Abergavenny Chronicle

COAL IN GAS-MAKING. I At a large gas plant in Holland the ex- periment has been made of mixing peat and the coal with excellent results. The quality of the gas is satisfactory, and a considerable saving of coal is effected. The charge for the retorts is made up of two parts by weight of coal and one of peat; the peat is entirely consumed, eo there are no- by-pro- ducts. It was found that if peat alone was used the retorts became over-heated, because of the steam resulting from the moisture that is always present in peat. —

DURING SLEEP. I Horses always point one ear forward when they sleep. Why this is done no human being can tell, but the probability is that the practice is a relic of the time when they wetewiJd and obliged to be on their guald, even if asleep. Cattle, on the other hand, are apparently. indifferent as to the position of their ears while sleeping, and no matter what position they are in both are always pointed alike.

I' BE ROBUST m Marshall our bodily force. 80 that S yon 11,, a really .J1.,alth.eart7. f happy UteS Health is primarily an r A aftalr of the digestive pystem. No one i f can be really robust Whose digestive T otE8nl"aUoa is uuequal to its task of I ptIovkUac due nourishment for the 4 bód. Ensure efficiency In the dig- f estive system by the judicious Q88 of A Pffi  riLLS tIt- 9M an.0 well-tested stomachic A F upd- ttvpr corrective. Iteecham'* PJUi f m should always be takecx when bilious- M V ness, headaciAe. poor appetite, flatu- T f lence, pain afpere#ttints constipualon' V and evident lack of nervous energy* f begin twlnterf ere with the work and A enjoyment «( life. Anyone who is i conscious of a falling,.off .in general f 0 health will do well to take Beecham's m Pills. The difference this ntedictne DáakM Is remarkable, the appetite Q A speedily Improves, the eyes grow A f brighter, sleep la more refreshing, f M In fact there is a speedy all-round A Improvement in health and spirits. 4\ f Be robust 1 Beecham's Fills WILL HELP YOU A t j*re?fw? only *y x f r?O??SBBBC?M?f,S<.??«?LMc. f ? SObI"'fIe f ? la tMM, ?tw?? /<.Jd ? 3a.'4. f

I CLUB WINDOW. I Mr. Lloyd George, the Prime Minister, ao quired much of his fluency of speech b, speaking when a young man on many topics at the meetings of a debating society. Mr. George Roberts is known among his friends r# "Georgie. He is blessed with an extraordinarily good temper. In the House one night at question time one mem- ber bet another that he would make J\1r Roberto lose his temper. The member whe undertook to do this heckled Mr. Roberts severely over some matter, and affected not to understand his replies, which he re- peated, giving them quite a wrong inter- pretation. But "Georgie" stood the test, and sat down looking as cheerful and as un- ruffled as ever. Sir Edward Henry, Commissioner of Police for the Metropolis, whose men have had so many puzzling crimes to elucidate during recent years, is himself a vej* capable detective. On more than one occa- sion of late he has personally taken in. hand a murder inquiry and carried it to a suc- cessful conclusion. Thomas A. Edison's favourite pursuit is chemistry. Even as a boy telegraphist get- ting his first start towards a career, this inclination was manifest in his experiments with batteries and electric devices, and it still remains his greatest pleasure. His laboratory is splendidly equipped. Every known substance ranging through all the kingdoms of matter from lanthanum to shark's teeth and including over 200,000 specimens is kept on hand for immediate availability. It is a collection of over thirty years' standing, encouraged from time to time by prizes for new additions offered by the inventor to his men. Mr. Edison's own laboratory table is never, in any circumstances, allowed to be touched. A notice posted on the doorway reads to the effect that Mr. Edison is not to be disturbed in the course of his experiments except for matters of the utmost importance. So fond is he of his beloved pastime that he declares his idea of heaven is to be able to continue it, and his injunctions.. to his staff are, "When I die I want my table forwarded to me by wireless." A good story is told about the Bishop of London. It concerns a week-end he spent at a friend's house in the country. On the Monday morning he was playing tennis with his host's son, a young Army officer with whom he' had frequently played before. Usually the Bishop more than held his own. with him, but on this occasion it was not so. Between games he remajeked to his oppo- nent, "I simply can't stand your service to- day." "Then we're quits," was the cheeky reply. "I couldn't stand yours yesterday." < Here is a story