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Carrismoyle felt that this Ignoring of her wish had be«n cruel. Poor, Lady Stan ton had .done her best, "and If she had ever heard Cissy speak of tube roses, sho had not a lover's memory, but for amo mtnt Carrismoyle's nerves tingled with resentment against her; f . • This room, , oddly shaped, had been a, chapel 200 years ago and more and there was, at one end, over a great alcove, a domed ceiling under which long ago the altar stood. Now the bier, draped with black, was there. Over the dead, a piece of soft white drapery had ,been spread, and Lady Stanton had heaped it " with such white flowers as could be found in Waycross, until others more rare, if not more beautiful, should come. . There were many .white chysanthemums, and snowy roses, a few waxen-white camellias, too, and tube roses which, with a groan as if of physical pain, Carrismoyle snatched up and threw far away, with an unreason- Ing feeling of anger. . Cissy had hated tube roses. He remembered hearing her say (had he ever forgotten anything , she had ever said to him, or even in his pres ence?) that they were the only flower sne disliked. They always "reminded her of funerals"-; and— smiling a little— "she hoped that people wouldn't use them for hers!"' . : ;, •¦ ¦ . , ¦ ; • '• <¦ . : - : .;: .:-¦.-. All that was left of the fair daughter of the house lay upon an Impromptu bier, which Lady - Stanton had caused to be prepared, for the coffin In which the poor marred body would go to the grave was not ready yet One window was wide open, but that was at another end of the large, low ceiled room, and as there was no wind this clear, cold night, the flames of the candles rose straight and tall and steady. Stonecross Abbey was a very ancient house, and It had not been spoilt by ana chronism* There were no electric lights In Its beautiful old rooms; and this which Carrismoyle entered was softly lit- by wax candles, which gave a pale and tender light, almost as 'pure as moonlight. ¦ THE ROOM OP THE DEAD. CHAPTER VII. In reality she received fix shillings a week for both rooms, and considered her self lucky, not only to (set that but to have it continued from nrnnth to month ¦Hith the more remote future unsettled; but she would have cheerfully tacked twenty extra shillings instead of four on to the genuine sum in her statement had •he thought thexa was the remotest "He pays me ten shllllngrs a week," she responded, promptly, "which makes twea ty-six pounds a year* or thereabouts. And he engaged this room and the front bed room upstairs for a whole year from now." Unlike the young man the elderly wo man was an old hand at lying, and took to it as naturally as a duck takes to wa ter. "Do you mind telling me how much he pays you for your rooms In a year?" asked Carrismoyle. / - "He would be angry, sir,** she broke in. "And I can't afford to lose a lodger to please a stranger, even If you do vow It's for 'is good." ,. ' .-ii "Of course, I see why yon hesitate," he went on, "and you are quite right You don't trust me. Yon wish to protect your lodger, who, as you say. Is a valuable tenant, and yon are afraid I may mean treachery of some sort In any case, you think he would be angry when he found out that he had been sent for by you on a f&lse excuse " ' - A cueer look, like a lightning flash, passed across her yellow face, so quickly that It could scarcely be seen before it was pone. Yet Carrismoyle did see it, and was answered as well or better than if she had epoken, though she shook her heal. "Don't you know any argument or In ducement yon might use which would bring him back in a hurry?" ~I don't think he'd come back for me, tfr," said Mrs. Dawson, who seemed al ways ready to begin a subject with objec tions, her motive being something like that of an auctioneer who does his best to start the bidding: "No-o. he won't be rich." answered Car rismoyle calmly, watching her face, "not exactly rich. In any case. But It's lucky for him I came here accidentally to-day on quite a different errand, for at the end of a week the lawyers will have got everything that might have been. his If be doesn't find out and make his claim meanwhile. That's the reason, I think, instead of writing Td better telegraph, and get him here as soon as possible. Or rather, as I should like not to appear In the matter until I can see him, because he might misunderstand, I should like you to tftlegrmph." Bhe was wondering whether she could make It