Abergavenny Chronicle

RUINED YPRES. ¡- _r. This photograph shows the Cloth Hall and Cathedral at Ypres as they appear to-day. These famous buildings have been the glory of Ypres for centuries; the German bombardment has left of them only ruined walls and shattered towers.

I Q-Q.o..o-o-o-o-o-o- 0-0-0-0- II 0 [AJZ RIGHTS RESERVED. ] 1c). l ? t IN SPITE OF EVIDENCE$ 6 BY 9 LILLIAS CAMPBELL DAVIDSON I 9 Author of "The Missing Finger," "Tempted," Sec. A -O-O-OO-{)-(TO-O-O-O-OOO SYNOPSIS. i GERALD VANE with a letter of introduction, goes to dine with 2tyr. Harcourt. He is interested in jade, of which his host has a wonderful collection. Sir. Harcouits daughter Celia dines with them, and afterwards leaves to go to a dance. Vane who has rpitntly come back to England from abroad, is much attracted by the girl, and, watching for her to cross the hall to the dour, he tees a maid hand her a note, the reading of wh ch M ems to agitate her. lie hears her say that she will stait ft;r tne dance now, although the ma;d savs the cab has come too early, While examining the valuable jade ornaments with his Vane fancies he sees a face at the window. Later on Mr. Barcourt goes to another part of the house U> fetch some documents. He does not return, and after watting some time fltre )tirt goes in search of him. He finds him in the ttudy dead. He has been shot. A small pistol lies close by, and an e scea also a small white object, which he picks up from, the floor belore the servants come In. The police and the doctor arrive, and pi«ent!v Celia returns from her uance. llie doctor breaks the news'to her and after the jlrt ?ho. k ? M!c: is over she declares that her Mner must have knled hnn.^eif. Vane is disturbed at seem? in her eyes the look he had seen earlier that nit?ht when t\Z iitt ^feaar r^hoorreroor r to ?'' ^,ef°re she went ?the d?. ^?liue fd can-not decide. He returns to bis hoM d In hIS room takes trum his pocket the white object he had rickd up nearMr H0U'i8 ?y. is Celia's handker- chief ZLI u V'°me where he found it! And how was far^rom thp I >n' !'? committed suicide, that the pistol was ? ? ?rfr??. ??' ? T?MtioDs he cannot Mswer. ?? do? ?.r mention h.s doubts at the inquest, and the jury return a verdIct of HWcIde, The leading of the will shows that thp v ■while /LI M I? 'ejection of jade has been left to a muMum, 'wUe CelIa ",? left almost penniless. He is already in love with and has more money than he wMte. Can he win her kiTe 7 be "'onder M Calling at the house, Vane finds Celia under the chaperon- age of Mrs. Acton, the doctor's mother, who gives him no opportunity of talkmg with the girl oni anything but ordinary tOpICS. After a fortnight's absence oilbusiness he returns on the day when the collection of jade is being removed to the museum. Celia is left almost penniless, and is anxious to find work to do. She appeals to him for advice, and he asksher to marry him. After much persuasion she consents, and Vane sends for his cousin, Miss Heathcote, to Stay with her until they can be married. The wedding-day arrives. Both Vane and Celia had done all they could toO ensure a quiet wedding, but somehow the news got abroad, and Vane, arriving early at the church, finds the building full of people. He is accosted by a Miss Bridger, to whose house Celiu Iiitl gone to a dance on the night of her father's death. Miss Bridger asks Vane to remind Celia to return a valuable handkerchief which she had lent her on that night. She informs Vane that Celia arrived late at the dance, and insists that that was the case, although Vane declares that he saw her leave her father's house in the cab long before the time of the dance. He remembers the hand- kerchief he picked up beside Mr. Harcourt's body, and wonders where Celia can have spent the time between leaving her father's house and arriving late at the dance. Vaguely dis- turbed, he goes into the vestry to await the arrival of the bride. Some time after the hour fixed for the wedding he Mee her maid enter the church. She beckons him. CHAPTER XIII. I THE DISAPPEARANCE, I Without waiting for an instant to con- eider, Vane came out of the vestry and hur- ried down the aisle. There had been but one idea in his mind as he saw that woman stand and beckon. Celia, was ill! When he reached the porch the girl had gone. He looked round helplessly for an instant. Then he caught sight of her flying figure running across the square that lay before the old church. He needed no further signal. He held up his hand to a cab. The cabman turned, whipped his horse towards him. Be- fore he could draw up at the kerb Vane was inside. "Red Lion, as quickly as you can," he said rapidly. The cabman flicked his whip, jerked at the reins. Vane had time to draw to himself a hundred agonised pictures of Celia suddenly taken with mortal illness be- fore the cab rumbled swaying up to the toor of the Red Lion, and jerked up short. ?ane was out of the door as the thing wayed Its last sway. He made a spring for the open door of the hotel. He hurried bhrogh the empty hall. He had only one rnIllg delre-to get to Celia—to find out what was the matter—to do all that he could. In the ?ridor that led to their private si?n ?'