about Sir Douglas Haig. Sir Douglas was in a great hurry to get to a certain place: He found his comr, but the chauffeur was missing. So Sir Douglas got in the car and drove off by himself. Then the driver appeased, and saw the car disap- pearing in the distance. "Great Scot!" cried the driver, "there's 'Aig a-driving my car!" "Well, get even with him," said a soldier standing by, "and go and fight one of 'is battles for him." Lord Chelmsford, the Viceroy of India, 18 the head of a famous family, of whom the most distinguished member perhaps was the Lord Chancellor of former days. His father was the General Lord Chelmsford, whose name was so prominently before the public at the timo of the Zulu war in 1879 and the disasters at Rorke's Drift and Isandlwhana. These misfortunes, however, were retrieved at the battle of Ulundi which followed. The French President is up every day at Six o'clock, summer and winter, rarely in bed before an hour after midnight, and, in spite of the fact that almost every minute of hi3 day is occupied with official work, manages somehow to read a portion every day of a favourite Latin or Greek author. His menu is severely simple. Here is the, PresidenVe favourite war-time dinner: Soup, poached eggs, oranges and cream, coffee. • When t8 Rt. Hon. Winston Charchill was a boy at Harrow, his mother, glancing through his pocket-book, saw a number of entries of small sums, ranging from 2s. 6d. to 5s., against which were the letters "P. G." Thinking this must mean the Pro- pagation of the Gospel, she asked her son why he did not give a lump 6um and a larger amount to so deserving a cause. "That is not for the Propagation of the Gospel," he replied. "When I cannot re- member exactly on what I spend the money I put P. G. which means Probably grub.'  said to an Mr. Rudyard Kipling once 6aid to an interviewer, "I do my daily task conscienti- ously, but not all that I write is printed. Most of it goes there!" pointing to a waste- paper basket. Lord Leverhulme, the soap king, as is well known, holds strong views in regard to the "temperance question," and never loses a chance to point a moral regarding the evils of strong drink, as he conceives them. One day, in the course of a morning stroll in the country, he overtook a labourer walk- ing along with a big black bottle protrud- ing from his pocket, and entered into con- versation with him, pointing out the misery which had resulted from the bottle, and earnestly exhorting the man to avoid its contents. The man smiled; then with the air of one anxious to oblige, he took his bottle from his pocket, uncorked it, and emptied the liquor into the road. His Lord. ship's face beamed with pleasure, and, handing the man sixpence, he said: "Take that it will buy you something better." The man, to the disgust of Lord Lever- hulme, entered a public house and spent the sixpence in beer. The liquor he had thrown away was cold tea. His Honour Judge Parry, who has written several amusing children s books, had a pleasing compliment paid to him some years ago by Mr. J. L. Toole. The latter was so delighted with the judge's "Katafcampus" that he ordered special boxes of chocolate, labelled "'Katawampus Chocolate," and sent one to each of the author's children as a Christmas present. # • Sir Wilfred Stokes, who is fond of garden- ing, tells a good story of a neighbour of his, a retired Army officer, with similar tastes. One day this gentleman was busy in his back garden, when a canvasser came round the corner of the house rather hurriedly. "I've been at the front," he began, "arid ——" The old officer beamed on him as he interrupted to ask, "Have You, indeed, my man? And were you wounded?" "No," said the man. No, sir, not exactly. But"- with sudden heat--n if your blessed dawg had had his way with me I should ha' been, Tried to bite chunks out of me. he did, the brute I" # # Mr. John D. Rockefeller was rather more that, sixty years ago, earning about eighteen I shillings a week; yet, as he stated eome years ago, "Out of that sum I paid my washerwoman and the lady I boarded with, and saved a little money to put away. I did not make any obligation I could not meet. I lived within my means, and my advice to young men is to do just the same."

NATURAL SOURCE. OF POTASH I Cactus and the Mexican prickly pear plants are said to. contain sufficient potash for utilisation. The prickly pors contain 84 per cent. of water and 4.87 per cent. of ash when burned. The ash contains 9.8 per cent. of potassium oxi'de, equal to about H.4 per cent, potassium carbonate. This shows a yield of 0.7 per cent. of potassium car- bonate from the fresh green plant, or nearly fifteen and one-half pounds per ton.

