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The San Francisco call. (San Francisco [Calif.]) 1895-1913, September 21, 1902, Image 4

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Persistent link: http://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn85066387/1902-09-21/ed-1/seq-4/

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"Ye-es. now that I recall the^ circum
stances, which seemed . unimportant
enough at the, time, Jessie, Jessie— a nice
girl, rather a . favorite of mine— did say,
when she heard that there was a ques
tion who should go with Miss Grant: •'Oh,
ma'am, if I might, I should be "very
pleased to. do it.' That was all. And I
dare say Miss Grant dldn'f mind the
change, ~ as Jessie had. taken care of her
"Oh, no." Miss Morley's face changed
slightly. "She didn't drive to the station
alone, of course. I am afraid I must
have misled the police on that point.
Quite unconsciously I led the man who
called here to believe that she had been
by herself. I was so startled, so con
fused. He asked if we knew the number
of the cab and had wired Mrs. D'Esterre,
and really I was hardly responsible' for
what I said, though I tried very hard
to be clear and concise. Mrs. D'Esteire
herself . Intended to drive to the station
with Miss Grant, but at the last moment
a very old friend of hers who had been
in India for many years called on her
unexpectedly and a servant was , sent
with Miss Grant. If this maid had been
still in the house of course I should have
thought to mention it to' the policeman
or detective or whatever one should call
him. But Jessie Delancey. was going
home for the holidays at the. very time
Miss Grant was leaving us. She had. her
hat and cloak on, and as her mother's
house was somewhere not far away from
Waterloo Station it was a great thing for
her to drive oft in the' cab with nothing
to pay instead of walking with her bag
to an omnibus. As it happens it was I
who suggested to Mrs, D'Esterre that
Jessie should be sent."
"Oh, then, the maid herself did not pro
pose it?"
"Why, yes, as far as we know. There
was no one who could have gone "with her
at euch short notice, even if—"
"And v did she go alone?"
"I should not think so. ' He made me
quite stupid with his questions. She went
in a four-wheeled cab, after receiving a
telegram which purported to be from Sir
Redways, as no doubt you've heard. He
said she was not to wait for her friend,
Lady Stanton, but was to start at once
alone, and ehe did not seem, to have the
least dread cC the journey, though we
thought It extraordinary that her father
should allow It." . . '/t'
"Yes. But I have Just gone over all
that "with the man from Scotland Yard."
"Perhaps there may have been some
thing he left unasked."
"I swear it upon my honor— and by my
love for her. Miss Morley; for you will
understand that I love her. . I hoped to
see her in Devonshire, but there's no use
going into that, though, for you will have
heard details enough. Will you tell mo
how she went away from this house?
Was It in a cab?"
. "Do you assure me upon your honor
that Miss Grant did not meet you that
evening after she left, or— next day?"
Miss Morley could not help persisting.
After all. thought Miss Morley, who had
missed all the best things in life, . It was
hardly to be wondered at if Cissy Grant
had loved this goodly young man. She
could scarcely believe yet that the girl
had not run away with him to be mar
ried instead of going home. '/£¦;
"May I Judge of that when I have asked
a few questions which I have in my
mind?" Carrismoyle inquired, with an en
gaging humility.
"I've really nothing to tell you," Miss
Morley interrupted him. "It was only
a little more than an hour ago that we
knew there was anything wrong. It was
a terrible chock to Mrs. D'Esterre, for
nothing of the sort has ever happened in
this house or to any member of the
household before. I was awakened at an
early hour this morning by the news that
a person from Scotland . Yard wished to
eee me in Mrs. D'Esterre's absence. From
him I learned that Miss Grant had not
arrived at home on Saturday night as
she ex— as she said that she expected to
do." As Miss Morley spoke these last
words she looked sharply at Lord Carris
moyle. "It* is only fair to tell you, p>r
haps," she went on after a very slight
pause, "that I mentioned to the Scotland
Yard man the Incident in the tea-room.
I remembered your name, and I felt it
my duty, to state for the assistance of the
police that I had distinctly seen you give
a note to Miss Grant, and that I thought
she had also slipped one Into your hand
at the same moment. I added that I had
reason to suppose you had come to the
place at that time by appointment, and
that Miss Grant had been exceedingly,
indexed, most peculiarly agitated just be
fore you entered. Naturally the mystery
of her disappearance seemed easier of ex
planation by the new theory which open
ed out, and I quite thought. Lord Carris
moyle, when your name was sent up to
me, that you would be entirely able to
explain It away. Since you tell me this
I can only say in return that I have real
ly nothing to relate which can help you."
"I have come to ask news of Miss
Grant," he said. "I have been to Stone
cross Abbey— I only came j back to town
early this morning— and— and I have S^r
Redways Grant's permission to try all I
can to find her. Not"— hastily— "that ' I
shouldn't do just the same in any. case;
but I thought perhaps you might "
The young man flushed deeply, and the
look on his handsome face must ; have
been discouraging; for as the spinster
gazed at him in expectancy the hard lines
about her mouth and between her brows
slightly softened.
"Is it possible, Lord Carrismoyle," she
began, severely, "that you have come to
bring news of Miss Cecily Grant— or per
haps I 'should now say Lady Carris
moyle?"
He was shown Into an eminently re
spectable and depressing drawing-room,
and waited with growing impatience for a
long five minutes. Then came the quick
rustle of a woman's dress, and to his dis
may he beheld the thin, narrow-shoul
dered, pink-nosed lady who had been the
girl's chaperon in Bond street only the
Saturday before. He had hardly been
conscious of noticing her that day, ye( he
recognized her Instantly, and saw in her
somewhat forbidding gray eyes that she
recognized him also.
"Miss Morley, then, If you please," an
swered Carrismoyle in his kindly way,
which always won for him the hearts of
servants If already— when feminine— they
had not fallen victims to his black-lashed
blue eyes.
"Mrss> D'Esterre has gone away for the
holidays," said the servant who answered
his ring, "but Miss Morley Is In charge
and at home, sir."
The directions to the cabman which
Taunton would have liked to much to
hear were to drive straight to Ashburton
House In Harley street. Carrismoyle had
never been Inside the house before, but
often since his returif from South Africa
he had walked past It. looking wistfully
up at the windows, wondering which was
Cissy's and hoping that he might have a
glimpse of her. He asked boldly for "Mrs.
d'Esterre.V which he knew was the name
of the principal, though he was far from
certain that the lady might not long ago
have been warned by Sir Redways Grant
against the intrusion of a young man
bearing his name.