?o? he came on Celia's maid, pant- I "19 ? breathless. Swift as' had been his t>ace ? n tlle ?- she had outdistanced him.  ean againsi the wall at the top of the stair ca''c--her hand on her side, her face e madc, a hasty gesture towards her, b"? UL he Wavpd him on. He pressed on to tli sIttIng-room door, burst it open. In the middle of the room stood Cousin Mary, visibly in agitation. She was wearing a neat coat and skirt of heliotrope. She ahad. tied a new veil over the feathers of a not quite new hat. A pair of white gloves lav on the table beside her. She came forward with a rush towards Vane as he burst into the door, leaving it open behind him. To his astonishment she passed him, shut it, locked it1 before she turned to speak. "Celia! What is iU" His own voice sounded strange to his ears; it was so shaken and alarmed. His quick glance round the room had shown him that his bride was not there. No one was there but Cousin Marv. The discovery only increased his Apprehensions. "What is it? What's the Matter?" he cried out. And his voice now was harsh and imperious. "Oh, my dear! I don't know I only Wish I did. That's why I sent the maid for You. I'm nearly frantic. I didn't know ^hat one ought to do, or what you'd be thinking! Twelve o'clock and past, and the Redding was to have been at eleven." In hIls anxiety he did not stop to lament over lost hours. "Celia! What's wrong with her? Why aren't you with her? Where is slier" Little, elderly Cousin Mary began to cry, the slow, reluctant tears of age running down the furrows by her mouth and drop- Ping slowly on the front of her coat before she could grope for her handkerchief and find it. She caught her breath in a sudden sob. "Oh, my dear! If I knew! If one had any idea of it! That's just it!" "It? What's it? What do you mean? Have you sent for the doctor? What does he say about it? "The doctor? Oh, it isn't that! She isn't ilL At least I don't know if she is or not. That's the worst, somehow. If one knew anything. But it's so absolutely dreadful to stay here and not be able to do anything. If one knew where to send to look for her; If she'd sent word where she was going I did tell Brown to run up to the cemetery—I thought she might have gone out early to have a last look at her father's grave, but she hadn't been there. The man in the lodge at the gate said she hadn't been. She was torturing him—torturing. i "I can't stand much more of this," he heard himself say gruffly. "Tell me where Celia is this instant. Why didn't she come to the church?" tfOh, my dear! As if I wasn't telling you. You won't let me get it out. Haven't I said I don't know? Nobody knows. She's gone out, and hasn't come back. She walked out of the hotel just at breakfast-time. She hasn't come back. Nobody's seen her. What 'II" eJ J "nail we do--wliat shall we <lor" Gone! Celia gone? Where had she gone? Where was she? The utter impossibility of making even a suggestion fell on him like a black enveloping cloud. She had gone out of the hotel hours ago, and never come back. On her marriage morning! Impossible, in- credible—senseless! There was some mistake. And it was not till poor little Cousin Mary, wiping her tears with a trembling hand, had repeated her tale again and again that be, lief began to creep slowly into his in- credulity and chill him with a cold hand. Then he went straight across the room and flung a door open. It was the door of Cella s sleep in --rooni-sacred till now from all profane ga/.e. He stared round the room, where the chambermaids had not vet come to do their usual office. The little' bed lay with the snowy clothes thrown back. There were dressing-slippers kickea across the carpet, a litter of hair-brushes on the dress- ing-table, with the open dressing-bag ready to take them. A dressing-gown lay flung across the back of a chair. Brown, trem- bling, agitated, confronted him, and