Mr. Frank Bulkeley Hughes, the soldier candidate for the Abercromby division of Liverpool, defeated by Lord Stanley in the recent election, has been appointed general secretary of the National Federation of Discharged and Demobilised Sailors and Soldiers. i

THINGS THOUGHTFUL LUST OF AVARICE. The lust of avarice has *0 totally seized upon mankind, that their wealth seems rather to possess them than they posseae their w-ealth.-Pliny. WATCHING OUR RIGHTS. The people who are always suspiciously watching lest someone infringe upon their rights are very likely to overlook the greatest riffht of all-the right to be gene- rous and kind. Watching people as probable enemies is an attitude which makes it almost impossible to treat them as friends. THINGS WE MISS. As someone has said, the best thing about our rights is that, being ours, we can do ae we please with them. We can fence in our property, watch our privileges, and jealouslj guard every jot and tittle that belong to us, but we never can live a happy life in that way. We are protecting our so-called rights at the expense of wasting our blessings, and are missing our share of the love and the usefulness that make up life's happiness. COURAGE. He nothing hath who nothing dareth; Who runs no race no laurels weareth; He finds no pearl who never seeketh; No listener he who never speaketh. Who never kneels no blessing winneth; He ends no task who none beginneth; No sheaves he brings who never reapeth; No song he sings who silent keepeth. The ship that leaves the harbour never But safe at anchor rocks for ever, Lulled gently on the bay's soft pillow, Outrides no tempest, breasts no billow. The ship that proudly sails the ocean, And fearless braves the storm's commotion. Some far, fair isle one day she gaineth Where blue skies smile and beauty reigueth. KEEP HAPPY. Life may be real and earnest, but it need not be always gloomy. It is because we know that life is a hard battle for most of us that, we ought to try and cultivate a cheerful demeanour, and endeavour not to add to the depression of others by parading our own woes. GOD'S WHISPERING. Now, believe me, God hides some ideal in every human soul. At some time in our life we feel a trembling, fearful longing to do some. good thing. Life finds its noblest spring of excellence iu this hidden impulse to do our best. There is a time when we are not content to be such merchants, or doctors, or lawyers, as we see on the dead level, or below it. The woman longs to glorify her womanhood as sister, wife or mother Here is God-God stand- ing silently at the door all day long—God! whispering to the soul that to be pure and: true is to succeed in life, and whatever we get short, of that will burn up like stubble, though the whole world try to save it.- Robert Collyer. PROSPERITY AND HAPPINESS. They who ha<e never known prosperity, can hardly be said to be unhappy-; it ia from the remembrance of joys we have lobt, that the arrows of affliction are pointe&- Mackenzie. WORK! Work! for up the eastern sky Climbs the sun the while we waits, Chances come and pass ua by; Still we stand and hesitate, Doubting, fickle, faint of heart. By and by we cry, "Too late!" Work Our lives before us lie Like the marble-sbapeless still; We must carve them to success With an earnest heart and will. It is in our hands to choose— Shall it be for good or illt YOUR WORK. Every piece of work which is not as goods- as you caw make it, which you have palmed dC imperfect, meagrely thought, niggardly in execution, upon mankind, who is your paymaster on parole, and in a sense your pupil, every hasty or slovenly or untrue- performance, should rise up against you in the coùrt, of your own heart and condemD you for a thief.—Stevenson.. DURING A CRISIS. It is the critical moment that shows the man. So when the crisis is upon you re- member that God, like a trainer of wrestlers* has matched you with a rough and stalwart antagonist. "To what end?" you ask. That you may prove the victor at the Great Games. Yet without toil and sweat thia may not be.—Epictetue. FOR THOSE WHO SUFFER. God of the Everywhere, bend down and fold them Under Thy wings—where'er the sufferers be! 600 of all Knowledge, in Thy keeping hold them, We, ot the Earth's grey mist, trust them to Thee! God of all Times and Tides, lay touch of healing On doubt-suspense-bruised body—soul of pain; Help up to trust the purpose, love-revealing, Which at the last will make life's tangle plain! —Lillian Gard, in "The Queen." LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOUR. No one can love God with all his soul, mind, and strength, without loving his neighbour as himself, any more than the earth tan gravitate towards the sun with- out attracting t-owarde( itself the moon by the same force of gravity.Eliha Burritt. HINTS. The grandest and truest and sweetest things are always hints—no more. The minute you try to be literal and explicit wjtp them they are gone. You cannot arg-ue or explain the things of the spirit. The highest and most intimate perceptions are glimpses. Things said all out are plati- tudes feeling analysed and explained is dead before it is dissected—dead, and it is time it was buried.—Mrs. Whitney. THREADS OF GOLD. Little self-denials, little honesties, little passing ivords of sympathy, little nameless acts of kindness, little silent victories over favourite te-mptation&tbese are the silent threads of gold which, when woven together, gleam out so brightly in the pattern of life that God approves.—Canon Farrar. SLOW SYMPATHY. Be touched with tenderness and sympathy for all that this life can fcel and can suffer, and dd: not dare to add a pang to the burden of the worWe, sorrow. CHEERIWESS. Cheenness is a thing to b& more pro- foundly grateful for, than all that genius ever inspired-vor, talent ever accomplished. Next -best to natural, spontaneous cheeriness is deliberate, intended, and persistent cheeri- new, Which we can create if we so desire, can cultivate and 'can so foster and cherish that after a few yeaM the world will never sumeot that it was not ,Hi hereditary gift,- Helen Hunt Jwkson.

While serving at the Front as a chaplain, the Rev. John Asb, United Methodist minister, of Cowes, has been killed. Writing from West Malvern regarding- his resignation, the Bishop of Hereford says: "It is a 'satisfaction to feel that my leavings when a schoolmaster, being suffi- 'cient to supply all my wants, enable me to retire without laying on the Church or on my sueeeasor the harden of a pension.

