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CHAPTER I.
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"You, go to England to-morrow?”
I was on the point of leaving India
and returning to England when he sent
for me. At least, to be accurate—and 1
am always accurate—I was not quite on
the point, but nearly, for I was going to
start by the mail on the following day.
I had been up to Government house to
take my leave a few days before, but Sir
John had Ijeen too ill to see me, or at
least he had said he was. And now he
was much worse—dying, it seemed, from
all accounts, and he had sent down a na
tive servant in the noonday heat with a
note, 'written in his shaking old hand,
begging me to come up as soon as it be
came cooler. He said he had a commis
sion which he was anxious I should do
for him in England.
Of course I went. It was not very
convenient, because I had to borrow one
of our fellow's traps, as I had sold my
own, and none of them had the confi
dence in my driving which I had myself.
I was also obliged to leave the packing
of my collection of Malay krises and In
dian kookeries to my bearer.
I wondered, as I drove along, why Sir
John had sent for me. Worse, was he?
Dying, and without a friend? Poor old
man! He had done pretty well in this
world, but 1 was afraid he would not be
up to much once he was out of it; and
now, it seemed, he was going. I felt
sorry for him. I felt more sorry when 1
saw him—when the tall, long faced A.
D. C. took me into his room and left us.
Yes, Sir John was certainly going.
There was no mistake about it. It was
written in every line of his drawn, fever
worn face, and in his wide, fever lit
eyes, and in the clutch of his long, yel
low hands upon his tussore silk dressing
gown. He looked a very sick, bad old
man as he lay there on his low couch,
placed so as to court the air from without,
cooled by its passage through damped
grass screens, and to receive the full
strength of the punkah, pulled by an in
visible hand outside.
“You go to England to-morrow?” he
asked, sharply.
It was written even in the change of
his voice, which was harsh, as of old,
but with all the strength gone out of it.
“By to-morrow's mail,” I said. 1
should have liked to say something more
—something sympathetic about Iris be
ing ill and not likely to get better, but
he had always treated me discourteously
when he was well, and I could not open
out all at once now that he was ill.
“Look here, Middleton,” he went on;
“I am dying, and I know it. I don’t
suppose you imagined I had sent for you
to bid you a last farewell before depart
ing to ill}' long home. 1 am not in such
a hurry to depart as all that, I can tell
you; but there is something I want done
—that I want you to do for me. I meant
to have done it myself, but I am down
now and I must trust somebody. 1
know better than to trust a clever man.
An honest fool—but I am digressing
from the case in point. I have never
trusted anybody all my life, so you may
feel honored. 1 have a small parcel
which I want you to take to England for
me. Here it is.”
His long, lean hands went searching
in Ills dressing gown, and presently
produced an old brown bag, held to
gether at the neck by a string.
“See here,” he said; arid he pushed the
glasses and papers aside from th# table
near him and undid the string. Then he
craned forward to look about him, lay
ing a spasmodic clutch on the bag. “I’m
watched! I know I’m watched!” he
said in a whisper, his pale eyes turning
slowly in their sockets. “I shall be
killed for them if I keep them much
longer, and I won’t be hurried into my
grave. I'll take my own time.”
“There is no one here.” I said, “and no
one in sight except Catlicart smoking in
the veranda, and I can only see his legs,
so he can’t see us.”
He seemed to recover himself, and
laughed. I had never liked his laugh,
especially when, as had often happened,
it had been directed against myself; but
I liked it still less notv.
“See here!” he repeated, chuckling:
and he turned the bag inside out upon
the table.
Such jewels I had never seen. They
fell like cut flame upon the marble table,
green and red and burning white. A
large diamond rolled and fell upon the
floor. I picked it up and put it back
among the confused blaze of precious
stones, too much astonished for a mo
ment to speak.
