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[ALL RiGHTB RtStRVBD.] {(/' § TTHE MAN HUNT ? UH By TOM GALLON, HH ?\ Author of "Tatterley," "The Great Gay Road," &c. CHAPTER (Continued). ) WHEK ROGUES FALL OUT. For some strange reason Murdoch Slade suddenly stood rigid, dropping on the in- stant a certain restless, impatient move- Trent of the hands and arms that had been Booing on since the man began to speak. --nto his face, too, came a tense look, and all the blood seemed to go out of his skin, leaving it chalk-coloured, with grey streaks here and there. "It sometimes happens that I take a night walk when there's nothing particular to keep me inside," said Adams, speaking always in the same dull, level, steady voice. On the particular night I'm speaking about I happen to be taking a uight walk in a neighbourhood I'm not often partial to, because I don't like low neighbourhoods, not having been brought up in that way. I'd just made up my mind to turn back home, when i see someone coming along at a great rate, without taking any notice of anybody; and it's someone that I'll be able to pick out, even in the twilight of a London street, among a thousand. It's a gentleman called Mr. Murdoch Slade. and if I don't know him I don't know who should." The man paused to take out a handker- chief, and to rub his lips and the palms of his hands with it, as though something in what he had to say had put him almost in a sweat of fear. Neither Litchneld nor Slade made any attempt to interrupt him; only it was noticeable that Litchneld had drawn a little apart from the other man and watched Mm furtively, as though to see the "lIect of the servant's words. "t make up. my mind that I'll eee the end ,i it. and know where my gentle- man is going. I go on, with perhaps a <lozea vards between us, until I come to & pl&ce which, by the name on the corner, 1 }ee t3 known as Leech Street. Mr. Slade knocks at a door, very softly, but with a ,'ertain knock, as though it might be a 1gnal; and presently a young lad comes lown, and after a little parley lets Mr. SIade in. It's evidently only going to be a brief visit, because they do not even take the trouble to close the door. I begin to wonder what it's all about, when I am startled by two things happening. I've taken the precaution to move away from the door, and to stand at the other side of the street in a doorway, watching." At this ponit SIadc muttered some quick exclamation and turned away, only to come back a moment later and to stand listening til'tM more. "I see a voung lady I know come up to the house, and, after waiting for a moment, go in. tjuiekly' that young lady is Miss Hester Wake. I see a. man I don't know at fin;t come up to that door, which Iscems to bc- nttracting everybody to-night; I try to sec his face, but can't. Then, a moment later. I see that man go up to the door and stand there, and by the light of a. street lamp I see who it is. and I begin to wonder what he 1ms to do with it. It's Mr. Rodney Manners." "What? Siade did no more than breathe the word in his astonishment, but his face wasastudv. "Then the most remarkable thing of all happens," went on Adams imperturbably. "From where I s.m standing I can see m,to the little passage of the house, and can see a lio-ht nickering at the far end of it. And pre- Ecnti v someone comes racing out of that house as though death itself was behind him. and that someone is Mr. Murdoch Slade. Now, what do you make of that? The man. with his hands planted on the table, Ican-cd forward, and looked from one face to the other in a sudden triumph that lighted up his dull eyes and sent some colour into his sallow checks. "I make this of it: that either you arc lying or you've invented the thing out of your own imagination," 6aid Slade. I'l I admit that I was in that neighbourhood that night, and that I did go to visit the boy—on a mttcr of business. But I did not. come rushin"- out of the house as you suggest; I r.nlv heard long hours afterwards, that the bov was dld to If vou think you'll make capital out of such' a bungling business of putting two and two together and making ilvc of it, you're verv much mistaken." "There's something €l<;e, said Adams nuietlv. "It was said in all the papers that the lad must have fought hard for his life: and the next morning, while you lay a-bcd, I came into vour room. and I saw your hands as they lav outside the coverlet. They were scratched and torn, just as one might have scratched and torn at them to get them away ;1' from one's throat. It took quite a time for the marks to die out." There was silence in the room for a moment or two, and in that silence it seemed as though Slade stood, like a man. at bay. glanc- ino' from one man to the other. Litchiield never took his eyes from him, and Litch- iield's face was a horror-struck one. It was him, as the weaker, that Slade turned tLt last. almost with a snarl. "Well, and why do you look at me like that?" he demanded savagey. "I deny rothing, I admit nothing. The boy had to do with our work, as you've heard m< say to-night; he was the spy in the camp. I had Eothing to do with the killing of him, ttat I swear. You can believe me or not, as you like; it's all one to me. But he's out o" the way, and I think it would go hard with any- one who tried to prove that I had anything to do with it." "Mr. Rodney Manners was there that night," said Adams slowly. "He may hnow. "Rodney Manners is dead," broke in Slade in' a whisper. "Not yet," was the man's reply. "I had a pood look