began to explain in faltering words. "The lugga.go had gone off to the station, Bir. I sent it at the time I was directed. My mistress told me I might go and see the wedding if I was back at the station to meet you and her with her dressing-bag. "When did she go out?" Vane stood on the threshold of that little girlish sanctum and looked round him with a stab at his heart. ."It must have been about half-past nine, sir. I was out of the room just then, and when I came back she wasn't here. I thought she had gone to speak to Miss Heathcote, perhaps. She was ready dressed all but her frock when I went to fetch some labels for the luggage. She had her break- fast here on a tray. She and Miss Heath- cote both had, this morning. They thought it would save time, when there was so much to do. She'd taken only part of it-look, sir, pieaj-e. She pointed to a tray on the table I by the window. Vane saw the half-finished coffee in the cup, standing cold and skimmed over, the egg that had been broken, the roll that had been cut. He let his eyes roam round the empty, silent room. There was no- thing to speak and tell them. What in Heaven's name had happened? "She went out in her black frock," broke in Miss Heathcote. "See, here's the one she was going to have been married in. no old black one wasn t packed. We decided she wouldn't need it. It was too warm for the South of France." "Yes'm," broke in Brown eagerly. "She went out in the black. They say down- stairs that one of the chambermaids saw her going out. And the black hat; here s the grey one. Brown took up the pretty grey wedding hat with its long feathers and held it up in triumph. Then Vane roused himself. "Where have you looked for her?" he cried angrily. "Where have you been to look? She must have had an accident, been hurt, detained, and you are chattering over hats and frocks and idiotic rubbish while she's needing help." He took a step to the door, then threw a word back over his shoulder to his cousin. "Tell the hotel people to send over to the hospital-to the police station. If she's been knocked down by a motor, or slipped and hurt herself, she must be somewhere. Tell them to look." He was out of the door and down the stair- case before Cousin Mary conld find words to respond. He did not stop or turn as he hurried from the doorway of the Red Lion. He had no notion where to go, what to do. He was too frantically impatient to have stopped to speak to the hotel people, or find out what they knew. Only one thought possessed him. Somewhere, somewhere in that wide town she was in trouble, danger, it might be, needing his help. CHAPTER XIV. I BAFFLED. I He went recklessly to the hospital. No news of her there. Then to the police station, with a similar result. Like Brown, he made his hasty way to the cemetery. She might have gone to take a last look at her father's grave, have forgotten how time went, have been taken ill there. But the gates were locked, as was the curious custom of the place on Tuesdays. One could only gain admittance by ringing at the porter's lodge. Vane got in so, after a word or two with the porter. The man's declaration that Miss Harcourt had not been there did not satisfy him he preferred to make sure for himself. But the place of graves stretched empty, except for a mourner or two in deep black laying flowers on new graves, tidying the grass or the gravel about older ones. He hurried in turn near enough to each one of these to make cer- tain she was not Celia. He came away, feel- ing baffled, to plunge through streets again and about squares in a quest as vague and wild as it was agonising. There was noth- ing to go upon. By this time it was past one o'clock. As Jr. crossed the open space near the river. where the old brown church stood, he could see the files and knots of people coming away from the church. The news of the bride's disappearance must have reached them bv now, and thrilled them with a new interest He said Something under his breath, and hurried back to the Red Lion. Something might have transpired since he came out. Something had, it seemed. A waiter was standing looking up and down the street, in front of the open door. As Vane came in sight lie vanished inside the hotel. Vane felt his heart contract sudden^ at the sight. They had news. What kind of news? He saw the form of the stout landlord come to the 'door and stand there awaiting him, as, flushed and breathless and disordered, he came along the pavement. The landlord stepped aside respectfully to let him enter. "Beg pardon, sir," he