“Beautiful! aren’t they?” the old man
chuckled, passing his wasted hands over
them. “You won’t match that necklace
in any jeweler’s in England. I tore it
off an old she devil of a Rhanee’s neck
after the mutiny, and got a bite in the
arm for my trouble. But she’ll tell no
tales. He! he! he! I don’t mind say
ing now how I got them. I am a hum
ble Christian now I am so near heaven—
eh, Middleton? He! he! You don’t like
to contradict me. Look at those emer
alds. The hasp is broken, but it makes
a pretty bracelet. I don’t think I'll tell
how the hasp got broken—little accident
as the lady who wore it gave it to me.
Rather brown, isn’t it, on one side? But
it will come off. No, you need not be
afraid of touching it; it isn’t wet. He!
he! And this crescent. Look at thos>;
diamonds! A duchess would be proud
of them. I had them from a private sol
dier. I gave him two rupees for them.
Dear me! how the sight of them brings
back old times. But X wonjt leave them
remembered that* it was getting late; j r.veryone eise us on trees just now, u j r .nu leaving parcels after her departure,
and there was a bustle and a leave tak- you would like to come down into my I
ing, and I had to post off before I could j cabin.”
hear more. Not, however, that ther
was much more to hear, for everythin,
17 U/tyicty is Told a j Story
of Baffled Qrime. !
i
n ny longer. Vvemust put them
away—put them away.”
And the glittering mass was gathered
up and shoveled back into the old brown
bag. He looked into it once with hungry
eyes, and then he pulled the string and
pushed it over to me. “Take it,’’ he said.
“Put it away now. Pnt it away,” he
repeated, as I hesitated.
I put the bag into my pocket. He gave
a long sigh as lie watched it disappear.
“Now what you have got to do with
that bag,” he said a moment afterward,
“is to take it to Ralph Danvers, the sec
ond son of Sir George Danvers, of Stoke
Moreton, in D shire. Sir George has
got two sons. I have never seen him or
his sons, but I don't mean the eldest to
have them. He is a spendthrift. They
are all for Ralph, who is a steady fel
low, and going to marry a nice girl—at
least I suppose she is a nice girl. Girls
who are going to be married always are
nice. Those jewels will sweeten matri
mony for Mrs. Ralph, and if she is like
rilier women it will need sweetening.
There, now you have got them and that
is what you have got to do with them.
There is the address written on this
card. With my compliments, you per
ceive. He! lie! I don’t suppose they will
remember who I am.”
“Have you no relations?” I asked, for
1 am always strongly of opinion that
property should he bequeathed to rela
tives. especially near relatives, rather
than to entire strangers.
“None,” he replied, “not even poor re
lations. I have no deserving nephew or
Scotch cousin. If I had they would be
here at this moment, smoothing the pil
low of the departing saint and wonder
ing how much they would get. You
may make your mind easy on that score.”
“Then, who is this Ralph whom you
have never seen and to whom yon are
leaving so much?" I asked, with _>.y
usual desire for information.
He glared at me for a moment, and
then he turned his face away.
“D—n it! What does it matter, now
I’m dying?” he said. And then he added,
hoarsely, “I knew his mother.”
I could not speak, but involuntarily 1
put out my hand and took his leaden
one and held it. He scowled at me, and
then the words came out, as if in spite of
himself:
“She—if she had married me who
knows what might But she mar
ried Danvers. She called her second
son Ralph. My first name is Ralph.”
Then, with a sudden change of tone,
pulling away his hand, “There! now
you know all about it! Edifying, isn't
it? These deathbed scenes always have
an element of interest, haven't they?
Good evening”—ringing the bell at his
elbow—“I can't say I hope we shall
meet again; it would be impolite. No,
don’t let me keep you. Good-by again.”
“Good-by, Sir John,” 1 said, taking
his impatient hand and shaking it gently;
“God bless you.”
“Thankee,” grinned the old man with
a sardouic chuckle. “If anything could
do me good that will, I'm sure. Good-
by.”
As I breakfasted next morning previ
ously to my departure I could not help
reflecting on the different position in
which I was now returning to England
—as a colonel on long leave—to that in
which I had left it many, 1 do not care
to think how many, years ago, the
youngest ensign in the regiment.