at the man upstairs, and it seema to me I know who he is, and why it became so necessary to get rid of him. Ar.d now ju:t one other word and I have done. The one other word is this: that you've nothing to fenr from me, provided always that what knowledge I have gets its fair price. I shouldn't do any good if I carried what I know to anyone else; but I can do some good if I'm paid to keep quiet. We're all in this. gentlemen, and it seems to me that without Jail vou can't do much." "How much do you want?" asked Slade :.fter a gloomy pause. "Now you're talking, sir," said the man. I'T want ten thousand pounds." SIadc whistled, and then laughed. "That's out of the question, because I won't pay it; y,tu can go and tell all you know, and do vour worst. Halve it." There was some more haggling, and then nt last t:ie, bargain was struck. Adams was for having the thing put in writing then and there; w:th the cunnjng of his class he felt that that way lay safety. Slade, on the other hund. refused to put anything down in black nnd white, and told the ma): he would have to be content with the promise. And all the while Litchneld said nothing, and stood at one side of the room, with his pale lips work- ing and his light eyes iixcd on the man whom he now dreaded as he would have dreaded death itself. "And now that that is settled, and you feel t4iat you are really one of us." said 81adc at last with a note of irony in his tone, "per- haps we c:'n see about this other business of the man upstairs. Something has to be done, because in the morning we shall have vacated this place and gone back to Lon- don At this point they were interrupted by a sort of suppressed scream from Boyd Litch- itc'ld. Indeed, the nerves of that weakling Lad been strained for some time to breaking point, as horror upon horror had been re- vealed to him; he saw that he had touched here a more desperate business than he had originally contemplated. As they turned to !ook at him thov saw that lie was drawn up ,N, i t l i one arm held UP, close against the wall, with one arm held up, schoolboy fashion, as though to shield him- 'fICIf from some impending blow. "I won't do it-I can't," he whimpered. "Sl%,(Ie, you've got to let me out; I won't go on with it. I never meant it from the nrst— not to go into such a matter as this. For the love of Heaven let me go; I'll never say a word to anyone of what I've seen or what I've heard. I'll starve on the roads; I'll break stones ffT a living-orly let. me go "it won't be necessary lor you to break .stones for a living," retorted Slade. "We ehall all do better than that. But courage is needed, and any whimpering or faltering now may undo all that we have tried to do. You're in this with us, Litchneld; it's too late to try and get out of it now. Courage, man !—by the morning we shall be far away from this place, with our work nnished, and a future freed from doubt and uncertainty. Courage! It was strange to see the servant joining with his master in that. business of encourag- ing Boyd Litchneld to go through with thn work tragedy brings men into strange com- panionship. So afraid were they both of what Litchneld's sheer panic might say or do, that they would not let him go for an instant; they kept him with them, staying his whim- pering, and even attempting in a ghastly fashion to laugh him out of his fears. So they got him out of the room. and out into the silent house; and there the three con- spirators stood listening for possible noises. There was no sound anywhere, and they presently stole up to that room above—SIade leading, and Adams bringing up the rear. Slade unlocked the door, and they went in, and got a light; a moment later Slade was bending over the man upon the floor. After a moment's inspection he turned impatiently to Adams, and spoke in a harsh whisper: "You've bandaged him!" "It would scarcely have been well for him to bleed to death," said the man in a surly tone. "I suppose you're ris'ht." 'said SIade. in a whisper. "Now, Litchneld," he added in a peremptory tone. "you can carry the Ix'bt: tt's about all you're good for, and even that vou'll do badly. I know where to put him; I've thought it all out carefully." Litchneld carried the light in a shaking hand, and went in front, bearing the light aloft; the two mon followed, with Manners between them. So they went down the stairs. pausing sometimes at a quick whisper from Slade, or at some imagined danger indicated by Litchneld, to listen and so at last came out into the grounds. There the fluttering light had been exchanged for a lantern, the whereabouts of which was indicated by Litch- neld. And so, with Slade directing the way, they set eff across the grounds to where the trees were thickest. And as they went Litchneld, who had been looking back from time to time at Slade, as though wondering what purpose was in the man's mind, cried out excitedly "The old workshop!" "I wonder you didn't think of that. before, panted Slade. "He can lie there and rot; it'll take a long time for anyone to find him.' This old workshop, when they came to it, proved to be little more than a rather sub- stantially built outhouse, in which at some time or other some former owner of the place had probably carried out amateur work of some description or other as a hobby. It was strongly built, but the door which Slade kicked open with a blow of his foot appeared to have no latch upon it. On the floor inside they lay down their burden, and SlH.de called impatiently to Litchneld, who was hovering in