Carrismoyle had asked Lester, to wire
him the moment that ther* was any fur
ther news; but as he had not left Way
cross till nearly midnight a telegram was
unlikely to arrive until noon, at all events,
therefore he might remain away from
Savlle-row for : some hours if necessary
without the fear of missing a message,
perhaps of supreme Importance.
THE CORNER HOUSE
CHAPTER IV.
morning, should go out in a cab at 8
o'clock. There was nothing to do in Lon
don at 8 o'clock, Taunton. reflected; yet if
there was anything to be learnt from tne
expression of a man's face. Lord Carris
moyle waK'of a different opinion. Taun
ton would have sacrificed something to
hear the direction given to the cabman.
But Taunton was far too well-bred to
show such an unvaletlike emotion as sur
prise. His lordship had changed his mind
and come back, that was sufficient— at
least, so it might have been Judged from
his manner. But it was not sufficient to
eubdue his well-concealed curiosity as to
¦why Lord Carrismoyle should have sat up
all night in preference to going to bed;
why, though his lordship confessed" to not
having dined last night, he should refuse
any breakfast save a hastily drunk cup of
tea and a piece of toast; and why he who
lisually had, pjeasantlyjazy habits In the
He had not taken his valet to Devon
shire, as the Lesters' was a comparatively
email house, and he had feared to incom
mode them. Now he was thankful that
he had gone, and been able to return,
alone. His visit in the country was to
have extended over some days, therefore
It was a great surprise to Taunton to be
awakened by his master's bell, at an ab
eurdly early hour of the following morn
ing.
Carrismoyle had rooms In a house in
Sa vile-row, and— as he had travelled by a
Blow train— he let himself • In with his
latch-key between 4 and 5 in the morning.
He did not wake his man, who was com
fortably snoring In some vague region at
the back of the house, but lighted the fire,
which was already laid, and half-mechan
ically drew up a big chair In front of the
blaze.
¦Whenever he shut his eyes. If only for
an Instant* he could see that great wooden
box, as large as a coffin, as It had looked
in the lamplight and firelight of Sir Red
ways Grant's "study," half-covered by
the rough sacking with its stains of
brownish red. No wonder that he tried
to forget the hateful picture, by calling
up others out of the past; yet by contrast
they only made this the darker.
Now It seemed that years must have
passed since life was bright and full of
hope, though only a few hours ago he
had come down to Devonshire tingling
¦with Joy at the thought of seeing Cissy
even from far off. He felt aged by years
instead of hours as he traveled back to
London again; for. though he had 6poken
bravely to Robert and Mary Lester, his
heart was sick within him.
Through Mary Lester he had heard that
Cissy had been sent ignominiously to
Bchool, and that, if further signs of dis
obedience were shown she would—
In some vague, unexplained way— be pun
ished for her rebellion with still greater
eeverity. Then had come the war in
South Africa, and almost at the begin
ning Carrismoyle had volunteered f»r the
front and had been accepted. He had
Been some fighting and had done bravely,
as had thousands of <5ther young men
around him. After four months' hard
¦work he had been wounded and invalided
home; and by the time that he was well
enough to go back again and do some
more fighting, there was no longer any
need for that. Men wer-e coming home.
Instead of going out; so he stayed, and
life had been bright and full of hope.
"Till then" meant three and a half
years, but though they would be long in
passing, Carrismoyle knew that in look-
Ing back they would seem as nothing, for
he would love Cecily Grant till death,
and. If it pleased God, into eternity.
"When I'm of age I will marry you, if
you love me till then!" she said, with a
look in her beautiful eyes that showed she
was her father's daughter.
He did see him for a few brief and lurid
moments before he was bidden to leave
the house, if he did not wish to be put
out by the servants. And Just as Carris
xnoyle was announcing that, though he
could not stop in Sir Redway's house
against its master's will, he had no in
tention of giving up Sir Redway's daugh
ter, the girl herself appeared. At first,
6he pleaded with her father for bare
Justice, mere common sense; and then,
when she saw that In his present mood
euch an appeal was useless, she turned to
Carrismoyle and cried that, whatever
happened, while he loved her and wanted
her, she would never give him up.
Carrismoyle did everything In a high
handed way, scorning diplomacy, and, be
cause of his pride and his belief that all
must come well In the end, he did not at
tempt to gain a private Interview with
the girl he loved, but once more bom
barded the fortress by going straight to
Btonecross Abbey and asking to see Sir
Redways.
He thought that Sir Redways would
take his girl home, and he was right. The
cay after they arrived at Stonecross Ab
bey, he put up at the Inn in Waycross
kept by Nella Kynaston's cousin. He
would not go to the Lesters' house then,
though he had often been asked to visit
them in Devonshire, In those dark days
before he knew that Devonshire, favored
above all other earthly counties, was
adorned by a Cecily Grant.
Carrismoyle did go, but with every In
tention of coming back again. Before he
could do that, however. Sir Redways
Grant disappeared with his daughter.
Cissy had not even been given time to
write a note; but ehe left a rose which
somehow found its way to Carrismoyle,
and he dared to take it as a message.
Even without that, he would have fol
lowed her to the world's end, but with it,
he followed more hopefully.
There had been "a scene" between the
two men — the old man and the young man
— *nd when Sir Redways ordered Lord
Carrismoyle out of his prsence, the only
dignified thing was to go.
He let his friend go sulkily on to the
next climbing center they had selected
end when he had known Cecily a week
he proposed to her on a certain wonder
ful morning when they and others had
v.alked up to the Gornergrat to see the
Bun rise. Of course, he told her that
though his name really waa Royal West,
It hadn % t been quite fair to call himself
"Mr. West." and lie explained shame
facedly how it had seemed rather a lark
to him and the Duke of Clonmore to drop
their titles. And he explained all over to
Bir Redways Grant, when he summoned
courage to inform that somewhat formi
dable old Baronet that he had taken the
liberty of falling in love with -his
daughter.