said with a cough, "but boots has just been to the station with the luggage, and he's back again. He says Miss Harcourt left by the nine fifty-eight for London." "For London? Left by train?" Vane stopped short and stared at the landlord in- credulously. Then, at the significance in the man's face, he suddenly stiffened. What did he mean by that look of meaning, as if they were sharers of some secret? "Yes, sir; the nine fifty-eight, sir. Boots had taken up Miss Harcourt's luggage early. Her maid told him to wait there for her. He hadn't more than got on the platform when a gentleman came up and told him to put the things into the van. Boots, ho didn't think as it was Miss Harcourt's orders, and he said he wouldn't do it with- out. The gentleman he seemed put out, and he argued. Then he went a way, and Miss Harcourt came out of the ladies' wait- ing-room. She gave Boots the order, so there wasn't anything to do but go by it. He gave the luggage to a porter, and he sees it put into the van. He had to wait for a commercial as was expected by the nex train, and when he got back here there was luggage waiting to go up for the twelve. That's how we didn't hear till just a bit ago, begging your pardon." "The station! Miss Harcourt! Iinpos sible!" Vane's mind refused to accept so wild a story. "He must have been mis- taken," he said shortly. No, sir. Of course he knows Miss Har- court. He couldn't take any other lady for her. He says he was struck aback by seeing her there, when he thought she was to have been getting married, and she spoke to him and told him the luggage was to be done with as the gentleman said. Boots noticed as she'd been crying, and seemed upset- like. The blood rushed to Vane's head sud- denly. For a moment his ears buzzed. Then he found himself saying slowly and mechani- cally: "Thank you. I understand. Miss Harcourt was called away suddenly. Sho hadn't time to send a message." He walked on towards the stairs and went up them, walking all at once like an old man. The landlord looked after him, shrugged his portly shoulders, went back to the bar and its visitors. They were waiting eagerly to hear how Mr. Vane took it. It was a knock- down blow for a poor chap. "I'd as soon anybody give me a slap across the jaw," said the sprightly barmaid, "as treat me as she's done her young man. I should be fit to tear the eyes out of her if I was Mr. Vane, so I would; and him such a good-looking gent. I felt the first minute I heard it there was another man in the business. Why couldn't she say so straight, and not leave him to be shamed in the eyes of all the place? I call it mean of her-the little cat!" "She didn't strike me as a cab," protested one of the commercial gentlemen who made the Red Lion their headquarters. "A pretty creature, I thought, as I'd ever laid eyes on. [ saw her coming through that very hall. It'll be some old sweetheart she's tiven up for this one. She found she coiddn't give him up at the last minute. But what beats me is that it was all so sudden. How did she know where to meet him? It must have all been planned before." "I don't believe a word of that," said the barmaid scornfully. "She got the letter this morning. Postman brought some letters for her. Boots took them in, and he says the postman said when he handed them that one was addressed to the old house, but he brought ittjon nere straight from the post- ofEce, knowing the house was empty, and Miss Harcourt was here with us. That give the roundy vouz, you may depend on it, and then she ups and off." There was nothing more to do that day but to sit and wait for the telegram or tho letter that Vane, persisted in hoping for. None came. Dreary night settled down, and still there was silence. To-morrow came and passed, another day dragged out its length. There was nothing more. WThen a fortnight' had gone and Vane, haggard, white, looking1 the wreck of the man who had strode to church a triumphant bridegroom, had come to the utmost limit of his agonised en- durance, he spoke to Miss Heathcote. "I can't stand any more of this, Cousin Mary. I'm going to get out of this purga- tory. If you'll stay on a bit and be here if she should write or wire, and let me know, I'll be for ever grateful to you. I shall be in town. You can write to me, or telephone, when there's anything." And Miss Heathcote, wiping her eyes, had agreed with him that the position was too intolerable. She could see what he was suffering. It was aJI a mystery-a horrible night- mare mystery. Vane had lost his bride on her