the doorway. "Can't you keep that light still? I know every inch of this place I went over it one day when I was dov.n here. I probably know it better than you do, Litchneld," he said. "It's no use leaving him in this room; he might manage to crawl out and raise an J alarm. But whoever built this place built for some reason or other a shallow cellar un- ierground I came upon it quite by acci- dent. Hold the lantern." SIade bent upon one knee, as LitchMd held the lantern a)cft, and after some scrap- ing with his hands in the rubbish and old ehavingp found an Lron ring attached to a trap door this doer he threw back. disclos- ing a square opening. He snatched the lantern from Litchneld. and held it down into the cellar. There v.an a .hort rHgbt of stfps leading down into the dark- le sa. "He'll lie there safely hidden, until some day someone hnds a skeleton, and wonders what mystery is attached to it," said SIade, as he got to his feet. "Hold the lantern, Litchneld," he added, with a short laugh— "and hereafter, when you think of this eight, hold your peace." Litchneld, clinging to a carpenter's bench, held the lantern, and averted his face Sinde and Adams took the unconscious man be- tween them, and went with difficulty down the steps into that underground cellar. Thpre they put Manners down in a corner, and, without pausing for anything, climbed the steps again, and pulled the heavy trap-door into its place. T hen, at a gesture of com- mand from Slade, Adams put his weight against the heavy carpenter's bench, and be- tween them they pulled it across the trap- door, and left it there. As they came out into the grounds Slad.(' stopped and Matched at the lantern, and blew out the light. "I don't think Rodney Manners will trouble I tho world again," he naid in Litchudd's ear. CHAPTER xn. I A CONFESSION. I It ts rcrhapa unnecessary to suggest that neither Murdoch Slade nor Litchfield went to bed that night. It was not exactly a matter of conscience; rather that U\¿:C were so many things to be thought about and ar- ranged; it was a sort of winding up of a tragic business. Adams had gone off to hi° own room, after receiving instructions to have the car ready at an early hour in the morning; and SIado and Litchtield prepared tu make themselves as comfortable as possible for the rest of the night. More than once C;ey were disturbed by sounds above and started to their feet with a wild idea that the unfortunate nl,ii. hidden away to die. had in some fashion or other got out of his prison and was back again into the house. But exasperatingly enough it turned out to be only Mrs. Litch- field, who could not sleep, and was quite cer- tain that she heard noises. So the wretched weary night passed, and in the morning three jaded people at least met fcr an early breakfast, which had been prepared hur- riedly by the startled housekeeper, who had known only that morning that the house was occupied by Mrs. Litchlield and by Grace in addition to the first comers. But little was said over that meal. The tadiea looked furtively at each other, a):d Litchfield was in such a state of abject ner- vousness that he started at every sound, and once fairly leapt out. of his chair when t.ih: housekeeper inadvertently banged a door. Indeed, he made a bad conspirator at "Le best, and, although lie longed to say -on)c- thing to Slade, his fear of that man kept him silent. L To Mrs. Litchfield was left the unpleasant task of dismissing the two old servants .d of seeing that they left the premises. There with a few indignant prc't-csts on their p::rt. a,nd some tears on the pf:rt of the woman especially, but both had "put by," and the amount produced by Slade in addition tc their actual wages was sufficient to serve as balm to their wounded feelings. So that at last their keys had been delivered up lild they were actually out of the house, with such luggage as they possessed piled on a. !iy that the man had brought from the station. "Are you going to leave the place to go to rack and ruin. Boyd?" asked Mrs. Litchfield with some indignation. "You don't seem to understand," he re- torted testily, "that it has got to be sold up —or something else done with it. Haven't t told you," he added in a whisper, "that we're all in SIade's hands and that he can do what he likes with us? If we "tick to him, we shall be all right, but we can't, go against him. Above :11 things, we can't wait now, '.vith the car nt the door; any personal be- longings can, I daresay, be fetched after- wards. There's S!ade '.houtir'g now and wanting to know if we're ready; pray come an. So the lady took her seat, tearfully enough, in the car. together with Grace: and Eoyd Litchneld, after seeing that everything was fastened up, came out to join them. Slade, standing buttoning his gloves, looked at the car and at the party with the air of one who to the last up his mind la dispose of everything and everyone in his own way, and issued his commands. "Adams—you' have to sit with the ladies; Mr. Litehneld will he in front with me; I want to talk to him." That was the arrangement which, above all others, Litehneld would have been glad to avoid. He suppressed a groan, and in- deed turned it into <j, cough, and c!Imbed to his seat beside Slade, who was to drive. And so the journey to London wns begun—and begun in silence. Despite Slade's suggestion that he wished to talk to Litehneld, he scarcely opened his mouth during the whole 'journey, and it is more than probable that he made the arrangement originally in the