appear to him that his good for tune came through her and that he owed her something for It But It waa not easy to make Mr. Berkeley think anything, nneh less do anything, though lately he had paid his way very welL She was afraid that she should not get anything out of him, no matter what his change of circumstances. He could see that Mrs. Dawson was in terested by the expression of her face, vhich lit up at the talk of money. Even the thought of other people's money was enthralling to her. She loved it She loved the very feeling of it In her hand the beautiful shining yellow of gold, the rice clean crlspness of bank notes. Some times at night she dreamed that unex pectedly she came Into possession of large sums of money, and awoke from an in toxication of joy to a shocked sensation of having been robbed, defrauded, when she found that reality broke the charm. "Yes, I understand." she said. "Win Air. Berkeley be a rich man?" C&rrlsraoyle, who had always from cbiidhood been truthful because he was brave, now lied cheerfully and without scruple. , "On second thought." he exclaimed, "I won't write after alL You see. the things I want to say are rather difficult to ex press on paper. The fact is, if this Berke ley is my Berkeley there may be money coming to him. I could put him in the ¦way of getting it Cut I should have to explain some technical details. And if he doesn't set to work to claim what ought to be his, why, it will be impossible for him ever to touch it Do you under stand?" He scrawled line after line of nonsense, then suddenly, as If on impulse, dropped the pen she had given him and crumpled the partly covered sheet In his hand. Carrismoyle began to write his letter on the cheap paper which Mrs. Dawson had brought from the shop- around the corner. Ehe did not go out of the room, but stood waiting, ostensibly to hear his instruc tions when he should have finished. THE INSPIRATION. CHAPTER VL "Pray don't think I'm not interested," he said quickly, though not too eagerly. "You have guessed, perhaps, that a friend of rclne has often spoken to me of your daughter, who must, from all accounts, be a good and clever glrL I hope if she's taker* a new place that it's even better than the last." "Well, she seems to think so, sir." Mm. Daw3on deigned to go on, her suspicion of him, if she had had any, apparently once more allayed. , "She answered an ad vertisement which she saw in the papar for a lady's maid, wanted immediate, to gc abroad, and good wages offered. She was afraid I wouldn't approve; but now che's able to say that the new lady is likely to be the best mistress she's ever had; and as she got a month's wages la advance, In consideration of things she needed to buy for the journey,, she sent me. a bit of a Christmas present I ex pect she thought I'd 'ave no objections to make- after that!" and th© proud mother chuckled complacently. "When was this letter written?" asked Carrismoyle. "Tuesday morning, ' sir— yesterday— and I got it last night. She was just on tha point of leaving for France with tha lady." On Tuesday morning, then. Mrs. Daw son's daughter appeared to have written: at thfl very time when the poor battered bodjf had been cast up by the sea, to be discovered by the Devonshire guardsmen. This seemed to settle the question which Carrismoyle had been asking himself ; and still left him to learn, as Lester had said, where "another such girl was missing." "I shall be here by 4 o'clock." he said, "because I want to arrive before Mr. Berkeley, and surprise him by being In the room when he walks in. And It's pos sible that he may return a little earlier than he is expected." "Deary me," faltered Mrs. Dawson, "I'm frightened out of my life he'll he vexed with me for the liberty I've taken. He ain't a man to take liberties with, ain't Mr. Berkeley. Not that I ever «o much 23 tried It before." "You can afford now not to distress yourself," remarked Carrismoyle. glanc ing at the notes which the old woman was nervously folding between her fingers. "It a!n't only the money: it's those eyes of his I'm thinking of," ruefully rejoinei Mrs. Dawson. "Whatever excuse can I make to him when he comes home this afternoon?'