la Si ia Si iii |S1 a iii I'iQ iii Ci) £ L11^1 tai [ALL RIGHTS EKSXBVXD. ] I A Master of Deception By RICHARD MARSH, Author of The Beetle," Twin Sisters," &c. CHAPTER XXVII. THE GXM EMAN'S DEPARTURE AND THE LADY'S EXPLANATIONS. In the morning early Mabel Joyce knocked at the door of Mr. Elmore's bedroom with a jug of shaving water in her hand; knocked softly, as if she did not wish to rouse the sleeper too abruptly from his rest. When no answer came she clung to the handle of the door, as a tremor seemed to pass all over her; then, presently, knocked again. Still no reply. She bent her head towards the panel, listening intently. Then, suddenly, decisively, rapped three times and waited. Still no reply. With a quick movement she turned the handle and passed into the room; and, when in, closed the door rapidly be- hind her, standing with her back against it, in an attitude of one who was afraid. She looked towards the bed. It was empty; the sleeper had awakened himself from slumber, had risen, and had gone. Putting the jug beside her on the floor, she passed quickly towards the bed; leaning over it, she stared at something which caught her eye upon the pillow. On the white slip was » dark red 6tain. She put out her hand, clutched it with her finger, withdrew her finger, and looked at it. Part of the redness had passed from the pillow to the tip of her finger. All at once she dropped on to her knees beside the empty bed, and, bowing her head upon the coverlet, stayed motionless. Then rose. again to her feet, looking round her, Her glance caught something on the dress- ing-table—an envelope. Moving towards it, she snatched it up. It was addressed simply, "Mrs. Joyce." Although it seemed scarcely likely that such an address was in- tended for her, she ripped open the flap, and took out the sheet of paper it contained. "DEAR MRS. JOYCE,-I'm off, to another world—the world beyond the grave. I'm more of a coward than I thought; and yet I don't know that it's quite that. I have tried to cut my throat in bed-your bed; but my hand bungled. I have made rather a mess.—and then I stopped. It seemed rather a prty to spoil your bedclothes, and I did not like to feel the razor. I am going to do it another way—outside your house, in a place I know of, where I hope no one wilf ever find me. 141 want no coroner to sit upon my body, and I want no jury to make me the subject of their eilly verdicts. "I have heaps of reasons-I daresay you'll hear enough about them before long. I'd rather you heard of them than other people heard of them, when I am not here. It is because I am so anxious that the hearing should take place behind my back that I am going. I don't quite know what I owe you, but I believe I'm a little in arrears. You'll find ten pounds on the table; it should more than pay you, and even make up for the week's notice which I have not given. All my possessions that I leave behind—and there are quite a number of decent suite of clothes—are yours. Do as you like with them. If you sell them, and get the price you ought to get, you should not do badly. "Tell everybody what I have told you, and, if you like, show them this letter. You have not been a. bad landlady; I don't suppose I shall be better suited where I am going; nor have I been a bad lodger; if you get a better you'll be in luck. "Say good-bye to Mabel. There is a portrait of a kind in the locket which you will find near this envelope. I think I should like her to have it.—Your one-time lodger. "RoDNBY ELMOM." 'IT you think I shall find it lonely where I am going? I wonder!" The girl, having read this letter to the end, caught up an old-fashioned locket; doubtless the one referred to. Opening it, there looked out at her the young man'a fnce-a miniature, not ill-done. She pressed it to her lips, not once, nor twice, but again and again and agaih. Then, shutting it, slipped it inside her blouse. She gave another rapid glance about the room, moved hither and thither as- if to make sure that there was nothing left which might tell more than need be told; then, passing hastily from the room, went not downstairs to her mother but upstairs to the lodger overhead. At his door she also knocked. Response was instant. « "Who's there? Come in!" She went in. Mr. Dale was sitting up in bed. She stayed close to the door. "He's gone!" she said. Mr. Dale, although he seemed but re- cently roused from sleep, seemed to grasp her meaning in a moment. "Gone where?" "He's left this." She tossed the letter she had been reading so dexterously that it fell just before him on the bed. He caught it. up and read. "What's it mean?" ,he asked. She seemed to consider for a moment. At any rate, it means one thing—he's gone." Mr. Dale leaned back, looking at the girl as if he were endeavouring to find something on her face which should give, him a hint what to say next. When he spoke again it was slowly, as jf he mea- sured his words; yet bitterly, as if behind them was a meaning which scarcely jumped to th^ eye. Look here, Mabel, this isn't going to be an easy thing to do. I'm going to have all my work cut out if it's to be managed. You know what I mean by managed. And, as I'm alive, I don' t want to do it for nothing -and I don't mean to." "What do you mean?" If the tale's not to be tA),Id-you know what tAile-jt must oe on terms. He's been —a blackguard; that's what he's been. But I don't want to talk about that now." "I shouldn't, especially as I expect mother Will be caJlingme before you've