Carrismoyle had looked forward to this
interview with perturbation, because he
was a poor man, and he feared that Sir
Redways was a very rich one. But he
was far from being prepared for the
6torm of angrer that broke upon him. He
did not even understand it at firsl. for Sir
Redways was too furious to be coherent,
and it was some moments before he com
prehended that he owed the outburst not
to the mere deception he had practiced in
hiding his identity, but to the lamentable
fact that he was Lord Carrismoyle. Sir
Redways would not listen to further at
tempted explanations. He would not be
lieve that the deception had been planned
and carried out for any other purpose
Ea ve to trick him into friendliness. He
ecorned Carrismoyle's indignant protesta
tion that the dead Lord Carrismoyle. his
father, had never mentioned the old feud,
never even spoken the name of Sir Red
ways Grant, and that therefore his son
could have had no such object as was sus
pected in concealing the name by which.
he was known to the world.
Sir Redways was a believer in circum
stantial evidence, and evidence certainly
¦ivas strong against the young man— for it
seemed that the quarrel had been a scan
dal on the lips of every, one thirty years
ego, and to one whom it so intimately
concerned, to whom, even In the present.
It loomed mountain-large^ It was difficult
to credit utter ignorance in the son of the
other chief actor in the drama.
flower face, her gold hair; yet it was not
her beauty alone that made him love her.
It was— a thousand things, yet those thou
sand t L«inps after all only made up her
ee'.f. which to Carrismoyle meant perfec
tion — the Ideal woman. She was so bright.
ko sweet, so original: her way of looking
at life v;as so individual, though she was
not yet IS. and had only just been eman
cipated from governesses. The very scen
ery, beheld through her eyes, became
something new and twice as glorious as
before Carrismoyle had heard her ideas
concerning it and its effect upon the
mind.
As he had supposed, there. was not n.
penny in the purse. If there had been
money It had gone with the gold anS
turquoise monogram, and would be less
difficult to dispose of.
.There were several compartments, lined
with^ gray watered silk of the same shade
as the suede outside, but all were empty
or so, he thought at the first hasty ex
amination; but as his fingers delved into
the. smooth depths searching for some
thing tinseen. it felt to the touch as if
»n e^ e B W it r \ S *° methins « tlff « than the
IS f llk T betw , een two of the miniature
• pockets. Looking more closely, and as
sisting his eyesVith his fingers. Carris
moyle discovered that there was a small
extra space. . only large enough to con
tain, a slim little volume bound in gray
silk, which. had been made to fit Into it
as if in a tiny, secret, compartment. So
thick was ; the book, , and so tightly did
It fit, that he could not bring It out of
Its place until he had inserted the point
of a silver paper-knife he carried In his
pocket,' and with that pushed up one end
or the volume.. ¦
For an instant he hesitated before open
ing It, for on the cover, painted in gold
letters. ; were ' the words, "Memorandum
and Diary." . .
He ' had no . right - to Cissy's secret
thoughts,' which perhaps she had written
here. In these pages.' and yet— and yet,
this scruple might be the one thing which
should .break , the new found clew in two.
Cissy would forgive' and understand him.
Please heaven' he would tell her, and ask
for her pardon one; day.
pressed the spring, knowing well
that anything of Intrinsic value which
the purse contained would have been re-
SS^f,^™ thlS ' M ™- dawson's
lodger had been careless enough to l«t
her spoil fall on the floor by Seflre^
Place. But, if the man had meant £
burn the purse, thinking, perhaps that he
had done so, it might not have been emp!
of Papers such as.women of ten carry
about with them. If there were In^l
memorandum for a shopping expedlUon*
written in Cissy's well-known,' well-loved
hand.^remalnlng, Carrismoyle would have
gained a stronger proof against thi 3 man
who called himself Berkeley. "
Carrismoyle's impulse was to spatch the
purse and examine it closely mslde as
well as out the instant the woman's back
was turned, but he knew it would not be
prudent to do this. She vas only going to
fret her bonnet and cloak to go out, and it
would be like her, he thought, to pop un
expectedly into the room again to see If
she could "catch him at anything." And
he did not wish to be caught.'
In case she fulfilled his expectation he
forced himself to stroll' across the room,
'it was not a long stroll) and begin indif
ferently shuffling' about the papers which
lay piled on the blotter Mrs. Dawson had
pointed out to him. Then, if she came
back, he could be carrying the blotter
over to the center table, to be ready for
use when the other writing materials had
been collected. \
*As she had said, under several half
penny papers of recent date lay such a
blotter as is sometimes given away by
certain business .firms, in the form of an
advertisement. Mechanically he opened
it, hoping every second either %o see Mrs.
Dawson and get rid of her once for all,
or to hear the fjjpnt door close.
The blotting pad had not been much
used and suddenly a group of large black
letters, almost in the center of one white
page, seemed to start out to his eyes with
potent meaning. The -words were ay
turned backward, of course, for they were
mere impressions from . originals made
'with such thick black ink that they had
repeated themselves here In almost un
broken ' lines', while the fact that they
were printed, not' written, rendered them,
more.readily decipherable without the aid
of a mirror. ,
Well nigh before Carrismoyle realized
what he was ; reading the scene in Sir
Redways Grant's study at Stonecross
Abbey, came up before him, and orce
more he was staring at the sheet of pa
per which had been found in the mys
terious box. Then," almost simultaneously
with this impression from the past came
the knowledge that here were the same
words, reversed on this piece of blotting
paper.' A'line was missing; if a stranger
had picked up the blotter and seen/ what
Carrismoyle saw he would have suspected
nothing. If he had taken the trouble to
make out the words he would have sup
posed that the writer had been sending
away a Christmas box; but Carrismoyle
was sure that the first line was the same,
word for word, as the crude, cruel state
ment which had fixed Sir Redways' belief
in his daughter's death by violence.
To make assurance doubly sure he hur
riedly held .up the open blotting pad be
fore a small, greenish mirror hanging
askew over the mantel and hardly had he
satisfied himself that he . had not been
mistaken and shut the book again when
Mfs. Dawson opened the door and peered
in.
"I'm Just going, sir," she said, with a
quick glance round. But as Carrismoyle
had calculated, it raised no suspicion in
her mirid that he should be standing by
the table with the blotter to which she
herself. had drawn his attention. A..mo
ment later he saw her pass the window,
in her rusty bonnet and shabby plush
cape; then . he snatched the little gray
purse from the mantel, a thrill eoine
through his fingers with, the assurance
that he touched something which had
been Cissy's.
He carefully set the purse up once more
against the ink bottle. But Mrs. Dawson
Indicated the latter with a clawllke fore
finger.
"You can use that for your, letter, sir.
As for paper, I don't know. There's a
blotter on the side table under" them old
newspapers. I seen it yesterday."