^ "I fancy I suggested yesterday that you should be out when he arrived," said Car rismoyle. "When I call at 4 o'clock, you can slip away and leave me as caretaker. You saw yesterday when you left m« alone, that I didn't run off with your val uables. And I believe I can promise you that when you come home, say at 7—bfct ter that you remain away till then— Mr. Berkeley will so thoroughly understand why he was wanted that he won't re proach you for your agency in bringing him back." "Very well," returned Mrs. Dawson. "Maybe that will be the best plan. But it's a queer business. I hope I haven't been and let Mr. Berkeley In for anything he won't like. He'd make a bad enemy. But what's done can't be undone, and It ain't no use crying over spilt milk." "I think you'll find that you skimmed oft the cream before you spilt the milk 2 said Carrismoyle. He was conscious of a strange, tingling elation in the prospect of being face to face with the man Berke ley in the course of a few hour3— though he wished ardently that they had been fewer than they wer"e. Even had it been only revenue which he sought in the meet ing, he would have longed for it fiercely, but now there was more to look for. Hops was born again and much depended upon the coming Interview. He would not dwell upon the thought of what his feel- Ings must be if, after all. Berkeley failed to keep the tryst, and, as the doubt flitted stealthily and batlike through the dark corners of -his brain, he drows It away by turning to another question which since last night had greatly occupied hi3 mind. -;-w "Have you heard from your daughter since I saw you?" he asked, with an air of indifference, which he wore like a bad ly sitting coat He was almost certain that she would say no, and her negative would lend color to a theory which he had been building up out of small ma terial. "Yes, sir, I have heard from her." Mrs.' Dawson promptly answered, and down tumbled Carrismoyle's house of cards. He was not to look here then for tha "other girl who was missing"— the other girl whose hair had been yellow (unless her portrait lied), eyebrows dark, skin fair and figure slight and young. "She ain't at Ashburton 'ouse, after all," the old woman went on, blissfully unconscious of the grim conjecture which had been quickly passing through the listener's head. "She only told me that story, it seem3, so my mind would be easy till she could let me know more particu lars. Instead of stoppln* on, as she give me to .understand, she never meant to do nothin' of the sort, and, as a matter of fact, she left town last Saturday. Though why I'm botherin' you with all thl3, sir, as it can't be of no interest to you, la more than I know.'* She either gave Carrismoyle a sly, sus picious glance as she suddenly broke her narrative short, or he morbidly fancied It It was now certain that the mysterious Mr. Berkeley had not gone out of Ens lard, and In all probability Mrs. Dawson had been acquainted with thl3 fact from the first. CarrismoyJp anathematized the wasted hours, since, being so near. Berke ley could doubtless have been induced to return earlier by the same arguments which had persuaded him to make the present appointment. But that cnu!d not be helped, and Carrismoyle must think himself fortunate that the fish had taken the bait at all. He f gave the money to Mrs. Dawson and pocketed the telegram. rest of the money to hand you in caa« the' answer to your tele/?rram ¦ should be satisfactory." He produced three five pound" notes, ostentatiously counting them over, and M^rs. Dawaon was con tent. She gave him the envelope, and he opened It with more eagerness than h« chose to let her see.' <^With you at 5 o'c'ock Wednesday.— Berkeley." the rre?sage ran, and though Mrs. Dawsnn had evfdently tried her best to erase the name of the place from which it had bee* sent. Carr'smoyle coud make out a letter or two. The telegram had been dispatched from some town (the name of which be hoped to arrive at later) at 6:30 o'clock the precrdin? after noon and had tven received at the Lon don office nearest to A^erta street at 7. "I heard that It was all right, about yes terday," he said; "and I have brought tha Carrismoyle was blessed with quick per ceptions,'and he saw at once what was In her. mind. '¦' . ¦ : . She took him once more into* the sit ting-room of her absent lodger, where, on the mantelpiece beside the little gray purse,' she had conspicuously displayed a brown telegraphic envelope. . Hobbling a little in advance, she snatched the en velope, with a chuckling laugh, and peer ed at it with her catlike eyes. It was not, in her nature to trust any one, and though she had been honestly dealt with so far by this extraordinary young man, who was willing | to pay so | much for' so little, she thought it