It was curious to remember that in my
youth I had always been considered the
fool of the family; most unjustly so con
sidered. when I look back at my quick
promotion owing to casualties, and at
my long and prosperous career in India,
which I cannot but regard as the result
of high principles and abilities, to say the
least of it, of not the meanest order. On
the point of returning to England the
trust Sir Jolm had, with his usual shrewd
ness, reposed in me was fin additional
proof, if proof were needed, of the confi
dence I had inspired in him—a confi
dence which seenied to !; . . e ripened
suddenly at the end of his life, after
many years of hardly concealed mockery
and derision. Just as I was finishing
my reflections and my breakfast Dickson,
one of the last joined subalterns, came in.
“This is very awful,” he said, so grave
ly that I turned to look at him.
“What is awful?”
“Don’t you know?” he replied.
“Haven’t you heard about—Sir John—
lust night?”
“Dead?” I asked.
He nodded and then he said*.
“Murdered in the night. Catlicart
heard a noise and went in and stumbled
over him on the floor. As he came in he
saw the lamp knocked over, and a figure
rush out through the veranda, The
moon was bright and he saw a man run
across a clear space in the moonlight—
a tall, slightly built jnan in native dress,
but not a native, Catlicart said; that he
would take his oath on by his build.
He roused the house, but the man got
clean off. of course.”
“And Sir John?”
“Sir John was quite dead when Catli-
cart got back to him. He found him
lying on his face. His arms were spread
out and his dressing gown was torn as
if he had struggled hard. His pockets
had been turned inside out, his writing
table drawers forced open, the whole
room had been ransacked. Yet the old
man’s gold watch hau not been touched,
and some money in one of the drawers
had not been taken. What on earth is
the meaning of it all?” said young Diok-
son, below his breath. “What was the
thief after?”
In a moment the truth flashed across
my brain. I put two and two together
as quickly as most men, I fancy. The
jewels! Some one had got wind of the
jewels, which at that moment were re
posing on my own person in their old
brown hag. Sir Jolm had been only just
in time.
“What was he looking for?” continued
Dickson, walking up aud down” “The
old man must have had some paper or
other about him that he wanted to get
hold of. But what? Cathcart says that
nothing whatever has been taken, as far
as he can see at present.”
I was perfectly silent. It is not every
man who would have beeu so in my
place, but I was. I know when to hold
my tongue, thank heaven!
Presently the others came in, all full of
the same jsobieefc. and then suddenly I
seemed to he in the greatest confusion,
j and every species of conjecture was afloat
as to the real criminal and the motive
I for the crime.
I had not much time to thiuk of any-
; thing during the first day on board; yet,
i busy as I was in arranging and rearrang-
! ing my things, poor Old Sir John never
! seemed quite absent from my mind. His
image, as I bad last seen him, constantly
rose before me, and the hoarse whisper
was forever sounding in my ears, “I’m
watclied! I know I'm watched!” I could
not get him out of my head. I was un
able to sleep the first night I was on
board, and as the long hours wore on 1
always seemed to see the pale, searching
eyes of the dead man; and above the
manifold noises of the steamer and the
perpetual lapping of the calm water
against my ear came the whisper, “I'm
watched! I know I'm watched!”
I hardly know one stone from another, ,
and never could tell a diamond from
paste; but lie seemed so anxious to show
me what he had that 1 did not like to
refuse.
“Bv all means.” I said. And we went
below.
It was very dark in Carr's * cabin, and
after lie had let me in he locked the door
carefully before he struck a light. He
looked quite pale in the light of the lamp
after the red dusk of the warm evening
on deck.
“1 don’t want to have other fellows
coming in,” he said, in a whisper, nod
ding at the door.
He stood looking at me for a moment,
as if irresolute, and then lie suddenly
seemed to arrive at some decision, for he
pulled a small parcel out of his pocket
aud began to open it.
They really were not much to look at,
though I would not have told him so for
worlds. There were a few sapphires—
one of a considerable size, but uncut—
and some handsome turquoises, but not
of perfect color. He turned them over
with evident admiration.
“They will look lovely, set in gold, as
a bracelet on her arm,” he said, softly.