wedding day—snatched away from him in the very moment of his elation. Where she had gone, who had been the man she had chosen instead of himself, how she could have found it in her gentle, tender soul to treat him so abominably, those were ques- tions no one had an answer to. The whole town rose and called her disgraceful. They couldn't have believed it of her. It was only Vane who still held out against the public verdict. There was something in all this he could not fathom—that was past all understanding. But Celia! He could not, he would not, join in the general clamour of denunciation. He knew her too well for that. There had come again to his mind this start- ling revelation made to him in the church by Miss Bridger. That, too, he could not account for. That handkerchief of Celia's that still lay folded away amongst his own handkerchiefs, the su btle, clinging scent of violets still pervading it. The time she had spent somewhere—where?—that night of her father's death. The face Vane had seen at the window, shadowy still in his memory, yet still holding its definite place there. They were all part and parcel of a mystery too deep for him to fathom. No one at the station could give him any satisfactory account of the man who had been her companion. No one could tell whether the man had met and joined Celia there, or whether they had come to the station together. Some people thought he was young, some old-come that he was a stranger, others that they had seen him be- fore. Only one fact was certain: Celia had forsaken her waiting bridegroom at the church altar to go away with this man, and the waters of oblivion had flowed over her exit. She had gone from the little world that held her—gone as completely and as finally as if the earth had opened and swal- lowed her. Vane went to town. After a few more weeks of disappointed waiting, Cousin Mary followed him. Not a word had come from Celia-not a sign, not an explanation. Vane went abroad by and by. He went to Switzerland, plunged into remote valleys, climbed distant heights. He wanted to for- get, to put out of his mind that bitter dis- appointment that would colour all the rest of his life. Then, at the end of a couple of years he found himself once more in Eng- land. And the second chapter of the story suddenly opened. CHAPTER XV. I THE COMMAND. I Celia had been up early on the morning of the day that was to have been her wed- ding day. She had breakfast in her room, or, rather, she was beginning to eat it when a rap came at the door. Brown was away downstairs on an errand. Celia, sitting in her dressing-gown, called "Come in," but there was no response. She got up and went to the door then. It was one of the waiters, who had an apology ready for her. "I brought up your letters, miss. I couldn't find a chambermaid, and I thought there might be a 'urry." She thanked him, took the little heap of letters from the tray, shut the door, and went back to the breakfast table. As she went, she turned over the letters rather indifferently. They were merely business letters for the most part-a bill or two still left unsettled, some circulars, a letter from a friend out in Australia. She turned them with the fingers of one hand while the other held them. Then all at once she stopped short. The blood flew to her face in a torrent, then ebbed again, leaving it pallid. She stood still in the middle of the carpet, her eyes fixed on one of the envelopes. It was addressed to the old home. She stood and stared, and one might have heard her breath catch. It was almost a gasp of consternation. "Oh!" she said, verv low, and she drew out the sound till it breathed like a long, long sigh. Then she dropped into the chair, as if she could not stand on her feet any longer. She broke the envelope open. Her face was set, and cold, and rigid as she read. There were only a few lines, and they had neither beginning nor end. "I am at the old place. I came to-night, and am leaving to-morrow morning. I must see you. Come as soon as this reaches you. It is urgent. I am in ex- tremity. Don't tell a soul, or let anyone see you if you can help. It's the old thing." She let the letter fall into her lap, and for just a second her look was dazed—hope- less. It was as if all the castles of hope she had built about her of late were dashed to the ground and shattered by a strong, sud- den blow. She felt dizzy under it. Then she cast a swift glance at the clock on the mantle, got up from her chair trembling. She flung off the dressing-gown, hurried across to the