better to hold the telegram as a bait until the second installment of the promised thirty pounds should be actually in sight * "Well, sir, I've got news for you," she caid, with an encouraging smile. "Late last'evenlng I had a telegram. Come in, and I'll show It to you." ' "AH satisfactory," had been the word- Ing of the telegram sent by the messen ger boy, according to Lord Carrismoyle's instructions. And at 8 - o'clock on the morning after his second journey to Dev onshire and- back the, young man was again at the door of his little house In Alberta street This time Mrs. Dawson was not long in answering it She had been up betimes, ' in the expectation that she might have an early visitor. - ' If Carrismoyle could have seen as In a vision, . where : he would be to-morrow night at this time, bis words could hardly have been more prophetic. "I was going to aay something foolish. I was going to say if I had .to go — where Pluto bad carried off Proserpine, to find her." . "If what?" "I shan't break down. Not till after I've found my love and given her back to her father. And I shall do that now. If " Lester looked keenly at Carrismoyle. "Have you had anything to eat. to-day, my friend?" he asked, drily. I "I forget," Carrismoyle answered. "I thought so. Do you want to break down?" • • ... ' " .. "Then, whether ¦ you have yet assured yourself. or not that this has been a case of mistaken Identity," said Carrismoyle, "go and tell Sir Redways at least as much as we have found out I'll wait here, and you'll come back presently to let me know whether there was any change in him— enough to make you hope that he knew what you. were saying. Before long, you know, it will be time for. me to go back to the station again." "By Jove, you were right, Carrismoyle! This hair has been bleached not once, but many times, with peroxide of hydrogen. It has been made brittle by the strength of the solution, "and great care must have been taken,' for there is scarcely any vis ible difference in the shade, as close to the roots as I could -cut this lock. The hair must have been treated with the peroxide j as lately as the day before death, I should' say. "While the other— the hair, that we believed to have been Miss Grant's, is as soft and fleecy as that of a child. which has never been cut" The sea water, was washed from the bunch of hair, which Lester held in his hand, and after a few moments of careful examination he exclaimed: Lady "Stanton slipped softly away" and returned in a moment with a pair of scissors. A lock was cut from the shorn head lying so quietly on the white bier among J the flowers. Then the two men went out, leaving Lady Stanton alone with : the ¦ dead once more — for, even If this were not, Cecily, she would remain where she was, according to 'the promise she had made,' until midnight r "That's hundreds of years ago. I've the strength of three men now. Will you cut off a piece of the hair and make that test you spoke of— not to satisfy me, but yourself, and to give yourself an excuse for carrying good news to Sir Redways?" "You'll make yourself ill, Carrismoyle," said v Lester: "Remember that you came back from South Afriea" an invalid." f "I— hardly— know," he answered me chanically;, In a queer, absent-minded way. "I was wondering if— but I dhn't suppose it could be so. A strange ffiea' came into my head, that's all. It's just possible I can guess from what place a girl of some such appearance 13 missing. It may be I shall know to-morrow — and more, much more than that, I hope. I am going back to town by the 12 o'clock train, as I did last night. I meant, at all events, to do that, for— I have an engage ment In the morning which can't well be broken. But now that I have hope again —thank God I shall have a very different sort of journey." * ' "Great heaven!" ejaculated Carrismoyle, staring straight through Robert Lester, rather than at him. - "What thought has come to you?" Lady Stanton asked, quickly. "I should be only too thankful to be lieve, if there came a gleam of hope," re sponded Lester. "But nothing must be said to Sir Radways until we are sure— as sure as we were of the contrary a short time ago. , He shows no sign of conscious ness, but it is possible that he knows more of what goes on than we think. He might understand If— but It would be cruel to give him hope and then snatch it away again. Even if another comparison of the hair proved a difference,' we can't swear that that which came in the box was Miss