha
tred more than love. ’
‘Does it ? well, it’s my way. I love you so, I
would Bill you before any one else should have you.
So beware how you look at any body' else. I would
like to put out those eyes of yours, so that nobody
else would want vou, and you would be obliged to
depend on me. f could keep you then in this cage
of my arms.’ He suddenly released her hands and
wound his arms about her waist. The strength of
those long arms was wonderful. Vale cried out in
pain and anger; he only laughed, showing his sharp
little teeth, throwing back his head with its black,
stringy locks, while his small, keen eyes shone like
a snake’s
Exasperated beyond endurance, Vale slapped him
sharply in the face. His countenance changed in
stantly; a vindictive spark leaped into his eyes.
‘You shall he sorry for this,’ he said sullenly, let
ting his arm fall from her waist.
‘You provoked it,’ Vale said. ‘No girl would en
dure such impertinence. I would not have stood it
so long, only' that you are a ’ ‘A poor half crazy
dwarf,’ was what she was going to say', but her kind
heart checked her tongue, and she passed on into
the house. She heard him call after her;
‘Since you are so afraid of rabbits, you had better
not go to walk by yourself. I’ll go with you next
time. ’
V ale felt that the words were malicious. She
was too provoked to answer. Her intention was to
see Ralph again if possible. The vessel in which he
would leave—the only one that touched at that
lonely point of the coast, was not due until the next
day after the morrow. She had a little money saved
from the ample sum that had been sent her to
pay her traveling expenses from the convent. If
she could get him to accept it, if not from her, from
his old nurse, she would feel easier about his going
away. What if he should be taker ill in that
strange country ? Besides there were words she
wished to say so him before she lost sight of him for
ever—words that might encourage or console him.
Yes, she must see him again, but how could she if
her movements wore to be watched and her foot
steps dogged by this persistent little creature, who
seemed possessed by a passion for her that was a
curious mixture of love and hate, a feeling as
strange and warped as his own physical frame.
\ ale rose pretty early and as soon as she was
dressed, went out for her usual walk. She took the
stable in her way to see that Wingina’s pony had
been well treated. To her surprise, Wingina had
come tor the pony' half an hour before. Toby', who
was sitting on the stable fence sleepily rubbing his
eyes, gave her the information, and added:
‘I wish that old Injun woman ’ud keep away from
here, too.’
‘why ?’ asked Vale.
‘She said she wasn’t feelin’ well, and she spec
’twas small pox she had. Catch me goin’ nigh her
cabin any more. ’
Vale smiled to herself and thought: ‘this is just
why Wingina said so. She wished to keep prying
eyes away while Ralph is hiding there.’ She was
annoyed that she did not see Wingina. She might
have given her the money in case she was prevent
ed from seeing Ralph again.
I will go to-night,’ she said, ‘I will pretend to
have a headache and go to my room; then I will
slip away from Achilles: no one else will be watch
ing me, and there is no danger of my being seen af
ter I leave the house, unless ’
She stopped short, remembering the tall, ghostly
figure she had seen at the tomb the night before and
the mysterious way it had disappeared. Thinking
‘lif g™ an she had e
m ^ ’ 3 ’ i ' apparition
Robert YVallp’ t t k - - ' ' • — J
cedar, they came to the tomb in the shadow of the
three great oaks and of the vines that half covered
it. It was cool and still here, the clusters of trum
pet flowers shone among their green leaves as
though they were carved of wet coral, the lizard
crept over the grey wall, silent as the fret-work
of moss and vines upon it. Mrs. Medway stood on
the low, stone step before the heavy door with the
key in her hand and seemed to listen. At least it
appeared to Vale that her attitude was expressive
of listening, and she too found herself holding her
breath as if to catch again the mysterious sound
she had heard before at this spot. But there was
profound silence; even the leaves did not stir in
the hush of the May day noon. Mrs. Medway put
the curious key in the lock; it required all the
strength of both hands to turn it.
‘The lock is very rusty,’ she said. ‘The door has
not been opened in months.’
The two crossed the threshold of the strange
room. It was shaped like a half circle, the wall
on the back part being straight, the rest curving.