fear that Litehneld might talk unwisely to the others. It was only when they were Hearing London that Litehneld, bending to- wards his companion, made a frightened re- mark. "Suppose anyone takes that house—or wants to look over it. Suppose after a time they nnd him—dead—in that underground place? Have you forgotten that the house is mine?" "I have borne that in mind," said Slade quietly as he turned his head and looked at the shrinking man with a peculiar smile. "I bear everything in mind. But you needn't worry; I'll see you through this, and a great deal more besides." The starting of the car that morning had roused a certain poor prisoner from strange. uneasy dreams. Manners awoke, cramped and tortured, and faint and weak. and tried to move. It seemed as though heavy weights were holding him down, and that in some strange way the room in which he found himself had a ceiling very close to his head and smelt unaccountably musty. For a Mme, as he lay there, he tried to make up Ms mind what it was exactly that had hap- pened to him. He could remember nothing since that moment when, in the corridor of the house, he had seen Adams facing him, and, turning abruptly, had seen a blinding fla..sh and fallen where he stood. After a time he managed to turn a little; the effort caused him to scream out with sudden pain. A faint light seemed to come from somewhere just beside him, and by it he made out that some of his clothing had been cut away and that his wounds had been bandaged. After a time he managed to drag himself to where the light was, and found that it came in through a low, unglazed win- dow, with bars across it, near the roof of his prison, and giving on the outside straight on to the ground. With a further painful effort he managed to reach one of these bars and to drag himself to the window and to raise a cry tor help. That cry went echoing through the still, clear morning air, but found no response. He fell back again, with a certain dread hopelessness beginning to steal about his heart, for he now began to remember things. He had a dim feeling that, as in a dream, he had been carried, swaying horribly and racked with pain, in men's arms through the cold night air, and that someone had walked in front, carrying a swinging lantern. He stretched up an arm painfully, and just con- trived to touch the roof of his prison pre- sently, with difficulty, dragged himself along the noor of it, until he found, in the grow- ing light above his head, a trap-door. There were the steps up which he could crawl; he might yet be able to force his way out of the place in which lie w: But though, with what strength was left in him, h.<' heaved and pushed against the trap-door, it would not move. He realised that in some fashion or other it had been fastened. With a groan of despair he fell back down the steps again, and lay for a long time motionless and with closed eyes. He was roused from a stupor by a curious sound that was going on near him, and that seemed in some unaccountable way to pene- trate the half-delirium in which he was, and to bring back old scenes in his memory. It was a pleasant Sunday morning again, and he had put on an easy tweed suit, in place of the conventional frock coat, and waa going for a walk through the pleasant streets, with Rags, the terrier. And Rags \va.s jumping and dancing all about him, whimpering and barking with delight. He could hear the sound of the whimpering quite distinctly now in his dream. He opened his eyes and looked about him. The dream w'M over. but the sound was {Toing on in his brain just the same. He cradled again to the window, and laid hold of the iron bar to draw himself up to it, and suddenly found that the fingers locked round the iron bar were wet-licked by a little ex.ger, feverish tongue. This was something from the' world out- side. He drew himself up feebly close to the window and peered out. There was the dog. half mad with excitement, and striving hard to get at him through the bars. There was life and hope in the mere touch of the tittle creature's head as he stretched a hand through to fondle it. "Good Rags' Good boy! What are wo to do for ourselves now, I wonder?" he whispered feebly. "I can't get out-and you can't get in. I wonder if you can help me?" The dog had lain down on the gra<?s out- side, with his muzzle just tlirust through the bars, waiting. His mere stump of a tail was going rapidly, but he did not seem to understand the situation at all. Manners lay on his back thinking of this tiling, and of this one tiny scrap of communication be- tween himself and the world that should help him. And after a time 6onic of his ol(t courage seemed to come back to him. and. with a little laugh that was half a sob, he rolled over, and began industriously to search through his pockets. A scrap of paper and a pencil What wonderful things they were 'at a time like this—if only he could depend on his messen- ger With much labour he scribbled on the 'scrap of paper a message, carefully giving the address of the house in the grounds of which he was held a prisoner. And at tho bottom he wrote: "Come to the old carpen- ter's shop in the srounos." (To be Concluded.)

I SOAP BUBBLES.I

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I -CLUB WINDOW.

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-''fJ IS THIS WEEK IN THE…

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IHOW TO KEEP THE GRASS GREEN.

IMAKtNG SCENTS.

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THE POULTRY YARD