Grant's, sure as we 'may feel. As for the hands— you are prepared to take your oath they're not hers. You knew her for —a year and a half, wasn't it? and during that time saw her two dozen times at most. Yet her father, who has known her for more than eighteen years, did not make that contention. When he saw the ring he cried out her name, with a groan, and fell down unconscious. If this dead girl of the same height, the same age, th$ same golden-colored hair, contrasting with dark brows, the same number of inches round the waist, is not Cecily Grant, 'who has so mysteriously disap peared, whp then was she? Where did she come from? Where Is there another such girl missing at this moment?" "Not enough, I'm certain.^ to make that ring sink deeply into the flesh as it does," Carrismoyle persevered. "Besides, I told you before, the shape of the hand is dif ferent. Will you believe that I know what I'm talking about, at- all events, if you find that the hair has been bleached? You know well enough that hers was not. Besides, you could' compare the other which was in the box with this one again?" '.% -- '¦- v ./.. "This, that after the length of time this poor body has probably been tossed about in the water, the force of your evidence has disappeared. The fingers are slightly bloated." . "There are a hundred differences. And the ring— that's one of the proofs I rely on to' convince you. See how tight it !» The ring must have been forced on by a great effort. If It were to be removed.it would have to be cut off. Oh. I know what you are going to say, Le3ter. Prob ably Sir Redways told you, or Lady Stan ton reminded you, that she'd worn it from childhood and outgrown it. But I happen to know that she had it enlarged a year and a half ago. I was with her at the queer little shop in Zermatt where she had it done. The ring was so tight that it made her nervous, she said, and she could not wait till she got back to England, as she didn't like leaving it off. Next day she showed me her hand. The Jeweler had made tHe ring almost too large. Now— what answer have you to make to that?" ¦ "It's not necessary to satisfy me that a mistake has been made," Carrismoyle answered; "I know already. Lady Stan ton, I appeal to you— are those Cissy's hands?" "I— I couldn't be certain," she stam mered.-forcing herself to look. "It Is easy to find out by a simple test whether the hair has been artificially brightened or not," said Lester. "The doubt had not occurred to the Coroner, or any one else, so far as I know." " ,--¦:' "Cissy's was not." Lady Stanton assert ed.- ."I used to -think it seemed 'even lighter— like the palest gold." Anything else It seemed to him now he could have borne. He could have endured the loss of her In any other way. " H© For a long time— It mattered not how long, since nothing mattered any more he stood like a man of marble, looking at the words of the telegram, trying to make himself realize that there was no more to do for her. She was dead. The world was empty of her. He had never known before how horrible, how appalling waa the word "dead." Carrismoyle had not believed at the worst moment of all, before, that Cissy could be dead, because he had not been able to make himself realize that death was any more possible for bo young, so sweet a thing, than for all sunshine and air to be taken from the world. There had been a chance — a good chance, he had told himself and others— that she lived, that they should have her again, safe and well. But now those awful words kH'ed hope. It was true. It had happened. There was no longer any future. She was dead. The life of the man who had loved her seemed frozen in his veins. • . He shuddered at the word which Lester had used. "The body!" It was impossi ble to think of the lovely temple which had held Cecily Grant's beautiful soul as "a body"— a dead thing to be identified and then put away out of eight In the ground. For him there had been clouds indeed, but it was hope which had made them luminous, and now that they were gone nothing was visible save the black depths of utter despair. Carrismoyle could not read the message over and iover and not come to believe In Its truth at last. And it seemed to him that, in acknowledging his belief, he had reached the end of all things— the end of the world. It was as if unawares he had been walking on the edge of a precipice hidden by luminous clouds which sud denly parted to show an unfathomable' abyss, when It was too late to escape. "Deeply