wardrobe and pulled out the black frock with the heavy crape trimming. All her other black things were packed and in the boxes. She couldn't put on her new grey—oh, she couldn't! She must go un- observed, that was imperative. She would not be long, surely she would not be long. What had to be said could be said in a few minutes. She could get back before anyone had even missed her. All these thoughts shot through her mind in a swift, flurried procession as she fastened the frock, searched for the black hat and coat, tied on a veil with shaking fingers. Her purse lay on the dressing-table; she snatched that up and put it in her pocket. Instinct told her that that at least was sure to be wanted. There was no one in the hall or on the staircase. Luck favoured her. No one stopped her or asked where she was going. It was only as she reached the bottom of the staircase that some one saw her, and half forgot it the moment after. She sped along the streets with rapid steps, choosing by instinct the mean ones. She hurried on and on, till the houses began to grow thin, and mean, squalid crowding gave way to shabby, decayed gentility standing in its own neglected garden. Berti stucco had peeled off, and gateit sagged from their hinges, and the fronts of houses and the paint pot had not even a bowing ac- quaintance. Celia went on with swift steps till she came in front of one of the houses. It stood in what had once been a garden, now was a wilderness of tangled trees and shrubs, grown rank and straggling. The grass be- neath was here and there long and matted, here and there worn away, and the bare ground showed strewn with broken bottles and old tins. Celia walked up the broken flags to the door, pulled a crazy bell, and listened while it faintly jangled. An interval, then heavy steps came along bare boards from some- where. The door creaked slowly open, and a woman's disordered hair round an un- brushed head showed at the opening. Celia said a low word under her breath. The head nodded, the woman drew the door wider. The girl stepped across the threshold, and the door was instantly closed behind her. "In there?" She motioned towards a door to the left. The woman nodded again, said "Yes" indifferently. Celia went on, and as the heavy foot descended the stairs to the lower regions once more, she opened the door without knocking and went into a room where a man stood waiting. "Ah, so there you are!" A laugh broke through the words. One would haye said there was relief in it. She nodded soberly. The man stood with his hands in his pockets, regarding her closely. He was young, good-looking in a bold, disagreeable kind of way. He was dressed shabbily, yet his clothes had once been well cut and well made. They seemed to be put on and worn carelessly. There was a curious, restless look in his eyes, and about his whole manner. Celia looked at him with intense soberness. "Yes, I've come, Percy. What is it? What do you want with me? I haven't much time I've only a minute or two." "What's your hurry? Sit down. It's a pretty poor show if I can't have a word with you; I'm in need of vou. I want some money. I'm stony-broke again, and-and it's the old trouble. I've got to get out of any place that knows me." "I brought you all the money I've got. I thought that would be what you wanted." She spoke calmly and without any bitter- ness. She took out her purse and poured what it held out on the table. He fell upon it and counted it greedily. "That's not enough. That's a mere song," he said roughly, looking up at her sharply. "That won't keep me any time. I don't want shillings—I want pounds-yes, and hundreds. How do you suppose I'm to get bread and butter with this?" He flicked at it contemptuously with one finger. "I'm sorry I haven't any more I can get you now. I'll try to send some later." He scowled. "Send it? That won't do! It's now I want it, I tell you. Why can't you give me more? Rot! Why, you're a rich woman. He must have left you every- thing. I've been waiting and waiting to hear from you about it." "He didn't. All the collections went to a museum, and he hadn't so much to leave. I've only got something less than a hundred a year. I He flung his head back and swore savagely. sav"aTghe?l' y. old cheat! He always talked as if he was worth millions! Well, vou've got more than I have, any way. Hand it ever, I want it." "I will send you a cheque for everything I've got," she said. She was beginning to feel herself tremble. "Only I can't do it now. My cheque-book's packed, even. send