He was very much in love, poor fellov
wrong, ana uarr snouted'to him to stop;
She gave me Jane’s new address, which but thereupon he lashed up his horse
was only in the next street, and I apolo- , au <l away ne went like the winds, up one
gized and made my bow at once. My street and down another, till I had lost
going to the wrong house was such a ah idea where we were. Carr, who was
slight occurrence that I almost forgot it young and active, did all he could, but
at the time until I was reminded of it by j the cabman, who 1 am afraid must
a very sad event which happened after- j have beeu intoxicated, took not the
it the next day that if never
heads of either of us. on retina* tnv?
to remove Sir John's jewels from LT’
caddy into which they had been , ^
rarily popped in the afternoon * pf>
CHAPTER IV.
| ward.
Jane was delighted to see me. It
| seemed she had written to inform me of
; her change of address, but the letter did
| not reach me before I started for Eng
land with the Danvers jewels, about
which I have been asked to write
this account. Considering this is an
account of the jewels it is wonder
ful how seldom I have had occa
sion to mention them so far; but you
may rest assured that all this time they
were safe in their bag under my waist
coat, and knowing I had them there all
right I did not trouble my head much
about them. I never was a person to
worry about things.
Still I had no wish to be inconven
ieuced by a hard packet of little knob,
against my chest any longer than was
necessary, and I wrote the same evening
to Sir George Danvers, stating the bare
facts of the case, and asking what steps
he or his second son wished me to take
to put the legacy in the possession of its
owner. I had no notion of trusting
And then he added humbly: “But I j packet of such immense value to the
dare say they are nothing to yours.” j newly organized Parcels Post, With
I chuckled to myself at the thought of | jewels I consider yon cannot be too can
“They will look lovely, set in gold, as a
bracelet on iicr arm.’’
I was all right next day. I suppose I
had had what women call nerves. I
never knew what nerves meant before,
because no two women I ever met
seemed to have the same kind. If it is
slamming a door that upsets one wom
an’s nerves, it may be coming in on
tiptoe that will upset another’s. You
never can tell. But I am sure it was
nerves with me that first night; I know
I have never felt so queer since. Oh,
yes, I have, though—once. I was for
getting; but I have not come to that yet.
We had a splendid passage home.
Most of the passengers were in good
spirits at the thought of seeing England
again, and even the children were not so ; ; nl( ] ke had promised to act in them,
troublesome as I have known them. I
soon made friends with some of the
nicest people, for I generally make
friends easily. I do not know how I do
it, but I always seem to know what peo
ple really are at first sight, I always
was rather a judge of character."
There was one man on board whom I
took a great fancy to from the first. He j
was a young American, traveling about j
as Americans do to see the world. I for- |
get where he had come from—though 1 j
believe he told me—or why he was going ■
to London; but a nicer young fellow 1
never met. He was rather simple aud ■
unsophisticated, and with less knowledge
of the world than any mail I ever knew;
but he did not mind owning to it, and
was as grateful as possible for any little 1
hints which, as an older man who had
not gone through life with his eyes shut,
I was of course able to give him. He
was of a shy disposition I could see, and
wanted drawing out; but he soon took | a certain^ extent familiar with the me-
to me, and in a surprisingly short time ^ ~ ~ ~ J
his astonishment when he should actually
behold them; but I only said:
“Would you like to see them, and
judge for yourself?”
“Oh, if it is pot giving you too much
trouble,” he exclaimed, gratefully, with
shining eyes. “It’s very kind of you. I
did not like to ask. Have you got them
with you?”
I nodded, and proceeded to unbutton
my coat.
At that moment a voice was heard
shouting down the companion ladder:
“Carr! 1 say, Carr, you are wanted!”
and 'in another moment some one was
hammering on the door.
CaiT sprang to his feet, looking posi
tively savagi-.
“Carr!” shouted the voice again.
“Come out. 1 say: you are wanted!”
“Button up your coat,” he whispered,
scowling suddenly, and with an oath he
opened the door.