regret useless continue your quest. Body found by coastguardsmen cast up by the sea early this morning, and has been Identified. Hope you will come Immediately to us. — LESTER." For a second or two the written words danced curiously before his eyes. He could make out nothing. Then suddenly they righted themselves, and he read, with a dazed, unbelieving stare. It could not be true. There were some things which a just God, a merciful God, could not allow. This was one of them. Yet the words were there — cold words, scrawled hurriedly by the hands of a telegraph clerk. The young man took up the telegram and tore It quickly open, with a desper ate conviction that unless he did so on the instant he should not have the cour age to do It at all. ' - On a desk at which he was accustomed to write Taunton had laid the brick-col ored envelope, on top of several letters, which had come from Lord Carrismoyle during his absence. Carrismoyle's heart beat slck'eningly as he sprang up the sta" s to his rooms on the first floor. He was certain that the telegram which had just arrived must be from Robert Lester, consequently there was already news of some sort from Stonecross Abbey. Was it good or bad? Cabs were not to be had in the immedi ate neighborhood of Alberta street and he had to walk for some distance before finding a free one. By the time he had reached Savile row it was half-past twelve, and as his hansom drove up to the house a telegraph boy came out. "What name?" he asked, quickly, jump ing from the cab. "Lord Carrismoyle," answered the youth. After some haggling, this was agreed to. And when It had been definitely ar ranged that on his return with the money, Carrismoyle was to accompany Mrs. Daw son to the nearest telegraph ofHce he left her, taking with him hidden in his pocket not only the note and the diary, but the incriminating sheet torn from the blot tirg pad. He might have gone straight to his bank and obtained the amount neces sary to make up the required sum, but he determined to go home first, and, while picking up his check book, see whether a telegram had arrived, for he had been a long time with Mrs. Dawson and It was now close upon noon. y. "I don't ask to see either the address or the arguments," said Carrismoyle, impa tiently. "Show me only the man's name and the part of the telegram which con cerns the day and hour of his return to your house. That Is all I want before I part with the first Installment of my money." And he might have added:' "For obvious reasons a check is out of the question." But what he did say was that he would get the money in gold or notes, which ever Mrs. Dawson preferred, and bring It back to her himself within the course of an hour and a half. But before the money was put into her hands he must see the telegram, and see also* that it was duly sent. To this the old woman demurred. It wouldn't be fair to Mr. Berkeley that a stranger should be acquainted with his address, which had been given to his land lady with instructions to keep It private. Besides, the arguments she would use to Induce his return ought to be between themselves. Of course, the people in the telegraph office were not supposed to count, but she would have to draw the line at an outsider. ) "Say In the telegram, then, that it Is of the utmost Importance he should be in this house between 6 and 6 to-morrow evening, and ask him to answer. I'll call In again to-night or early to-morrow morning to • find out whether you have heard from him." "And the first fifteen pounds, sir?" • "Well, I haven't it in my pocket," said Carrismoyle. But 6he was not thus easily to be taken In. "I told you, sir, I didn't know where Mr. Berkeley was," she reiterated. "I only have an address where I can let him know If there's-anything particular, but I'm sure a letter or telegram would have V> be sent on— perhaps a long way. f He may be abroad even, for all I can tell." "Do you think he could get back by to night?" asked Carrismoyle, not sure whether Mr. Berkeley were to be thought of as near or far, and anxious that Mrs. Dawson should commit herself to an-opin ion. "I will give you, not twenty-six but thirty pounds if ycu send that telegram to Mr. Berkeley, and if by Its means you succeed in getting him to come here to this house without expecting to meet me. You can have half down when you've sent the telegram and the other half when you can show me a telegram from him an swering yours and appointing a time to come. Then, you see, if