it, Percy. Only I can't stop longer now. I can't, indeed. There isn't anv good in my staying. She was edging to the door. He walked between it and her and grinned patronisingly at her. "What's the cursed hurry, anyhow? You mayn't see me for a long time again. It's not very affectionate of you." r,( "I can t stop. Let me go. Another time." She was visibly agitated. He was at once seized with a desire to keep her. "Why can't you stop? What's your im- portant business that sends me to the wall, eh?" She broke from the hand he would have laid on her arm, broke from him and shrank, though she tried not to let him see the shrinking. "I—I'm going to be married to-day," she said, half under her breath. "It 6 this morning. You will make me late for it." He dropped his hand and gave a sound that was between a crow of derision and a snort of anger. "Married, eh! I like that. Where do I come in, I wonder? No, no-my dear girl. Drop that kind of thing. You aren't going to get married to-day. In fact" he stopped, hesitated, his eye gleamed sud- denly as if a thought came to him—"in fact you're coming away with me." "Percy! I m not coming! I couldn't! I can't think of it. How could I, in any case? I've promised him." "Oh, as for that, your promises seem to be pie-crust. I could remind you of one that came long ahead of any other." She started, turned a pale glance on him. "Yes, I see you understand. Now then, drop all this silliness. You'll come with me. That settles it. I'm not going to turn over that money of yours to another fellow, when I've the right to it." (To be Continued.)

ABOUT BRIDGES. I The biggest bridge in the world is the Forth Bridge. The British Navy can. pass under it, and its biggest Dreadnought looks like a pigmy in comparison. The highest bridge in the world is the wonderful single span which crosses the gorge discovered by Livingstone, into which the mighty Zambesi leaps in a. fall only matched by Niagara. This liuht, airy-looking structure is four hundred feet above the river-bed, so that the dome of St. Paul's could comfortably stand beneath it. The longest single span in the world is the span of Brooklyn Bridge. It is a suspension bridge, and its support- ing towers are 1,600 feet apart! Imagine the strength of the cables capable of sup- porting such a terrific dead weight, to which add the surging traffic of two vast cities. The two longest bridges in the world are the Tay Bridge in Scotland and the great bridge which carries the railway across the St. Lajvrenoe at Montreal. The most ornate bridge in the world is the Tower Bridge across the Thames. In fact, it is perhaps the most beautiful bridge in existence. It is unique, too, in that it is I-.A)th a girder bridge and a suspension bridge, and is also like the ancient draw- bridges of romance. Its cost was a million and a half sterling, which is just about half the amount the Forth Bridge cost.

KNOWN BY THEIR SQUEAKS. I The Basque mountaineers in Noartjhern Spain adore squeaky carts; but it must* be a certain kind of squeakiness. It ia sweet music to the ear of a Basque mountaineer, whose carts are of a very ancient pattern. The wheels of these vehicles are huge solid wooden discs, and the squeak is predeter- mined and intentional, indeed the louder and worse the sqeak is the more contented is the owner. When the ox-cart comes winding slowly along its squeak is heard afar, and the wife lifts her head and a pleased smile steals over her face as she murmurs, "It is Jose" (her eldest son), or "Juan, my sister's huafaand, passes by," or "Children, it is your father's cart upon its homeward way," for each one knows the squeak of the family cart. In modern San Sebastian the carts are forbidden to pass through the town under a penalty of a fine, but the mountaineer has many friends and kinsfolk there who love the music of his cart, so occasionally he boldly drives it through the streets, and pays his fine. Then he proudly marches his vehicle out again, amid a grateful throng of admiring friends and relatives. ————— ——.——.

The Secretary of State for India has con- sented to the enclosure, as a Moslem ceme- tery, of a plot of ground at Horsell Com- mon, near the Woking Moeque, where many Indian soldiers who died of wounds in this country have already been buried. The Bank of England announces that fully paid crjp certificates 01 the French Five per Cent. National Defence Lean may now be lodged at the Loan Office to be ex- changed for bonds to bearer. The certifi- cates will be retained three clear days for examination.