done. The shade of sarcasm' in the gIrl s tone made the man regard her with knitted brows. r "Never you, mind about your mother; I know all about her. For once in your life you'll just listen to me. Mr. Rodney Elmore bas gone, vanished from the scene—he'« dead cere's this letter to prove it to any- one who doubts it." The speaker grinned. "Im not dead; I'm alive—very much alive; and I want you to take a particular note of that." • Do you think I don't know that you're alive T Mr. Dale s tone grew suddenly fierce. haven 1 got Mr. Rodney Elmore's pre.4Y tone nor his pretty manners, nor his ty., worJ,I; ? I do care for you." He laughed- "?. ?1 keep my mouth shut, and others to k?p tIrS chuil will you .top 9ut'ug me aSf I %ere dirt, and treat tf I were a man?" "I'U tt Y"?, as you i,?; I'll do what- me "Ia'ls l t?at y?111 be your slave, if-if you do that. She stood close up against the door with both hands pressed against her breast, and her woMs seemed to come from her in gasps. As ? saw that very trnth she 'suffered I b. d ..ue B ureo. his whole bearing underwent a sudden change. He all at once grew tender Mabel, 111 make no bargain; Ir d it- for your ifiake; aod-I'U trust. to you for 1 my reward." or m With odd suddenness she turned right round so that her back was towards him, Md her face pressed against the panel of the door. Her pain emed ? hurt him. "Don't—don't do ?tha? t! Id rather—do what he's only pretended to do tb an give you pain.  uf-, just try haru to cheer up, if It, > us enough to help you to know what oug,ht to be done to know whaT.t ?oug? ht to b.e f?don? The suggestion affected her in a f ashian which perhapB took him llttle She turned again as suddenly as she had done before, this time toWS2, hIm. Her €^ee Mazed; the words came swiftly I?m er h 8 lip'Is?.Do you think that I don't know what I'm going to do next? Do yon hasn't been in my mind all night! Why. I've got it all cut, and planned, and dried. Leave that to me; all r want is for you to see "—her voice fell—"the tale's not told. "It shan't be if I can help it; and I think I can." The words still came swiftly from her. "Say nothing to mother, say nothing to anyone; leave me to do all the telling—you know nothing; that's all you've got to know. You Understand?" His voice as he replied was grim. "Oh, yes, I understand." "Then, for the present, it's good-bye." She went from the room to her own on tile landing below, put on her hat, her coat, and her gloves, and went quickly down the stairs. Seldom was a pretty girl ready more quickly for the street. She already had the front door open when her mother called to her. "Mabel, what to goodness is the matter with you? Where are you going?" The girl seemed for a moment to be in doubt whether or not to let her mother's question go unheeded; then decided to vouchsafe her at least some scraps of infor- mation. "Mother, I believe Mr. Elmore's gone." "Gone? Mr. Elmore? What's the girl talking about?" "His bedroom's empty, and there's ten pounds on the dressing-table, and I'm going straight off to the City to see." "To the City!" The astonishment of the lady's voice wafc justified; she came quickly along the passage as if to learn what might be the significance of the mystery which she felt was in the air. But her daughter did not wait for her approach; she was through the door, had shut it with a bang, before her mother had realised what. it was she meant to do. Miss Joyce did not go to the City: she went instead to No. 90, Russell Square. There she inquired for Miss Patterson. She was told the lady was at breakfast. "Tell her-tell her that I'm Miss Joyce, and that I must see her—at once." The maid went into a room upon the right the dining-room presently reap- peared, with Miss Patterson behind her. Gladys came out into the hall. "Miss Joyce! You wish to see me? On what business?" "Somewhere—somewhere where we'll be private." Gladys observed her with curious eyes; then she held open the dining-room door. "I'm at breakfast; but, if you don't mind, you'd better come in here." Mabel went in, Gladys followed. The stranger, now that they were alone, pre- sented such a woebegone picture that, in spite of herself, Gladys was moved. You don't seem well-are you ill? Hadn't you better-sit down; here's a chair." She pushed the chair towards her visitor, but Mabel would none of it. "No, it doesn't matter, I'd—I'd rather stand. My mother was Mr. Elmore's land- lady." "Joyce? Oh, yes, of course, I thought I knew the name; I remember." Perhaps, un- consciously to herself, Gladys' tone hard- ened; she drew herself a little straighter, she even moved a little away. In spite of her obvious trouble, Mabel noticed. "You needn't be afraid of me-I shan't bite." "I was not afraid that you would bite. ,What is it you wish with me, Miss Joyce?" "That." She stretched out towards the other a letter. Gladys eyed it askance, almost, one might have thought from her demeanour that she feared that it might bite. "What's that?" "If you take it—you'll see. You're right this time in being afraid; you've cause to be more afraid of that than of me. But it's written by somebody you know well, and —you'd better read it." Still doubtfullv, as if she really were in awe of what the sheet of paper might por- tend she took it gingerly from the other's fingers. Then she read it. And as she read, a curious change came over, not only her countenance, but her whole bearing. When she had reached the end her hands dropped to her side, she stared