he's angry — as I'm sure he won't be when he finds out why he is wanted— at least you will have lost nothing." This began to seem like one of the dreams come true. And it was certainly as unexpected as the best of them. Mrs. Dawson had no reason to suppose that Mr. Berkeley intended to remain her lodger for any length of time. Indeed, not long ago. he had dropped a hint about leaving London when some business which had kept him should be finished. Thirty pounds! Mrs. Dawson would have done almost anything for thirty pounds. And she did know, or thought she knew, of a way of wording a telegram which would bring Mr. Berkeley back to town from the merriest Christmas" holiday in the world. She had, however, still to prove her theory. "I can but try, sir, 1 ' she said, with ex treme meekness. / chance of getting this very free-handed gentleman to believe It. At the bam* time," her motive for telling the untruth was to enhance her own importance and «=how how much she would lose If she lost the valuable Mr. Berkeley. At the answer she received from Carrismoyle she w&s unaffectedly surprised; but it was not "the game" to show surprise in this instance, and she strove to conceal it. "I tell you there. is no 'buf!" insisted Carrismoyle. "It seems to me you must all have been blind to think that it was she. ;Come with' me, both. of you, and I will prove that \ you're wrong : and I'm right. Then Sir Redways must be made to understand that there's hope— as much hope as ever "there was, and more per haps—for why play such a ghastly trick if it hadn't been desirable at any cost to hide the fact that she was living?" Speechless, they went with him, but they j still believed that Carrismoyle was under a delusion. ,. >-.'.-.. Poor Lady Stanton could scarcely bear to look again at the disfigured face, but turned away her eyes from the uncover ed horror, with a low, stifled cry, stop 1 ping at a distance from the bier and let ting Lester's broad shoulders come be tween her and what it held. Somehow, though the feeling -was more than half unconscious, it was good to know that they /were, his shoulders, that she owed protection to : him. - She had ; loved . him when she was a girl and married for am bition; now that • she : was,- rich and a widow, she loved him still. But she could not tell him so, and she could not guess whether or not he* had forgotten. To-day they had" come very close to gether, ¦ and, in spite of her. sorrow for Sir Redways, and her own sincere grief in losing Cissy, of whim- she had been very, fond, she reproached herself for not having been' as utterly unhappy as, she ought; Carrismoyle explained his theory about the hair, but Lester. remained reluctantly unconvinced. The sea-water had made a difference, he maintained; besides, the factthat it • had ; been so closely, cropped .would alone for the stiffness and comparative* straightness.' Hair was sel dom very curly: so close to the head. And the color was -identical" with the great golden mass that had come to Stonecross Abbey- in't the mysterious ' box. The two bad been compared. ,, VI can't help that,'.' Carrismoyle insist ed."*^ "A woman's hair. may be any. color she chooses. ¦ This looks to me as if 'it had been dyed or, bleached. Did you think of, that?".. ..'/¦¦' , •? Lady ., Stanton drew a little nearer. "It doesn't look dark at the roots, does it?" she asked: '. ; ~ ' . ' "It certainly \ a little darker," Carris moyle said, obstinately. -" " These hands were pretty hands; but as Carrismoyle studied them, his whole soul in his eyes, a great sob of thanksgiving rose in his throat and choked him; "Thank God!" he cried out. "Thank God, this is not my love!"' Now he could hardly, wait to let the others know what' he knew— for he was sure, absolutely sura — that the dead wo man was not Cissy Grant.- The hair. being cut short, the wearing of the ring which had been hers and clothing marked with her Initials, was but a part of the plot begun by the sending of the 'box. •' The mystery was as deep as before, perhaps even deeper; yet .Carrismoyle .was ready to fling himself Into It and . fathom it at last, since he had found hope again. Since this was not Cissy's body, he was as cer tain as he had been at first that she still lived. ¦.:.. , . ' He did not stop even to cover up the poor marred face, but hurried from the room to find Robert Lester. Lady Stan ton and the doctor were to-day in Sir Redways' "study," talking in subdued voices of the dead daughter and the father