8ft UUft 8ft WI 8J8 Get well Keep Well | A great many minor ailments are due < | | to a disordered digestive system. So | important is the digestive process S that even the slightest derangement < | of any of the great organs concerned, J Sas the liver, stomach or bowels, will, j > if uncorrected, react unfavourably > | | upon the general health. It will J therefore be recognised at once that • 5 the basis of good health is a sound i digestion. This being so, it is evident | ] > that attention should be given to (he j • • I state of the digestive organs and any < I j symptoms of biliousness, flatulence, < j j ■ dyspepsia and constipation be removed j > • 1 as soon as they appear. One of the < > | best, quickest and surest means of j j > rectifying such irregularities is to j ► | take a few doses of that popular > j medicine—Beecham's Pills. This med- 1 j > icine has many good and well recog- j > I nised qualities. It purifies the blood ( and exercises a cleansing, restorative j i • and health-giving influence upon the | > entire system. A simple way to get I < | well and keep well is to take I | Beecbain's PillS. i Prepared only by ] ) THOMAS BEECHAM, St Helens, Lane. | SSold everywhere > in boxes, labelled is. 3d. and 3s. Oct. ( < • V1.tA,8R"UtUl

t J WASHING DAY. The laundry cart does not call regularly every week at the fighting" fronts, and the soldiers have often to do their own washing. The picture shows French soldiers washing their clothes in a river in Champagne.

BRITISH GUN AT SALONICA. Everything is ready at Salonica for the long-threatened German attack. The photograph shows it heavy British gun being tested in the British line of defence. The presence of guns like this may account for the Germans' hesitation.

"SANDBAG TERRACE." I In the photograph are seen some of the residents of "Sandbag Terrace," ( I a Divisional Battle headquarters in the British lines at Salonica. The j. t place has a very comfortable look, and the sandbag dwellings have N evidently been 11I

BOMB-DROPPING. I When an aviator goes on a bomb-dropping expedition he has fitted on his machine a special apparatus which automatically te-Ilm him exactiv when to drop his bombs to hit him exactly he is aiming at. Most aero- the ob j ect' planes on these raids fly at night, and 60 time their raid that they arrive over the particular town at daybreak. Each machine is fitted with little electric lights which the aviator can switch off and on at will. These lights show him a number of instruments which tell him things he can't find out for himself when flying in the dark. one instrument, called an inclinometer, tells him whether he is flying on a level keel, for example. Another tells him automati- cally how much petrol he has still got in his tanks, another what speed he is travel- ling at, while clocks tell him how long he has been travelling. Many machines, too, carry special apparatus which automatically keeps the aeroplane on an even keel if the pilot is for any reason temporarily put out of action. Bomb-dropping raids, it will be seen, are not quite so simple as they appear at first sight.

For biting an omnibus conductor on the cheek a man at Brixton was sent to gaol for a month. He was sentenced to a further month for biting a boy on the wrist. Sentence of five months' hard labour was passed at Portsmouth on John L. Fleming, clerk to Messrs. Curtise and Sens, shipping agents, for embezzlement.

YOUR FINGER NAILS. I Your finger-nails are as sure an index to B your character as your handwriting. Broad H nails indicate a gentle nature, while thoeo I who have red and spotted nails are fighters, B and have" a disposition to be cruel. White H spots on the finger-nails denote misfortune. H Persons with narrow nails are ambitious, H have a keen love for scientific knowledge, and are quarrelsome. Round nails show a great deeire for knowledge in general and liberal sentiments: also, that their possessors take great pride in their own accomplish- ments, and are rather hasty. Srzpll nails indicate a small mind and an and secretive nature. Nails that grow into the flesh at the sides or points denote that their owners are given to luxury. ————— -——-

The Lord Mayor of Londor, has been elected churchwarden of St. Mildred, Bread- street, City. At Cowes St. Mary's vestry a lady church- warden, or churchwardress, as the vicar put I it, has lrer appointed.