"Berkeley— my Berkeley— and I used to
have a Joke about always writ
ing to each other on big blue
pap»r, like lawyers' paper, you
know," ventured Carrismoyle, naming the
sort most unlikely to be at hand. "It would
be amusing to use" that kind now. N Have
you any? Or, if not, if you wouldn't mind
just stepping out to that shop I saw
round the corner, as18 — er— keeping the
change " . .
He did not finish the sentence, but he
held out half a sovereign. And it began to
appear to Mrs. . Dawson that she was en
tertaining a millionaire. Of course, there
was the danger that he was deceiving her
and wished her valued lodger no good;
but Mr." Berkeley. wasn't the sort of man
who left letters, lying about, and, indeed,
he received very few.
She glanced round the roomTwondering
if' any of her treasures would be endan
gered if this handsome stranger were left
alone with them; but she could see not
ing small enough to be carried away in
his pocket of a nature likely, to tempt
him. And as for her little store of money
it was sewn into her stays, where she
had. always kept it since a thief had
walked in one day, when she was out mar
keting. Besides, this man gave money.
He was not apt to seize upoa and secrete
worsted mats, antimacassars or even
china vases at ' threepence-ha^lf -penny
"apiece. *
She picked up, the first sovereign which
he had laid on the table, and with an air
of dignity • accepted the smaller coin
which he held out to her.
"I'll see what I can do at the shop
round the corner, sir," she said. "I shan't
be much above five minutes."
She knew that she would be ten at
least, for ther man in the shop round the
corner was leisurely- in his ways, but she
thought it well that the stranger should
not feel he tmd time to make too free.
portance," responded Mrs. Dawsmi reas
suringly. "I found it lying on the floor
by the grate just as you. see It, turn and
dirty, but not. being quite - sure whether
Mr. Berkeley wished it thrown away, and
I a woman whose honesty ain'tnever been
doubted, I picked it up and set It on the
mantel till I could ask the gentleman if
'twas meant to go .into the fire or not. By
the look of It 'tain't much use to anybody
—unless it happens to be Mr. Berkeley's
sweetheart's!" And the hideous old
woman chuckled in away that was mad
dening to Carrismoyle.
, "Very well,", replied Carrismoyle, caim
ed by the coming of .'a sudden inspiration.
"Will you bring me some ' paper and let
me r write < here? 1 ' .
"As he spoke, as if by accident he brush
ed his sieeve against the purse, Insecurely
propped ! up-' on -the mantel close to »which
he was still standing. The poor/little
ruined wallet of suede fell to the floor,
and Carrismoyle \ stooped \ to \ pick It - up,
, with : an : apology ; for j his ' awkwardness.' "¦
"I , hope ; iti has not -suffered," 'he said,
turning- the; purse over:: and over. "But
no. I think" these stains '¦ Vere there be
fore." : *;
"Oh, I : don't ; fancy,' sir. It's of any > Im-
; ¦"Not if 'twas a thousand. pounds," re
turned Mrs. ; Dawson, with' a discouraging
appearance of sincerity. "What a' body
doesn't know, a body' can't tell. Not but
what,; if you; was to write a letter, sir, I
mightn't be able to get it to Mr. Berkeley
one.way or another. I don't say I might
not do that.". .
"If this is my. friend Berkeley I , could
tell him something very much to his own
advantage,'' said' Carrismoyle, lying with
an unmoved face, creditable (or discredit
able) to an amateur In deceit. "In his in
terest j I think I might offer j you I another
poundjfor the information."
Carrismoyle took from his pocket a sov
ereign and laid it on. the table./ "In case
I Bhould forget at the last." he said, pleas
antly. "Is Mr. Berkeley likely to be away
over. Christmas ?"
"Oh, .yes, sir, quite that?. \
"Perhaps you could give me his'ad
dress?" : . ¦.'.,¦¦
."Indeed, that I couldn't do. I don't
know it." : . .';• -
1 "It's the man I mean without a doubt,"
exclaimed Carrismoyle. And he: spoke
truly, for Mrs. Dawson's description of
her lodger, and Miss Morley's description
of the man who had looked Into the win
dow of the tea room in Bond-street, had
enough family resemblance to make him
Jump; impulsively to a , conclusion. ; "You
say your ; lodger's away," - . Carrismoyle
went on. "I should like Immensely to
make sure he's— er— my friend, and then
surprise him. When" will he be back?"
. "He didn't say precisely,", returned the
woman, cautious again.
, The old woman's tone instantly changed.
"I'm sure you're very kind, sir, and I
never minds trouble, as Mr. Berkeley
says. WJat's he to look at? Well, he's a
perfect gentleman,' sir, but it's like he's
seen better ¦ days. ¦ He's tall and dark,
with black hair that's turning a bit gray,
and he's got a pair of eyes, set deep in
his 'ead, can look straight through and
through you. And they grow closer to his
nose than most, making a narrow space
In between. Is that like your friend?"
"Of course, if he's the one I mean he
would be," said ©arrismoyle, warmly. "I
know I'm giving you a lot of bother with
all these questions of mine. But when I've
finished I must 1 ask you to accept the sum
mentioned : for; your daughter."
The face of Mrs. Dawson grew, more sly
than ever as she' peered up at Carrismoyle
out of the corners of her queer eyes.
. "He's a very good tenant, sir," she re
marked. •;•¦_. . , \ .
"Berkeley," he said, slowly. "I've a
friend called Berkeley. We've' lost sight
of each other for , some time. What sort
of fellow Is this lodger to .look at?"
1 Carrismoyle grasped the edge of the imi
tation marble mantel to keep down the
start of surprise which went flashing
through; his nerves. For the success of
his quest this was a critical , moment. A
false step and this woman's ! suspicion
would' be roused. Then "farewell to any
hope of extracting " inf ormationl " The
young 'man's mouth was dry as he re
peated the name she had just spoken.
"Another. trace of your daughter, I see,"
said "¦- Carrismoyle, indicating^ the spoilt
purse with affected carelessness and turn
ing to Mrs. Dawson with a forced smile. |
"That ain't Jessie's," said Mrs. Dawson.