The walls were pannelled in black walnut—a native
wood—and four pictures hung there, two on either
side of the coffins that rested on an elevated marble
slab in the middle of the room. Two were the por
traits of Vale’s uncle and aunt in their wedding
dresses, and another was a beautiful painting of the
daughter they had lost in her childhood. She sat
in a swing, her hat in her hand, her light curls
blowing in the wind, her little slippered foot
pressed against the shaggy side of a big dog, who
looked round at her lovingly, as though he enjoyed
the indignity of being made the piece tie resistance
necessary for her backward swing. The other pic
ture had its face turned to the wall. Vale conjec
tured that it was the poi trait of Ralph. At the
head of the coffins on the side of the room where the
wall was without curve, hung a copy of Sabastian’s
wierd picture of Lazarus raised from the dead,
with its inscription,Resurgam. At the foot of the cof
fins, crouched the stuffed figure of a dog, so like old
Zach that \ ale started and half expected to seethe
shaggy head lifted, and the tail wagged in recog
nition. She stepped softly on and stood by the
first coffin looking down at the face of her aunt
through the square of thick, rather cloudy glass.
The face was recognizable, though discolored,
shriveled and parchment like, the eyes sunken in
their sockets. But the white ruffled cap and the
strip of silver hair below it seemed more familiar to
V ale than any part of the face.
‘Dear, sweet, kind aunty,’ Vale murmured, and
a tear fell from her eyes upon the coffin. She
passed on to her uncle. She had loved him best,
lie was of her own blood, She was glad that his
race was so little changed. Rigid and stone-like,
but unshnveled, scarcely more wrinkled than
when she had seen it last. Through the thick,
cloudy glass and by the dim skv light at the top of
the building with its glass half muffled in the as-
pmng vines, he seemed quietly asleep. ‘How
strangely well preserved,’ thought Vale, ‘but then
he has only been a few months dead.’ She stood
looking 3.t him through blinding tears, thinking of
his kindness, thinking of Ralph, until the conscious
ness of an intent gaze drew her eves to Mrs. Med-
" ay. 1 he lady was very pale. "
, 'bright 'base mournful things, and especial
ly of that dreadful picture (pointing to the Lazarus)
always affects me,’ she said. ‘You promised to
stay but a little while, Vale. ’
\ ale silently bent her head; then she stooped
over and put her arm around the coffin. With her
forehead bent down to the glass that covered the
grand, old face, she prayed silently—not for the
dead that she knew was at peace, but for the un-
happy living. She prayed that Ralph might be
kept from danger, might find peace and comfort.
A strange sound came across her prayer—a hol-
low, half articulate sound. Did it come from Mrs.
Medway !
Before she could raise her head, Vale felt her arm
p-asped tightly and Mrs. Medway’s voice spoke at
her ear in an excited whisper;
‘Let us go for heaven’s sake ! This close place
makes me sick. ’
Still holding Vale’s arm, she drew her to the
door when they were outside, and she had closed
and locked the door, she raised her head and drew
a breath of relief. The atmosphere had been close
goes :
Do not let
‘Save me !’ cried the hunted wretch,
those demons tear me to pieces !’
‘Down with him ! he is a welcher !’ roared the
mob; but as they rushed on, Ralph and Chatfield
threw themselves before the victim.
‘He is a man, and not a rat .” exclaimed Black
Ralph, as he held up a stout blackthorn stick.
‘Stand aside !’ cried a stout, well-dressed man,
who brandished a knobbed stick. ‘He is a welcher,
and he shall not escape. ’
The poacher adroitly parried the blow aimed at
him.
‘Are you men ?’ he exclaimed. ‘A hundred upon
one ! Shame upon you !’
The excited mob was not to be appeased by such
appeals as these, however, and a rush was made
upon the defenders of the wretGhed man, which
obliged the latter to use their sticks energetically
for liis protection.
The odds against them were terrific; and in a few
minutes they were beaten down, and the object of
their wrath would have been slain, but for our
brave young hero.
Drawing a small revolver from his pocket, he
hastily cocked it, and, springing over the prostrate
body of Black Ralph, levelled it in the faces of the
excited men who were about to rush upon Jones to
complete their work of revenge.
‘Stand back,’he cried, ‘or I will fire and six of
vou will fall before you put hand or foot upon your
victim.’
The foremost of the assailants staggered back on
seeing the mnzzle of a revolver within a foot of
their perspiring faces, and the appearance of a half
dozen policemen enabled them to get Jones, Ralph
and Chatfield into a cab into which Walter follow
ed,
‘You are a brave fellow,’ gasped Jones, as the ve
hicle was driven away. ‘You have all helped me
nobly; but you would only have drawn upon your
selves my fate if it had not been for the brave lad
and my revolver.’
‘He had not much to be grateful to you for, eith
er,’ observed Black Ralph.
Wilford Jones started at the poacher’s voice, and
looked first at him then at our hero.