at the girl in front of her as she might have done at a visitant from another sphere. "What—does this letter, mean?" For answer, Mabel took another piece of paper from that woman's universal pocket- her blouse. She held it out to Gladys, and, even more cautiously than before, Gladys took it with unwilling fingers. This time, as she read it, it was with an obvious lack of comprehension. "What 'on earth is this?" "Can't you see? Isn't it plain enough? It's a. marriage licence-now can you see?" Gladys seemed to make an effort to achieve steadiness, not with entire success, as if to hide her partial failure the went down the room to the seat which she had been occupying at the other end of the table. Resting her hand on the top of the chair, raising the paper again, she re-read it. She. was still; there was a perceptible I interval; she turned towards her visitor. Her face seemed to Have aged; one saw that as she grew older she would not grow better- looking. "I see that this purports to be a licence of marriage between Rodney Elmore, who, I presume, is my cousiu-11 He's your cousin, right enough." And—Mabel Joyce. Are you. the Mabel Joyce referred to?" "I am; we were to have been married to- day—at noon sharp; the registrar-he'Ube waiting for us, but he'll have to wait. Mr. Rodney Elmore, that's your cousin and my husband that was to, be, he's bolted." "Bolted? I see. Is that what this letter means? "That's just exactly what it means." It doesn't mean that—he's—he's killed himself? Not much it doesn't; I know the gentle- man. It simply means that, for reasons of his own—I'm one of them, and I daresay you're another-he's cut and run." Gladys' tone could scarcely have been more, frigid, or her bearing more outwardly calm; unfortunately, both the frigidity and the calmness were a little- overdone.  I see. I'm much obliged to yon for bringing me—this Very interesting piece of ne. I belIeve this is yours. I scarcely ?thi?nk r need detain you longer She returned to Mabel both the licence end the letter. Enclosing them one in the other, the girl passed from the room out of the house. Gladys stood staring at the door through which she had left, exactly, if she could only have known it, as Rodney had stared when she had vanished the afternoon before. Then she clenched her fists and shook them in the air. "To think that I should ever have been such a fool That I should ever have let him-soil me with his touch. Dad was right. What a fool he must have thought me If I'd only listened, what might not-have been saved Shortly afterwards she entered the office at 8t.. Paul's Churchyard. Andrews advantwd to greet her. Mr. Elmore has not vet arrived." "I know he hasn't; I wish to speak to you. She led the way towards her father's private room; as he followed, Andrews eeemed to reoognise something in her car- riage which recalled his master. There could be no doubt that this was his daughter. When they were in the room and the door was closed, Miss Patterson seated herself in "her father's chair. She looked the man- aging man in the face, with something in her glance which again recalled her sire. Andrews, I suppose you can' observe a confidence? "I hope so, Miss Patterson, I'm eure- your father reposed many and many a con- fidenoe in me, and I never betrayed one of them—I'm not likely now to betray yours. "Right, Andrews, I believe you. I believe my father knew the kind of man who may be trusted; he trusted You, and I will-, Shake hands." She offered him her hand. As if doubtful whether or not he was, taking the liberty, he took it in his. They gravely shook hands. She eyed him for some Seconds as if de- bating in her mind what to say to him and just how to 8nv it. Then it came from her, as it were, all" of a sudden. ?Andrew8, I told you that my cousin, ey Elmore, and I were engaged to be Viarrnxi I was mistake^—We are not. ?P' I don't want you to ask any ques- '?°? that's the confidence I'm reposing in i You- Another thing: You told me when I -n c:i.: ie in just now that Mr. Elmore had not c,):p" yet. Andrews, he never will come a6v.in—to this oiilce." "Indeed, 111i& Is that so, miss?" The girl smiled-gravely. "here, again, Andrews—my confidence! You arc to ask no questions. Neither you nor I will see Mr. Elmore againer. Still one other thing. You remember what my father said in his will about leaving the con- duct of his business in your hands? I echo my father's words; I want you to manage it for me on my father's lines." The old man was evidently confused. He stood staring at the girl and rubbing his hands, as if he found himself in a quandary irom which he sought a way out. "I'm sure, Miss Patterson, that I'm very gratified by the confidence you place in me, and I want to do my best to ask no ques- tions, but-but there's one remark I ought to make." He bent over the table as if he wished the remark in question to reach her ear alone. "I don't know, Miss Patterson, if you are aware that yesterday morning Mr. Elmore drew a thousand pounds from the bank." "Yesterday morning? When did he do that? Not' when we were there?" "It appears that he returned directly after we had left, and cashed a cheque for a thousand pounds across the counter, took it in tens and fives and gold—rather a funny way of taking a cheque like that." The girl said nothing. It came back to her; she understood; the letter-case which had been left behind; her sitting in the cab while he had gone into the bank to fetch it. Letter-case? So the letter-case