."It's Mr. Berkeley's, my lodger's.". •".':
Of course, it was possible that this wa3
an; old purse of I the same 'pattern, pre
sented to Jessie '"Delancy" by 'its owner,
when ; another had' been obtained" and the
monogram, transferred.- 1 . Or.-it-r was pos
sible that this had never been'Cissy's. But
instinct, hot upon the trail of a vague sus
picion, would not be ' convinced^ by ' such
arguments. ' ' \ ". , < >¦:.:'•- 'V
, Carrismoyle's - heart was .- knocking
against his side. Here was a due, in
deed, and it had been given to him, not
to the police. ;; .' "•
On ¦; the I \ purse which stood upon . the
mantel in this room there was no.mono
gram; but in the exact , spot where the
gleaming twist of blue and gold had been
on the^ pretty thing in Cissy Grant's hand
was that jagged, suggestive tear.
Now a vivid picture of Cecily as she
had taken a step toward him In the- Bond
street tea rooms rose before, his- eyes.
There j she was, her sweet, smiling face
shadowed a little at the left by the brim
of ; the gray riat, which turned down on
one side and : up at the other. Again he
saw the way her little pinky- white : chin
nestled [ into the soft-chinchilla fur of her
gray jacket. He saw : her change from
her right-hand into the left' a scrap of
lace-edged ' handkerchief and .a 'purse of
the. same gray suede as her ( gloves, "with
her monogram at one corner in gold and
turquoises. She had done ;thls just before
she put out her hand to him/ and" so in
curred Miss Morley's prim displeasure.
He was not a man wont to notice .wom
en's fripperies, . but somehowyhe always
knew what Cissy wore. - Scarcely a detail
missed his notice, from the" pale tortoise
shell hairpins, whlchr almost matched N the
gold of her hair, to .the dainty little shoes
which ) often matched., her frock in color.
He "had sometimes ' told himself that lie
could, remember. every dress in which he
had seen the girl,. even so long as that
halcyon time in Switzerland when he had
met and loved her. ¦'¦ ' V' . .
Probably there were • thousands of such
purses In London; buti v soiled and marred
as It was, this was still a thing- more
suggestive of Bond street than Alberta
street, and it. was In Bond street that on
Sunday afternoon Lord . Cawismoyle had
seen such a" purse in Cecily. Grant's hand..
-On the mantel, propped up" against a
common three-penny bottle of ink, stood
a little gray suede purse, soiled with fin
ger marks and ragged at one corner, aa
if. something had been hurriedly torn off.
THE MYSTERIOUS MR. BERKELEY.
CHAPTER V
/'Thank you," answered Carrismoyle. It
would not be wise to tell Mrs. Dawson
that he had alread- been to Ashburton
House. Whcner she were lyirtg about
her daughter, or • telling the truth, .it
would be well to ; keep this 'fact to. him
self. As he debated whether j tw appear
cognizant of the address or not, he
walked slowly across the room toward
the chimneypiece, as if to admire the por
trait at closer quarters. 'Then, suddenly,
at sight of - thing which his eyes had
missed until this instant, his heart gave
a bound, and the biood sang in his eara.
VOnly that -she 'ad to stop where, she
was on account of the missus changin' her
mind. You' might . go to Hashburnton
'Ouse and see Jessie, sir. You'd git a
word with her and if you've a friend there
I ? daresay you. have the address. If not,
Icangive it you.'! r , :
"I'm afraid the question which was first
in my mind can only be asked of your
daughter herself ," since you tell me. that
you Haven't seen her since Saturday, and
she told you no details.".'
"Saturday afternoon. But that ain't
the question you was wishing " to ask,
sir?".' ; v
'Mrs. -Dawson reflected for a moment,
not so much, Carrismoyle was sure, be
cause if was necessary to recall the date,
as because she was gathering her forces
together; in the hope of earning | a sover
eign. "It was Saturday," . she informed
him at last. "Yes, I give up hope on Sat
urday 'avin' her with me for the 'oil
day."
"Saturday morning or afternoon?"
she insinuatingly paused, on ( what day
she last heard from her daugtiter. , - '
' "At several houses women appeared to
have business at the door: They came
out with brooms ; they shook crumbs from
dingy red tablecloths, or they, chased fur
tive T eyed cats into the street, y Carris-
Alberta street contained not more than
thirty houses at most, thirty grim little
boxes, set on end, In a. crowded row of
perhaps 'fifteen on either side, each with
one window and a slit of - a door ¦: on the
ground floor, and two windows in -the
story above. A chill wind -blew through
the street from end to end as; if' it had
been a tunnel, whirling along bits of pa
per, scraps of orange peel and melancholy,
nondescript rags. At almost every win
dow ' had appeared ; a head as the smart
hansom, picked up in the " "West 1 End,"
came Jingling along the street, and Car
rismoyle had asked . himself which . of
these heads, if any, appertained -to Miss
Jessie Delancey. He had fancied that the
windows would empty when, the cab; had
been sent away, but this was not the case.
A well-dressed young man on foot," evi
dently with business to transact In Al
berta street, was quite as attractive an
object to its denizens as the hansom had
been. But, at least, the interest he "ex
cited gave him one advantage. He was
not obliged to knock at door after door
to make his Inquiries. Of a woman stand
ing In an open doorway he asked for Mrs.
Delancey. She looked introspective and
finally shook her head. She had never
beard the name. She did not believe that
a person possessing it lived in the street.
"Another thing I might tell you before
I send to find out about Jessie," said Miss
Morley, abruptly; '.'Miss, Grant hadn't
been as bright for the last two or three
months as she usqd to be," I think. When
she first came she was rather silent and
depressed, as. if she were homesick, per
haps; but she cheered up after a few
weeks and seemed happy enough,, though
rather excitable always, particularly un
til after she had heard the news In- the
paper every morning from South Africa.
Lately, however, she lost much of nor
color, and had a very poor appetite, I
noticed. Sometimes she would be like
herself for a day of two; but usually she
gave one the idea of being worried and
absent-minded. I hadn't thought much
about all this, confess, as-er-I wasnt
favored by Miss Grant's special friend
ship, until this morning, after talking
with the Scotland Yard man. Then I be
gan piecing together old impressions, and
trying to make up some , theory out of
themf I must say, Lord Carrismoyle. that
they all seemed to point to you-or, at
all events, a secret love interest ol some
sort. Since you are not concernedjn her
disappearance, the mystery becomes dark
er I can see no clue to it; can you?"
"Not yet." returned . Carrismoyle.
gloomily. "But, perhaps there will be a
gleam of light through the darkness when
I have seen Jessie Delancey." :/ : .
"I will ring and have- those - inquires
made." said Miss Morley. jerking the old
fashioned bellrope which dangled over the
Bofaon which she was Pr^ly s lttlng. ;¦ _;.