‘Howremarkable!’ he exclaimed. ‘I remember
what you allude to; it was done at King’s Lias.
But it was all a mistake, my friends. The magis
trates came to that conclusion themselves, you
know.’
‘I owe you something for what you have done to
day, all the same,’ continued Jones, turning to our
hero ‘If 1 recover, you shall not find me ungrate
ful. That Somerford is an infernal scamp. Did
you ever hear of his losing papers relating to prop
erty from the house at Nettlethorpe ?’
Walter replied in the affirmative, and the poach
er smiled a grim smile.
‘I knew he would do it!’ exclaimed Jones, slap
ping his hand on his knee. What can have become
of the fellow ?’
‘Who are you speaking of?’ inquired Walter.
‘I cannot explain now,’ replied Jones, ‘but those
papers will sooner or later come into my possession,
and then you shall have them.’
On reaching the town, the injured man was taken
to a surgeon.
CHAPTER XXI.
Somerford, who was staying at the same hotel as
our hero and the ex-convict, became aware of the
fact on his return from the race-course.
This was good news for the villian.
Now,’ he murmured to himself, ‘fora bold stroke.
I am not safe while that boy and that black muz
zled sheep-stealer live, and they must be got rid
of.’
He unlocked his traveling bag, and took from it a
tiny phial, containing a colorless and transparent
liquid.
•This,’ he murmured to himself, “neither betrays
its presence by its smell, nor can it be detected in
the stomach. This clear and colorless liquid, of
which a few drops will destroy life, would defy the
skill of all the chemists in the kingdom to detect it
after death; and yet it is derived from a plant to be
culled in every hedge!’
He little imagined in what an extraordinary
No, dear boy,’replied Somerford, as he lit an
other cigar. ‘I am all right. The heat has perhaps
made me look pale, but—what is this? My head
feels dizzy!’
The cigar dropped from his fingers, and he raised
his hand to his forehead.
'Are you sure that you have not drank out of the
wrong glass? inquired Walter, in a significant tone,
as he rose and leaned over the table.
‘What do you mean?’ said riomerford with a look
of horror.
He rose as he spoke but found himself obliged to
cling to the table, for, besides the dizziness of which
he had complained, his limbs seemed unable to bear
his weight, and yielded at the knees.
‘You had better take an antidote if there is one,’
rejoined Walter, hastening to support him.
Somerford then comprehended that he had him
self swallowed the poison which he had intended
for Walter, and sank in horror upon his chair.
‘Brandy—brandy!’ he gasped, supporting his
head upon one hand, while the other lay motion
less upon the table.
Walter rang the bell violently.
‘Bring brandy!’ he exclaimed, as a waiter hurried
into the room. ‘Quick ! Mr. Somerford is ill!’
(To be Continued.)
RALPH MEDWAY;
—OR THOSE—
Queer People at Ivy Hall.
BY MARY E. BRYAN,
CHAPTER III.
Tonv was at the stable giving the horses their
nightly feed, and she consigned the pony to his
care.
“Better hurry missy, or you loss your supper,”
was the boy's advice. Supper was the last thing
Vale was thinking of. But she dreaded Mrs. Med
way’s calmly penetrating gaze and the dwarfs
keen, suspicious looks and impertinent questions.
He was standing in the back portico as she came
in. Not seeing him, she was about to pass on when
he put himself before her.
“You are out late,” he said. “Where have you
been?”
“I took a walk in the pasture;” returned Vale as
unconcernedly as she could, “and I sprained my
ancle a little and was obliged to go to a tiny house by
the creek. I found an Indian woman there, who
was very kind. She did something for my ancle
that relieved me very soon, and she lent me her po
ny to ride home. ”
“Quite an adventure! How did you hurt your
ancle?”
“1 jumped out of the road.”
“Why did you jump?”
“I—1 was frightened.”
“At what?”
At an animal of some kind in the path. ’
“An animal? what sort of animal?”
‘It—might have been a rabbtt,’ said Vale who
was a poor hand at telling a falsehood, but felt that
she must say nothing to set this suspicious little
terrier on the scent of Ralph.
‘It might have been a rabbit, eh ? But 111 wager
it wasn’t. Scared iiy a rabbit ! why you’re scared
yet. You are white as a sheet, 1 pulling her into the
light of the hall lamp. ‘You have seen the ghost—
haven’t you ?’
‘Ghost indeed !’ she said, affecting a careless con
tempt she was far from feeling.