was a cheque for a thousand pounds; and while she'd been sitting in the cab he had been putting her money into his pocket. "Cashed a cheque for a thousand pounds, did lie? Well, Andrews, dad left him nothing in his will-I wonder why. How funny! Then there's still another thing to tell you, Andrews. Let them understand at the bank, as quickly as you can, that they're not to cash any more of Mr. Elmore's cheques which are drawn on my account. Now, Andrews, will you be so very good as to send someone to Mil. Wilkes, and give him my most respectful compliments, and say, if 'he can possibly spare a moment, ,1 should like very much indeed to see him here at once." When Miss Joyce got home she found, waiting in the sitting-room which had so re- cently been Rodney's, Mr. Austin. The gentleman regarded her as she came in with an air of grave disapprobation. You are, I believe, the landlady's daughter." Mabel nodded. "I have just had a few words with your mother, who appears to be an extraordinary woman, and who has told me an extra- ordinary tale." "My mother's not in the habit of telling extraordinary tales to anyone." "Then, what does she mean by-bv talk- ing stuff and nonsense about Mr. Elmore's having gone, and—and I don't know what besid es?" Miss Joyce drew a long breath, and seemed to nerve herself for an effort. She had had a good deal to bear that morning, and to retain even a' vestige of self-command needed all her efforts. "Mr. Austin, Mr. Elmore has gone, and he's left a letter behind him in which he pretends that he has committed suicide; but he hasn't, I know better. But here's the letter; you might like to look at it." He read the letter with which we are already familiar; and it had a very similar effect on him as that which it had had on others, only in his case he read it over and over again, as if to make sure that its meaning had not escaped him, yet that its meaning had escaped him his words made plain. "You—you may understand this letter, young woman, but I certainly do not. What —what docs this most extraordinary, and, as it eaems to me, inconsequent, letter mean?" "I'll tell you just as shortly as I can exactly what it means. And, perhaps, when I have told you you won't ask any more questions than you can conveniently help, because—I've had just about as much to bear as I can manage. Rodney Elmore- I'm not going to call him Mr. Elmore, I've as much right to call him Rodney as any- body, in this world; he's got himself into a mess, and I'm one of the, girls he has dis- appointed. Why, he promised to marry me to-day at twelve o'clock." "He—promised! Young woman!" "Here s the licence to prove it; but—I suppose he daren't face it; so he's gone, and he's fooled me, and I'm not the only one he fooled. Has he fooled your daughter?" Your question, put in such a form, I entirely decline to answer." "You needn't; I know. And, mind you, I don't believe he's gone alone either, where- ever it is he has gone to. What's the name of that girl down at Brighton that he was so thick with, your son's sweetheart?" Mr. Austin started as if something had stung him. He stared at the girl with grow- ing apprehension. You can't mean-?" "Yes, I can. Wasn't her first name Mary? I have heard the other—it's a queer one- and I forget it. But you ask your son, if he cares for the girl, to make inquiries, and if she's missing, and he wante her new address, to find out Rodney Elmore's, an4 •—he'll find hers." CHAPTER XXVIIL A CONSPIRACY OF BILINei. There are few worse half-hours in life than that in which a man finds that the one per- son whom he has liked, and respected, and trusted, and believed in before all others, is a scamp, a liar,-and a cur. As Mr. Austin sat cowering in the corner of his cab it was to him almost as if he had been these things instead of Rodney Elmore. He ascended the steps of the Kensington houte a little stiffly, a little bowed, a little shorn of his full height; he bore himself, indeed, as if he were ashamed! It was with a sense of shame that he spoke to his son, who was apparently just about to go out as he went in. "Tom, I want to speak to you." The lad looked at his father with surprise., "Why, .pater; what's wrong?" The father closed the door of the room into which he had preceded his son. There was something shifty in his bearing. He seemed unwilling to meet the youngster's glances. Tom, what was that you were saying about—about Marv Carmichael? The lad smiled, ruefully enough; there was an awkwardness about hif; manner. He turned away, as if on hie side he had no wish to meet his father'e. All I can make out is that she has gone. It seems that while that old aunt of hers was out yesterday afternoon—she vanished. She just left a note behind hbr to say that she was going and that they weren't to bother, because she wasn't coming back; but they'd hear from her some day—she couldn't say j.ut when." "Tom, she's .gone with Rodney Elmore." The lad swung round as on a pIVOt. Pater J What do ygu mean?"pivot. The father told the story as he knew it, the lad listen.ing-firit as sooae in a dream, and then as one in a rate. Then, with gasp as of astonishment, ne blurted out: "But what about Stella?" "Yes; what about Stell" Stella's here, and-" "Why, where's Rodney! I thought, father, he'd come with you." Mies Austin had come running it the To eagerly, happily, laughingly, taking it for granted that h lover was within. As she looked from her father to her brother, and noted the oddity of their manner, her