The maid who answered the bell did not
know Jessie Delancey's address, but she
hurried off to ask , below stairs, and jre
turned presently with the inf ormat on
that Jessie's mother was supposed to live
In a certain Alberta street, on the Surrey
side of the river, somewhere not far from
Waterloo Ibridge. The number Was un
known, unless to the housekeeper, who,
as Miss Morley had said, was not in the
house. •~'i?\'%
Five minutes later Miss Morley was
peeping furtively out, through the thick
lace curtains In the old-fashioned draw
ing-room, watching the departure of the
only young man with whom she had had
an actual tete-a-tete for at least twenty
years. It stirred a forgotten appetite for
romance within her and left her with
much to think about; while for Carris
moyle, the poor, precise- spinster; had
ceased to exist by the time he had Jumped
into his waiting hansom.
Alberta street proved difficult to find,
and when it was reached— a mean little
cutting ¦ betwen two thoroughfares of
larger importance— the presence of a han
som appeared to create so much excite
ment that Carrismoyle decided to send the
vehicle away, pursuing his researches on
foot. ' • •
"It would seem to be bo." Carris'moyle
agreed;' but he spoke slowly and reflec
tively. '.". . ¦ '''*i
"Yes, Miss Grant is beautiful," she re
peated, generously, with a slight empha
sis as if to show that, she believed the
girl to be still in this world, not to be
cruelly relegated to the past tense when
her name was spoken. "As for the man
who stared at her, if it's any use to you
to know, he was dark,' middle-aged, and
seedily dressed; but his . clothes must
once have been smart, and— yes, perhaps
he might, years ago, have had a right to
call himself a gentleman. Many years
ago. And he had a horrid face— bold and
yet insinuating. You know the type. One
meets it often .enough in London. But,
as I said, it would be absurd to fancy
that the sight of an utter stranger* a man
of that description, could have been up
setting to Miss Grant, simply because he
was rude enough to stare at her.".
"I know that she is the most beautiful
girl I ever saw or ever expect to see."
said Carrismoyle, in a rapt way, , that
somehow warmed Miss Morley's spinster
heart to him, although she' had always
been vaguely, half -consciously Jealous of
the lovely young creature who had so
many blessings. But alL the world loves
a lover— even a soured, middle-aged wom
an has a kindly yearning over him,
though he is not for her, and Miss Mor
ley suddenly felt that she would like to
help this gallant, handsome young man,
if she could, so that he might remember
her in the future with gratitude. ¦.'.¦¦
Miss Morley shook her head. "I know
of no other. To be sure, a very disrepu
table-looking man. did stare through the
window at her, but he could not have
been an acquaintance. He was — oh, an
impossible sort of person. And he mere
ly walked very slowly, staring in at the
girls in a horrid way, which I resented;
and naturally he looked "i most at Miss
Grant, whose appearance, of course, in
variably attracts considerable attention
wherever she goes. She Is so exceedingly
striking in her style, you know."
Carrismoyle heard only half that Miss
Morley was saying. "She nearly fainted?"
he echoed, in a puzzled way. "But sure
ly my coming could not have caused that.
There must have been some other
reason."
."I can inquire," said the spinster,
doubtfully. "But do you know, I fancy
the first thing the police will try to do
is not to find Jessie Delancey^ut to find
you. After what passed here this morn
ing, after what I was forced to tell of
the meeting on Saturday K ' the notes ex
changed, and Miss Grant's having nearly
fainted just before you came, I feel sure
they look to you to solve the mystery."
"Isn't it possible that one of the ser
vants .would know where Jessie lives?"
"I don't know it," replied Mies Morley.
"I suppose the housekeeper has it, but
she is out at present and isn't likely to be
back until nearly luncheon time."
"Of course, the first thing that the
Scotland Yard man would do, if he hadn't
understood that Miss Grant left; this
house alone, would be' to see the person
who went with her in the cab to the rail
way station," said- Carrismoyle, thought
fully. "Fortunately_,for me, perhaps, I
have that one advantage In beginning. I
should like to call on Jessie Delancey this
morning" if you would give me her ad
dress." " :¦;".-'
"She hasn't come back yet. She had
permission from Mrs. D'Esterre to stay
for a week with her mother, who hadn't
been well, .1 believe. As all the young
ladies, are away at this time there is
comparatively little work for the . ser
vants, and one could easily be spared."
room and had always, been, I fancy, most
attentive. At all events,- 1 know that, she
gave the girl a great .many presents.'*
."Could I see this Jessie Delancey forja
few minutes?" asked Carrismoyl6. *
','Has she ever talked to you about any
of the young ladies?" inquired Carris
moyle. . .' • '¦..;¦*. -; ' ;
"No— o, sir, not much," returned the old
woman, . with evident V reluctance, , afraid
of . missing ¦ a ¦ lucrative chance.} ." "Jessie's
a close-mouthed ; glrl-f-one you could ; trust
with a secret. k But some things, she have
mentioned. "Now, If you could tell me the
name of the lady you'd like to hear about,
mebbel^cbuld remember-^— " ¦ ;
' ."fro doubt," "Aloud, he" merely asked, as
This time the old woman laughed aloud
— a sly, cackling laugh— and opened the
door hospitably wider. . •••".;.
",'Now!"«Ehe exclaimed., "However 'did
you 'ear that name, I wonder, and what
did you want with. the owner of it, If you
could find her?" -
"Only ; to ask a question, and thea an
swer, .which would give no trouble, in
making,', .would i, be worth— say a oover
eign.'.' ' ¦: \ : ' . s'^Al -¦;¦
"Well, my daughter Is known In . some
quarters as Miss Jessie Delancey," safd
the old .women hesitatingly, eying Car r
rismoyle as she spoke. ' '."
"Really! I'm glad to hear that," he ex
claimed. "I ; have been inquiring for the
name . all | over the street, but ' no one
seemed to know it." ;
"That's not so wonderful, considering
my' name's Dawson. My daughter is what
they 6 call romantic. She fancied Delan
cey, ¦ so she saw no reason why' she
shouldn't. take It, when she went into.ser
vice. Names is cheap. You might as well
have a pretty as an ugly, one, if you've a
notion that ,way/ f ,,£,.; • ,: ' ' ' r\'C^'
-¦ "Certainly," Carrismoyle assented quiet
ly. "Can I, come Inside and have a few
minutes' talk with yc>u? And I. should
like to see your daughter." . , \
> "The first . you "can | do," said Mrs. Daw
son. "But the last' you can't. My girl's!
in a smart place up in the West End and
the missus, though she'd promised Jessie
a 'oliday at this time, changed her mind
at the last and wouldn't or. couldn't let
her off. Maybe I can answer your ques
tion, though— if it's of so much import
ance, sir."