‘It is walking to-night,’ thrusting his face close to
hers. ‘I bet you sa^ it. I hope you miuded me
and didn’t speak to it, or go near it. If you did,
you will see what barm will come to you.’
‘Let me go. pleas}.’
‘You need be in i o hurry. There’s no supper for
you; we have had ours.’
‘I want none. I am not well. I am going to my
‘You want to ge-away from me: you avoid me
all the while. The time may come when you will
be glad to stay hen with me. The Madam does not
ex-Governor of Kansas, was married at;-
pA-zr"—»—4.. me Mrs- Med
way promised 1 should, and made some excuse
about the key being mislaid. I will ask her to-day
to give it to me, that I may see my aunt’s and
uncle’s faces. She says they are to be seen through
the glass set in the air-tiglit coffins.’
The thought was still in her mind, when a mes
sage came from Mrs. Medway who wished Vale to
come to her in her room. Vale found her sitting in
a purple-cushioned easy chair in her luxurious little
boudoir—the only modern-looking room in the
house. Taking a letter from her writing desk, she
said;
‘This is from the Hon. Wyly IFilliam?, an ex-con
gressman. I met him and his wife abroad some
years ago. I wrote to them about you last week—
that you sensibly desired to have something to do—
to give you independence and as occupation for
your mind. He has replied, offering you a home with
his family as one of his own household, and three
hundred dollars yearly for teaching his three little
girls, instructing them in music, French and needle
work as well as in the ordinary branches I think
this is a very fair beginning. There is also a son in
the family, who is at the most impressible age and
will no doubt take a fancy to you, for you are an
unusually attractive girl.’
Vale blushed, but it was not because of the com
pliment. The color that dyed her cheek was from
mortified, almost indignant feeling. To be thus
coolly dismissed from her uncle’s home and put off
upon strangers, and with the suggestion that she
might be lucky enough to captivate her employer’s
son, was an outrage to her sense of honor, justice,
and delicacy. She lifted her head proudly and
looking full into the lady’s handsome, wbite-lidded
eyes, said coldly:
‘I will think over Mr. iniliams’ proposal. If I de
cide to accept it, 1 wifi let you know.’
Mrs. Medway stared at her in haughty surprise.
‘You surely do not think you can do better, with
out experience or—influence ?’ she said.
‘I do uot say that I can,’ returned Vale, .‘but I
have a right to wait and think about what I shall
do. This turn in my life is so unlooked for. It is
so strange that—but no matter. Mrs. Medway, did
my uncle’s will leave nothing for me or for my
cousin Ralph ?’
‘You can examine a copy of the will at your leis
ure. A quantity of land near the everglades was
left to Ralph. Drainage will make it valuable.
As for you, your uncle has given you a costly edu
cation, and provided generously for your personal
expenses; do you think you had any right to ex
pect more ?’
‘And Ivy Hall and its broad acres and the money
in bank were all left to you ?’
‘And the debts saddled on the estate through bad
management and through Ralph’s extravagance,’
Mrs. Medway retorted. ‘They make the legacy a
not very enviable one. Do you wish to dispute the
will ? You have my consent. You may find it
hard to break it though, for it is well attested. For
my own part, I would be glad to give up this place
and go far away from it—somewhere, where I
could have peace. ’
Her voice had an accent of pain, a weary, hag
gard look was in her eye.
‘I had no idea of disputing the will, Mrs. Med
way,’ Vale said. ‘My uncle did as much for me as
I had a right to expect. I thank him and honor his
memory for it. And this brings to mind your
promise to let me see his face ana that of my aunt
inside their coffins. I suppose the key to the tomb
has been found.’
For a moment, Mrs. Medway made no answer.
Vale saw a shadow of concern, a frown of displeas
ure cross her face. But presently she said:
‘Yes; the key was found. I was thiuicing that it
was inconvenient for me to accompany you this
morning.’
T can go by myself,’ said Vale.
‘That would not be wise. Your nerves might be
shaken if you were alone in such a place. I will
postpone what I had meant to do and go with you,
if you will stay only a few minutes.’
‘I shall not stay long. Shall we go now ?’
‘Yes,’ she rose and put on her hat and gloves;
there was a little nervous streak of color staining
the ivory of her cheek and her hand was a trifle
unsteady. On their way through the hall Vale
caught her straw sun shade from the nail where it
hung and tied it on as she walked.
The sun was bright on the fruit-laden boughs, us
they passed under them, along the path that sloped
through the grassy orchard and ended in a stile.