Poor Carr! He was quite put out, I
could see, though he recovered himself
in a moment aud went off laughing with
the man. who had been sent for him to
take his part in a rehearsal which had
been suddenly resolved on, for theatri
cals had been brewing for some time
1
had not been asked to join, so I saw no
more of him that night. The following
morning, as I was taking an early turn
on deck, he joined me and said, with a
smile, as he linked his arm in mine: “I
was put out last, wasn’t I?”
“But you got over it in a moment,” I
replied. “I quite admired you; and,
after all, you know—some other time.”
“No,” he said, smiling still, “not some
other time! I don't think I will see them
—thanks all the same. They might put
me out of conceit with what I have
picked up for my little girl, which are
the best I can afford.”
He seemed to have lost all interest in
the subject, for he began to talk of
England, and of London, about which
he appeared to have that kind of vague,
half and half knowledge which so often
proves misleading to young men newly
launched into town life. When he
found out, as lie soon did, that I was to
tious. Indeed I told Jane so at the time,
and she quite agreed with me.
CHAPTER HI.
we became friends.
ITe was in' the next cabin to mine, and
evidently wished so much to have been
with me that I tried to get another man
to exchange; but he was grumpy about
it and I had to give it up, much to young
Carr’s disappointment. Indeed ho was
quite silent and morose for a whole day
about it, poor fellow. He was a tall,
handsome young man, slightly built,
with the kind of sallow complexion that
women admire, and I wondered at his
preferring my company to that of the
womankind on board, who were certain
ly very civil to him.
One evening when I was rallying him
on the subject, as we were leaning over
the sido (for though it was December it
was hot enough in the Red Sea to lounge
on deck), he told me that lie was en
gaged to he married to a beautiful young
American girl. I forgot her name, but
I remember he told it me—Dulcima
something—but it is of no'consequence.
I quite understood then. I always can
enter into the feelings of others so en
tirely. I know when I was engaged my
self once, long ago, I did not seem to
care to talk to any one but her. She did
not feel the same about it, which per
haps accounted for her marrying some
one else, which was quite a blow to me
at the time. But still I could fully enter
into young Carr’s feelings, especially
when he went on to expatiate on her
perfections. Nothing, he averred, was
too good for her. At last he dropped
liis voice, and after looking about him
in the dusk to make sure lie was uot
overheard he said:
“I have picked up a few stones for her
on my travels; a few sapphires of consid
erable value. I don’t care to have it
generally known that I have jewels
about me, hut I don't mind telling yop.”
“My dear fellow,” I replied, layingmy
hand on his shoulder and sinking my
voice to a whisper, “not a soul on board
this vessel suspects it, but so have I.” ;
It was too dark for me to see his face,
but I felt that he was much impressed
by what 1 had told him.
“Then you will know where I had bet
ter keep mine,” he said a moment later
with his impulsive, boyish confidence, j
“How fortunate I told you about them.
Some are of considerable value, and—
and I don’t know where to put them
that they will be absolutely safe. I
never carried about jewels with me be
fore, and I am nervous about losing
them, you understand.” And he nodded
significantly at me. “Now where would
you advise me to keep them?”
“On you,” I said significantly.
“But where?’’
He was simpler than even I could have
believed.
“My dear boy,” I said, hardly able to ;
refrain from laughing, “do as I do—put j
them in a bag with a string to it. Put |
j the string around your neck, and wear j
that bag under your clothes night and
day.”
“At night as well?” he asked anxiously.
“Of course. You are just as likely to
lose them, as you call it, in the night as
in the day.”
“I am very much obliged to you,” he
replied. “I null take your advice this
very night. I say,” he added suddenly,
tropolis, he began to question me ini-
I nutely and ended by making me prom-
; ise to dine with him at the Criterion, of
| which he had actually never heard, and
! go with him afterward to the best of
; the theatres the day after we arrived in
\ Loudon.
He wanted me to go with him the very
! evening we arrived, but on that point I
J was firm. My sister Jane, who was liv-
! ing with a hen canary (called Bob, after
me, before its sex was known) in a small
house in Kensington, would naturally he
hurt if I did not spend my first evening
, in England with her, after an absence of
j so many years.