The old woman stood aside as she let
her visitor enter the . narrow passage,
which was uncarpeted and notftoo^ clean.
The pause gave Carrismoyle an instant. to
reflect upon the surprising, intelligence
conveyed In her last words.
Miss Morley had told, him that Jessie
¦Delancey had been given a. week's hoTi
day, which she was to spend with her
mother, who had been ill. Mrs. Dawson
now asserted that the holiday -had been
denied. Now, the question was, whether
Jessie were really in this house, for some
reason desiring to conceal her presence
there, or whether her wish to spend
Christmas ' week, with her mother had
been, but ¦ a pretense . to deceive Mrs.
D'Esterre. In any case, the cloud of mys
tery to thicken round the person
of the young servant girl.
.,. "A slttin'-room of my own I 'ave not
EOt," went on Mrs. Dawson, in a curious,
emphatic, breathless way she had of talk
ing, gasping between L words. "But my
lodger! is away at present, and we'll just
step into his room for our bit of talk, if
you please."
There were two doors in the passage
The one at the, back had been left ajar
when Mrs. Dawson came from her work
to answer Carrismoyle's knock, and if he
had been a little nearer 'he would have
obtained a glimpse of an untidy kitchen
¦and living-room combined. But it was
with an air of prjde that the old woman
ushered him into the sitting-room of, the
absent lodger. To her, it was an "elegant
apartment," good enough for any one
with its worsted table mats, its antima
cassars, its cheap "Baddre-.bag" furniture
and its family portraits, which clustered
thickly on the dingy brown walls. She
.thought her present visitor was a very
fine gentleman, and sue was pleased at
the chance of impressing him with her
possessions, but. to Carrismoyle the shab-.
by, little/ room was a dreary, blank except
for a . large picture painted execrably in
oils, which, hanging over the mantelpiece,
laced him as he entered. ; .'>. : : ;:V- - :
It is represented a young woman | who
might in reality have considerable claim
to good looks, though, if so, she. had been
caricatured by the artist. She" had .very
yellow hair, whether bestowed by. nature
or not, dark • eyebrows,' a great ; deal of
color, while in the \ shape of the mouth
and 'chin there '"was"," a certain' force and
decision which redeemed the face from
the ordinary. • :
"May I ask if that is a portrait of your
daughter?" asked Carrismoyle,/. hiding
eagerness. If this were Jessie Delancey;
then Jessie was a girl who would do i few
things on impulse, yet might do some
bold things, with sufficient' motive.
/'That's. my daughter," returned Mrs.
Dawson. "She's considered ; a; handsome
girl. Perhaps It's no wonder she's a bit
fond: of ' dress, and making herself ; look
smart.".; The - portrait was painted from a
photograph; by. a' lodger who' couldn't pay
me all he was owing, and I took it against
the debt. But that question- you was
wanting to ask Jessie, sir?. I suppose it
would be something about .one of the
young ladies at her place," for Jessie her r
self, I think, you don't know?" -
She smiled, a queer, \ • three-cornered
smile, which drew her mouth up at : one
corner and showed a black gap where two
or three teeth should have been. ""You're
lookln' at my eyes, now, : ain't you, sir?"
she demanded. "Perhaps you're a, doc
tor. .If you are, you won't be the fust
has come on the, same errand. Bless you,
I been in all the medical journals. It's one
of the only two cases on record. I _can
see iri the night as good as you. can" by
day, though when. it's light, I'm always
knockin 1 myself against everything. Are
you one of the young gentlemen from the
Eye Hospital?" yy ..
"No," said' Carrismoyle, with a strong
feeling ! of .repulsion: "I'm. not m;;the
medical profession. I called to inquire if
you had ever • had a lodger named De
lancey, and,' if so, whether you -could give
me her present address." ,"~ ;: ..
A key turned rustily in a lock and the
door opened half-way, to show one of the
strangest faces that Carrismoyle had ever
seen. For ; a. moment he did not know
what gave the features the peculiarly un
canny effect which struck him sharply at
first glance.* It was not the waxy, yellow
tint of the curiously smooth, unwrinkled
skin; it was not wholly due to the fact
that the face was shaped exactly like an
egg,, or that, the gray hair, which' had
evidently once. been fiery red, grew down
In a peak" on the prominent,
rounded forehead. The strangeness was
in the eyes; but it was only after^Carrls
moyle had looked fully into them that he
realized the exact nature of the malfor
mation to which it was due. The pupils,
instead of being in the center of, the yel
lowish iris, were at the bottom, as if they
had dropped, and the effect when old
woman gave back look for look wasijde
testable. ¦¦.-•/. ¦¦*;..:> ' ;,-
There were no cards advertising "apart
ments" In any of the windows, save one
or two .which announced that within a
room might be had by "a respectable sin
gle man";, but at last, in despair, it oc
curred to him N that Mrs. Delancey might
be a lodger, not a householder. He put
the question to a woman with a baby in
her arms who conversed with a> pallid
young "lady friend" in her doorway.
No, there was no woman 1J ving in such
rooms as were to let in Alberta street, at
least not at present; but Mrs.- Dawson at
the. corner once had ¦ had a," dressmaker
living with her. Carrismoyle knocked
(there were -few bells in this thorough
fare) at the red-painted door of the,cor
ner house, j Nobody answered at ' first,
and it was not until he had rapped smart
ly for the second time that he distinctly
heard a sound of shuffling feet " in the
passage inside. - ~. ¦';'.>'•¦¦>
rnoyle inquired of each one as he passed
along, but none had any knowledge of a.
Mrs. Delancey; and when he had been in
formed in rotation of the name of ¦ each
householder on 'one side and at least ! half
those' on -the- other '"it '.became. -more"' and
more certain that somewhere,' somehow,'
a mistake had. been made— a mistake
which might mean for him all the differ
ence between success and failure.
\ He had said as much In the note which
now came so strangely back Into his pos
session; and, of course, when he had pu*-'
that note in her hand, three ten-poun<H
notes had been with It, rolled Into in- *
credibly small bulk.
/Now he saw that Cissy's need for thirty
pounds on a certain date had been of a
very different nature from his first guess.