eyes grew wider open. "Father, wher-e-where :is Rodney Po Then the father told the tale to her; it *vas the hardest task ho had ever had to perform. The girl first scorned him, then laughed, then doubted; and then; in a fit of what was very like-fury, announced her in- tention of going in search of, Rodney, whom she declared she believed to be cruelly as- persed, and learning the truth from his own hps. It was with diSenlty she was stayed. When she, at Wt was brought to under- stand, she was already another Stella from the one her father had known. She was not to be comforted. And when her mother came, and heard the story, too, she put her arm about her daughter's waist an d led her to her room, and there remained, atone with her an hour or more, When she cape out she also was another woman; aid her daughter was in her room, flooe. And that, to all intents and purposes, so far as it is known, is the end of the story, though the Teal end is not yet. Snch stories take a long time ending. Sometimes, they are continued in the generation which comes after, and never end. Mr. Philip Walker Augustus Parker was tried for the murder of Graham Patterson, and, appa- rently to his complete satisfaction, was found guilty. The law plays such pranks oftener than it is commonly supposed. The story he told was so well put together, all the joints fitted so well. As the judge in- structed the jury, they really had no option; on the evidence there was only one possible verdict; and that was returned. Mr. Parker earned his credentials; he was sent, as hA desired, on a lengthy visit to Broadmoor. The whole story might have fallen to pieces arnd his visit to Broadinoor been indefinitely g>st.poned had the platform inspector at light?on station-Edward Giles—given his evidence in another way. A few questions Would have changed the whole face of affairs, but they were not asked. He told that it was he who had helped Graham Patterson into the carriage, and also that there already was some- one in it when the dead man entered. At that point the questions which were put to him went awry. He was asked if the prisoner was that other person; he replied that he did not recognise him, but as, when the witness had entered the box. Mr. Parker had greeted him with that un- pleasant little chuckle of his, and had pro- claimed that he recognised him, even before he opened his mouth, as the porter, as he put it, who had been of assistance to Mr. Patterson, for the judge, as for the jury, that was sufficient. Giles himself was evi- dently taken aback, and while he declared that he did not recognise the prisoner, he admitted that if Parker had not been the man in the carriage, he could not under- stand how he recognised him. So Mr. Parker had his wish. Mr. Andrews is still the managing man, as well as a partner, of the firm of Graham Patterson, which continues to thrive on the same sound old lines. And Gladys Patter- sw is the wife of Stephen Wilkes—that strikes even her, when she thinks of it, as queer. How it came about, she has told her husband more than once, she does not understand; she wonders sometimes, fO she tells him, if her father could ever have had it in his mind .that that was the match he wouki have chosen. She is thinking of Hou- ney's words. Her husband laughs, and assures her that to the best of his know- ledge and belief her father never dreamt of anything of the kind. Whereat she thinks all the more of Rodney's words, ha vug a dim suspicion hidden in her somewhere that it was because of what he said that this strange thing had happened, and, in what she feels is in quite an uncanny way. that it was he who brought it all about. Mabel Joyce is Mrs. George Dale, fairly happy, as the average wife's standard of happiness goes, and Dale is happy too; but there is about him a suggestion of solicitous anxiety, as if he would be glad to be as cer- tain of her satisfaction with the way that things have turned out, as of his own. Stella is still unmarried and likely to re- main so. She is not quite the ordinary type of girl. When she gave her heart to Rodney Elmore it was given for ever, although 41to would probably be the last person in the world to admit it, he has it still. Tom is married; was married within six months of his heart being finally broken-to the girl with the mischievous eyes. And he is happy as a man may be and he is a man, even up to his father's standard of manhood. He is practically the head of his father's firm, and a sufficiently effective and energetic head he makes. He declares that it is his wife who has done it, and that she has been and still is and ever will be the only woman in the world to him. He forgets men—and women -.sometimes do. Nothing definite has ever been heard of Rodney Elmore; but among those who knew him in his youth there is a profound convic- tion that he still lives. One day, a month or so after his marriage, there came a postcard to Tom Austin from one of the northern States of America, with just these words on the back Congratulations—good wishes—am de- lighted !—M." He W841 the only person who ever saw the card. He tore it up and burnt it. About him for nearly a week afterwards there was, at odd moments, an unusually reflective air. His wife asked him what he was thinking about "Why," he told her, "what should I think about but you?" He was thinking, wondering how close to M." was Rodney Elmore—his boyhood's friend !-M one result of what was very like ft conspiracy of silence. THR END.