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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.) f b