Some wretch had found means to terrify
the girl and extort from her not only all
her poor little girlish treasures (except
his locket a*d two rings), but large sums
of money as well. And the question
which arose in his* mind regarding that
last mysteriously worded entry In he*
diary was, whether the date were con
nected with the blackmailer, or. only wita
the hoped-for meeting with tile mar* aha
loved.
If It were the former, this might also
mean that Cissy had gone voluntarily to
some rendezvous^ to pay the promised
money, and had there been made pris
oner, or— but he would not let himself
dwell for a moment on the worst which
might have happened— that awful worst
which Sir Redways Grant seemed to
have accepted without a doubt. As for
the villain who had^ made Cecily Grant's
young life burdensome to her at the time
of its sweetest blossoming. Fate seemed
to have brought Carrismoyle far on the
road toward finding him— punishing him
also, he fiercely hoped. For it seemed in
these moments of wild yearning for re
.venge, that no punishment could be too
merciless. .If the scoundrel were not
Berkeley himself, at all events circiw*- *
Again: "Sent more. I have nothing
left now except two rings and the dear
locket Roy gave me."
The man who had given the locket felt
his heart contract, with the thought of
where and how it had been found, only
a few hours ago.
At length, as he turned over the pages,
he reached a date a few days old. Here
had been written only a few words; yet
they were not words to be easily forgot
ten. "It is to be two Saturdays before
Christmas."
Carrismoyle closed the pathetic little
book, and put it away in his pocket with
the note which he had given and Cissy
had kept.
What was "to be" on the last Saturday
but one before Christmas? What had she
meant, what had 9he thought of, In mak
ing that memorandum?
Certain things which had been myster
ious before were clearer now In the lurid
light cast upon them by the Jottings in
this diary. For Instance.' Cfssy had writ
ten him a note not long ago, begging him
not to be very much surprised and dis
gusted If she' begged a great favor." She
had then gone on to say (after explaining
anxiously that she would not ask such a
dreadful, unheard-of thing, if It were not
really necessary"), that she desperately
wanted thirty pounds by a certain date
Her next allowance was not due for some
weeks, and as she had had an advance
last time, she was afraid, if she asked
Son?' that h<e: fJ \ ther mlsht , * ut « - ues
"Of course," she had gone on "I
needn't answer him. but— well. I * can
hardly tell you why I don't want him
even to wonder. I know you won't ask
questions; and I know you will un
derstand that I am not Just frivolous and
extravagant. As soon as I get my al
lowance I shall pay you back. It won't
be long. But thirty pounds Is a good
deal of -money, and perhaps yon may not
have it at the moment. If you haven't
it can't be helped, and you mustn't mind,
for I shall manage somehow. If you have
and can lend it. try and come to tha
Koh-i-noor tea-rooms in Bond street next
Saturday, about 4. becaus«.it is better not
to send through the post. All the other
girls have more liberty than I— you can^
guess the old, tiresome reason. I shall try
and arrange to be there. We may not
cave a cnance to speak more than a
word to each other without making our
selves conspicuous, but I shall have, a
r.ote with 'how do you do* written to slip
into your hand, and you can slip a line
into my hand, with the bank notes, it
you can spare them."
Carrismoyle could remember her letter
almost word for word, because he had
read It many times. He had thought
when he received it that the poor child
probably wished to give the money away
before Christmas , to some person in
distress in whose case she had become in
terested. It would be like her, he knew
her impulsiveness and her generosity— to
promise help and then determine at all
hazards not to break her word. He had
fancied, too, that perhaps th* recipient
of her charity was a person not liked by
Sir Redways Grant; and perhaps It. was
natural that the young man who had
been Insulted and scorned by the irritable
old gentleman should sympathize the
more because of that supposition. Be
sides, he had been delighted beyond
words that the dear girl (who he was
determined should be his wife as soon as
che became her own mistress) turned
to him In her dilemma.
So he opened the tiny book, and out
dropped from between Its pages the scrap
of paper which he had slipped Into Cissy's
hand at the tea-room on Saturday.
Now there was no longer any doubt f~
Not only was the purse hers, but It had
been In her possession late on the day sh9
disappeared: while i the fact that his note
had been hidden in the concealed diary
was proof positive in his mind that the
purse had not been voluntarily parted
with.
He meant to leave the purse where he
had found it— though it was hard to do so,
since it had been hers— but the note and
the book he could take with him. The
former he thrust Into his pocket: the lat
ter he opened at the first page. It waa
blank— but further on, upon a date he well
remembered, were a few sentences in her
pretty hand, written very small, that they
might be wedged into the cramped space.
"I saw Roy to-day in church. I know
why he came. It was the first time for
so long. I could hardly think of anything
but him, though I did try. I shall like to
look into this little book years and years
from now, and remember this date. I
know I shall remember exactly how I felt,
too, if I'm a hundred."
That was all. And there was no clew
to the mystery; only a clew to the heart
of a young, loving glrft and Carrismoyl*
kissed the page, feeling guilty, yet not
repenting that he had read it. Then he
turned quickly on, for the time pressed,
and he could not wait with patience un
til he should be in his own rooms, with
no horrible, cat-eyed Mrs. Dawson. liable
to appear at any moment.
A few page3 further on was a secqn/^
entry. "Another date to remember, hi»'4Jy
oh, how different— how miserably differ
ent! 'A terrible thins: has come into my
life. ' Even here, I cannot bear to put
down what it is. I can never tell any one
as long as I iive. It seems too strange to
be true that I, who have lived such an
ordinary life— except for Roy, and the
part conected with him— should suddenly
vbe face to face with such hateful mys
tery, like a ghost that comes creeping out
to haunt one when it is night. But with
me it must always be night after, this— or
so I feel now. In one day, from a girl, I
have become a woman."
This had been written on a date just
three months ago, almost to the day. And
Miss Morley had told him that for the
last three months Cissy had appeared
changed; that she had been absent
minded, nervous and excitable. No won
der, poor child, Carrismoyle said to him
self, with hot anger in his heart against
the unknown person who had wrought the
change.
• Again he turned over a leaf or two,
which were blank. Then came another
page, partly filled with close, fine writing.
"I have had the interview. Everything is
even more horrible than I had feared at
first. I am very unhappy. I cannot bear
to look at her now. I wonder if she
knows?"
Opposite, a line or two only had been
scrawled. "Sent something by her. All
, I could."
THE SUNDAY VAJLTL.
4

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