Can - was much interested to hear that
I had a sister, and asked innumerable
questions about her. Was she young
and lovely, or was she getting on? Did
1 she live all by herself, and was I going
to stay with her for long? Was n<#t Ken
sington—was that the name of tho street?
: —rather out of the world, etc.?
I was pleased with the interest he took
in any particulars about myself and my
relations. People so seldom care to hear
about the concerns of others. Indeed, I
have noticed, as I advance in life, such
a general want of interest on the part of
my acquaintance in tlie minutiae of my
personal affairs that of late I have al
most ceased to speak of them at any
length. Carr, however, who was of
what I should call a truly domestic turn
of character, showed such genuine pleas
ure in hearing about myself and my re
lations that I asked him to call in Lon
don in order to make Jane's acquaintance,
and accordingly gave him her address,
wliich he took down at once in his note
book with evident satisfaction.
Our passage was long, but H proved
most uneventful, and except for an oc
casional dance and the theatricals be
fore mentioned it would have been dull
in the extreme. The theatricals cer
tainly were a great success, mainly ow
One seized the horse.
I did not much like the arrangement
of Jane’s new house when Icame to stay
in it. The way the two bedrooms, hers
and mine^ were shut off from the rest of
the house by a door, barred and locked
at night for fear of burglars, was, 1
thought, unpleasant, especially as once
in my room for the night there was no
possibility of getting out of it, the key
of the door of the passage not being even
allowed to remain in the lock, but retir
ing with Jane, the canary cage and
other valuables into her own apartment.
I remonstrated, but I soon found that
Jane had uot remained unmarried for
nothing. She was decided on the point.
The outer door would be locked as usual,
aud the key would be deposited under
the pincushion in her room a3 usual, and
It was so.
The next morning, as Jane and I went
out for a stroll before luncheon, we had
to pass the house to which I had driven
by mistake the day before. To our as
tonishment there was a crowd before
the door, and a policeman with his back
to it was guarding the entrance. The
blinds were all drawn down. The image
of the pale, lonely woman sitting by her
little fire, whom I had disturbed the day
before, came suddenly back to me with
a strange qualm.
“What is it?” I hurriedly asked a
baker's boy who was standing at an
area railing rubbing his chin against the
loaf he was waiting to deliver. The hoy
grinned.
“It's murder!” he said, with relish.
“Burgilars in the night. I’ve supplied
her reg'lar these two months. One quar-
: tem best white, one-lialf quartern brown
J ever;.’ morning, French rolls occasional;
but it’s ail up now.” And he went off
whistling a tune which all bakers’ hoys
whistled about that time, called “My
Grandfather's Timepiece,” or something
similar.
A second policeman came up the street
at this moment, and from him I learned
j all the little there was to know. The
poor lady had uot been murdered, it
seemed, hut being subject to heart com
plaint had died in the night of an acute
attack, evidently brought on by fright.
The maid, the only other person in the
house, sleeping as maids of all work only
can, had heard nothing, and awoke in
: the morning to find her mistress dead in
her bed, with the window and door open.
Strangely enough, the policeman added,
although nothing in the house had been
touched, the lock of an unused bedroom
had been forced and the room evidently
searched.
Poor Jane was quite overcome. She
seemed convinced that it was only by a
special intervention of Providence that
• she had changed her house, and that her
successor had been sacrificed instead of
herself.
! “It might have been me!” she said ofer
and over again that afternoon.
| Wishing to give a turn to her thoughts
I began to talk about Sir John's legacy,
ing to the splendid acting of young Carr, i ^ which she had evinced the greatest
who became afterward a more special mterest the night before, and greatly to
object of favor even than he was before. h{ * deh ? h * sllo ^ ed ber . the Ibad
It was bitterly cold when we landed not lo ° ked f them f? ce ^ir John had
early in January at Southampton, and pen them to me, and I was myself as-
my native land seemed to havt retired tomshed at their magnificence as I spread
from view behind a thick veil of fog. j } hem out on the table mlder the S as
We had a wretched journey np to £ ™P- ■.