Grossing the stile and a narrow belt of laurel and
t-be e->d‘^}cretsW f c 9 5f> .insid§ spite of the grated openings near the top
• — (J'.'d mpto'n thnf'l\ejje!^felt relieved to
relfcv
aHiYiHTstrange^furnitur^, and the still fac^of the
dead, into the cool, green, open air. The color
came into her cheeks, only to drop out of them, as
quickly, for as the two stood face to face upon the
stone step after the bolt had shot into the rusty
lock, they heard a groan—muffled, impossible to
locate precisely, but unmistakably a groan. They
looked at each other; Mrs. Medway was the paler
of the two, but she was first to recover herself and
to sai in answer to \ ale’s look of startled inquiry.
•1 shaw ! it is nothing but the branch of a tree
grating against the back part of the house as the
wind moves it. I have heard it often before,
what a little coward you are !’
CHAPTER IV.
The sun had set; \ ale who had determined on see-
ing Ralph once more, came out to reconnoitre and
spy her chance for getting away undiscovered. All
the afternoon, \ iney had been hanging on her out-
skirts in a suspicious way. She could not step out
of the house or even out of the room without find
ing the small darkey close to her, and this was per
sisted in, after Vale had told her sharply to attend
to her business if she had any, as she herself needed
no attention. Finally she called the imp to her side
ana said:
‘What do you mean by following me about so to-
day ? Tell me, or I will lock you iu this closet ’
Better not, ’ said the imp, turning her small kinky
head to one side and eyeing Vale askance. ‘Dimmy-
john er raspberriy wine in dat closet and all de
old chan} Ef I smell de dimmyjohn and gets
drunk and has a smash up, you’s sponsible for it.’
But you must tell me,’said Vale, willing to per
suade in her anxiety to learn if any one of the
household suspected whom she had seen. ‘I’ll give
you this ribbon to tie round
your waist if you’ll
tell me,’ taking a blue ribbon fromTer hair ~
Ruther have your little kerlogne bottle. I likes
kerlogne I fumed myself with yourn las’ Sunday,
ftellyou 8 ’ dem lianCy yaIler S allti at mee tin
‘■Well, you shall have the cologne if you will tell
me why you are following me about so to-day.’
Tnen 111 tellyou, ef you won’t say a word. Kil-
lis set me at. He told me he’d give me a half a dol
lar to watch you where you went, case Toby told
him you went to meet your sweetheart yisterday
evenin’. ‘ - J
‘My sweetheart ?’
J™?; WaS A riVin ’, Up de red cow that’s got a
new calf, and he seed you cross de paseher, talkin’
to a man on horseback, and Killis find tracks dis
wid you W iei e de maU FOde Part er de wa y borne
‘Where did Killis see the tracks*’
‘In de bottom tother side the tomb. De ground’s
soft and no grass dere. ’ 6 *
Then he had not tracked the horseman to Wingi
na s house perhaps. Yet he knew she rode Wino
na s pony. No doubt, he had been to the Indian
woman’s cabin to question her, or to see what he
could discover. W hat a persistent, suspicious, erea
tore he was, and how unfortunate that she had en-
c P u, , lte [ ed Halph at al, since, as it seemed probable
she had drawn Achilles’ jealous, lynx eyes upon
‘If I could warn him to keep very close to nio-ht
and to leave Wingina’s cabinbefore day to-morrow
and to wear some disp.se when he goes on board
the vessel ’ she thought. ‘But I am afraid it will
not do to try to see him. It may be that Achilla
is watching around Wingina’s house. I have S
seen him since morning. J
Putting the little cut glass scent bottle into Vi-
ney’s hand, she went out and found Mrs. Medway
sitting on the front step, with the soft, purplish
radiance of sunset on her face and on the hair that
she wore in a crown of plaits on her queenly head
She was dressed m a thin black fabric, through
which her finely turned arms and shoulders gleam
ed like sculptured ivory. She held a rose in her fin-
gers-a superb Napoleon, but the blood-red petals
were already drooping. All flowers drooped in
Reme Medway s hand, was there a fever at her
heart, and was that calm, passionless manner, the
result ot strong-willed repression? A look that
came into her eyes, sometimes, and a way she had
of crushing her red lips together, might make one
thmk so. was it the black dress and the deep red
of the rose that made her look so pale this evening*
But Vaie had noticed for several days the paleness
of the mistress of Ivy Hall and had seen her fore
head knit as if with some anxious thought that
would come up. Her look now, as she sat facing
the sunset, was one of deep dejection. The heavy
(Continued on 6th page.)
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