Jane exhausted herself m admiration,
but as I was putting them away again,
London, packed as tight as sardines in a '
tin, much to the disgust of Carr, who
accompanied me to town, aud who, with
his usual thoughtfulness, had in vain
endeavored to keep the carriage to our
selves by liberal tips to guards and por- j
ters. When we at last arrived in Lon- j
don he insisted on getting me a cab and
seeing my luggage onto it before he
looked after his own at all. It was only
when I had .given the cabman my sis-;
ter’s address that he finally took his :
leave, and disappeared among the throng
of people who were jostling each other
near the luggage vans.
Curiously enough, when I arrived at
saying it was time for me to be dressin[
and going to meet Can-, who was to join
me at the Criterion, she begged me on
no account to take them with me, affirm
ing that it would be much safer to leave
them at home. I was firm, hut she was
firmer, and in the end I allowed her to
lock them up in the tea caddy, where
her small stock of ready money reposed.
- I met Can- as we had arranged and
we had a very pleasant evening. Poor
Carr, who had seen the papers, had
I hardly expected that I should turn up,
! knowin
the catastrophe of the previous
my destination an odd thing happened. ' ni ° ut bad taken piace at th 1 f : house 1 was
I got out at the green door of 23 Sub- png to, and was.much relieved to hear
urban residences, and when the maid that my osier had moved and had thus
opened it walked straight past her into ! aU . the no , rro , r of the event,
the drawing room.
“Well, Jane!” I cried.
A pale, middle aged woman rose as I
came in, and I stood aghast. It was not
my sister. It was'soon explained. She
„ — 0 -~ j, j , was a little pettish about it, poor woman! , ..
you would not care to see them, would j It seemed my sister had quite recently I 011 t °1 tae theatre, but instead of taxing
yon? I would not have any one else ’ changed her house, and the present oc-1 113 1° 77 ■ (bre 7 lon we f a 7 e after
catch sight of them for a good deal, but cupant had been pnt to some slight'in- i 7 e ba . d ^ m ’ ea ^°J some distance I began
X would show them you in a moment, convenience before by people calling 1 . 9 l 7_that the ca oman was going
The dinner was good, the play better.
I should have come home feeling that I
had enjoyed myself thoroughly if it had
not been for a little adventure with our
cab driver that very nearly proved seri
ous. We got a hansom directly we came
i slightest notice, and continued driving
madly, heaven knows where.
At last, after getting into a very ding}’
neighborhood, we turned up a crooked
dark street, unlit by any lamp, a street
so narrow that I thought every moment
the cab would be overturned. In an
other moment I saw two men rush out
of a doorway. One seized the horse,
which was much blown by this time,
and brought it violently to a standstill,
while the other flew at the cab, and
catching Can- by the collar proceeded to
drag him out by main force. I suppose
Carr did his best, but being only an
American he certainly made a very poor
fight of it: and while I was laying into
the man who had got hold of him I was
suddenly caught by the legs myself from
the other side of the cab. I turned on
my assailant, saw a heavy stick leveled
at me, caught at it, missed it, beheld a
series of fireworks and remembered noth
ing more.
The first thing I heard on beginning
to come to myself was a series of sub
dued but evidently heartfelt oaths, and
I became sensible of an airy feeling, un
pleasant in the extreme, proceeding
from an open condition of coat and
waistcoat, quite unsuited to the time of
year. A low chorus of muffled whisper
ing was going on round me. As I
groaned involuntarily it stopped.
“He’s coining to!" I heard Carr say.
“Go and fetch some brandy.” And I
felt myself turned right side uppermost,
and my hands were rubbed, while Carr,
iu a voice of the greatest anxiety, asked
me how I felt. I was soon able to sit
up and to become aware that I had a
splitting headache, and was staring at a
tallow caudle stuck in a bottle. Having
got so far I got a little farther, and on
looking round found myself reclining on
a sack in a corner of a disi'eputable look
ing room, dingy with dirt and faithful
to the memory of bad tobacco.
Then I suddenly remembered what
had occurred. Carr saw that I did so,
and instantly poured forth an account
of how we had been rescued from a con
dition of great peril by the man to whom j
the house we were in belonged, to whom I
he hardly knew how to express his grati- i
tilde, and who was now gone for some j
brandy for me. He told me a great deal |
about it, but I was so dizzy that I forgot j
most of what he. said, and it was not un-
*il our deliverer returned with the bxandy
that I became thoroughly aware cf what
was going forward.
I could not help thinking, as I thanked
the honest fellow who had come to our
assistance, how easily one may be de
ceived by appearances, for a more for
bidding looking face under its fur cap I
never saw. That of his son, who pres
ently returned with a four wheeler which
Carr had sent for, was not more prepos
sessing. In fact they were two as vil
lainous looking men as I had ever seen.
After recompensing both with all our
spare casli we got ourselves hoisted stiffly
into the cab, and Carr good naturedly
insisted on seeing me home, though he
owned to feeling, a:: lie put it, “rather
knocked up by his knocking down.” We
were both far too exhausted to speak
much, until Carr gave a start and a gasp !
and said, “By Jove!"
What?” I inquired.
They are gone!" he said tremulously
—“my sapphires. They are gone! Stolen!
I had them in a bag around my neck, as
you toM me. They must have been
taken from me when I was knocked
down. I say,” he added quickly, “how
bout yours? Have you got them all
right?"
Involuntarily I raised my hand to my
throat. A horrid qualm passed over me.
'Thank heaven!" I replied with a sigh
of relief, “they are safe at home with
Jane. What a mercy! I might have
lost them."
Might!" slid Carr. “You would have
lost them to a dead certainty; and mine
are gone!” And he stamped and clenched
his fists and looked positively furious.
Poor Carr! I felt for him. He took
the loss of his stones so to heart, and 1
am sure it was only natural. I parted
from him at my own door, and was glad,
on going in, to find Jane had stayed up
for me. I soon figured in her eyes as
the hero of a thrilling adventure, while
her clever hands applied sticking plaster
ad libitum. We were both so full of the
events of the evening and the letter
wliich I was to write to The Times about
“I am the black sheep of the family.”
I really think adventures, like misfor-
tunes, never come singly. Would
believe it? Our house was luv.w.
that very night. Nothing
of
you
broken into
- serious came
it, wonderful to relate, owing to
Jane’s extraordinary presence of mind
She had been unable to sleep after niv
thrilling account of the cab accident
and had consoled herself by readin®
Baxter’s “Saint’s Rest" by her nHt
light, for the canary became restless and
liable to sudden bursts of song if a candle
were lighted. While so engaged she be
came aware of a subdued grating sound
which had continued for some time be
fore she began to speculate upon it.
While she was speculating it ceased, and
after a short interval she distinctly
heard a stealthy step upon the stair, anil
the handle of the passage door before
mentioned was gently, very gently
1
[to be continued, j
CA.STOHIA.
Bears the /9 Kind (on H3vb Always Boi'^fd
Signature
of
. H. SGHBOOFR,
Dealer in
AM
SNUFF AND PIPES,
Mail Orders from Burke Cocntj
Solicited.
£02 BROAD STREET, CORNER CEN'THE . |
A UG USTA, G A.
iimwaaniiBgui;
Give your order
for a nevr iall suit
to
MANAU,
The Tailor
Way nesboro, Ga.
His fall goods have!
arrived and are beau-f
tiful.
Examine them.
FINE MILLINERY.
Miss Ella Hughes,
-Dealer in-
FASHIONABLE MILLINERY, NOTIONS AND
734 Broad Street, AUGUSTA, GA.
The ladies are invited to call and see my elegant stoc-R 0
Millinery and Fancy Goods at the most reasonable prices.
THOMAS P. FACAN
-Dealer in-
Wines
-AND
Liquors
Bottle and Case Goods,
919 Broad Street,
Augusta, Gfeoi i0 ' lil
Long Distance Phone. 455. Jug Trade and M al ^
promptly attended.
1G.
'-v;.