who, perhaps, would join her soon, when Carrismoyle broke in upon them. ; "It Is not Cissy!" he, exclaimed, . ab ruptly. "I swear to you that It's not she! For pity's sake, tell Sir, Redways, if he's conscious. It may save his life." They stared at him unbelievingly, fear ing even that grief and the shock he hai endured had disordered his; senses. . "I wish I could think you were right," said Lester. "But—" Cissy had had a marvelously vivid,per sonality, and her hands, with the slightly tapering, sensitive? fingers, their, cerfectly formed pink ( nails, their dimples at the junction, with the hand, and the decision of . character expressed by; the i shape of the thumb had been exceedingly, "indi vidual." Now the time had come to test his self assurance. .When he had first lifted the white cloth he had but given a glance at tho crossed hands," with the ring on the third finger of the left, which lay upper most. Then he had staggered back, sick and faint, and when' he recovered himself he had . looked only at the hair. T i His eyes turned to the hands folded on the quiet bosom. Often he had said to himself that he would know Cissy Grant's hand anywhere. If she had been veiled and cloaked so that no single gold thread of hair had strayed Into sight, so that face and figure alike were hidden, and only one little hand held out, he would know her— so he had thought. Carrismoyle's blood began to sing in his ears. * He hardly dared trust to his own judgment.- It was so easy to believe, to see, what one would : give all of life to believe and see. "What if it's only that I'm going mad?" he muttered, brokenly, half-aloud. The, closely-cut hair of this dead girl had been wet to-day, yet now that it was dry there was but the suspicion of a wave in it— only enough to show that it had been slightly inclined to curl. Once he had been with Cissy In a sud den downpour of rahr In the Alps. She had been drenched from head to foot. For a few moments her hair had looked almost dark, so heavy had ' it , been with water, and the waves and. curls had been beaten Into comparative straightness. But as soon as the rain was; over her hair had curled into 1 the. most ' exquisite little crinkles and rings, far tighter than be fore. It had been like a halo of light framjng her hair. The hair was absolutely different in texture, or so It seemed to him. But then he reminded himself, in the midst of sud den heart-boundlngs, that it . had been soaked for "hours with : sea water; 'that, though it had dried, again long ago, it must still be sodden_ and harsh with salt unless they had thought to wash it. Still —was that all? Were there not other dif ferences which loomed large lin the eyes of a lover who had thought of this one girl by day and dreamed of her at night for a year and a half? ., -- c v*->' : -; !"; .• He bent closer. He touched the yellow hair. Once— the night when he had first told her that r he loved her— she had let him lay his "hand- for a moment upon her hair. To this day he could" recall, as if the past were the present, the ineffable softness of the shining gold, the crest3 and hollows of the thick waves as they rippled under his tingling palm. " It .was astounding to Carrismoyle thai after the first stab ."of horror he should feel so little. "How can it be," he asked himself, dazedly, "that I can see her like this and not be struck down? It is not to me as if it were. really Cissy. : I might be looking at a stranger." _Then again came the thought: "What if It weire a stranger?" j He had braced | his nerves for a shock, yet when It came he knew that the prep arations of a lifetime could , not really have, prepared him for what he saw. Not one feature had been spared by the sea and rocks. The sight" was terrible. He shut his eyes upon It, giddy and stag gering. But in a moment strength had come back to him and , he was bending over the bier again. It was as Dr. Lester had, said. There was still a glittering of gold on the shorn head. \ The curve of one dark brow could be traced. The hand had been crossed upon the breast. On one was a little ring which Cissy had al ways worn. She had been fond of rings, poor child; but this was the simplest she had'had. It had been a birthday present from her father, when she was a child— a cabuchon ruby, cut in the shape of a heart. Now the stone lay.-Mke a drop of blood on the marble-white hand. , to make sure — sure, not with faith in others' eyes, others' convictions, but his own. Then quickly, without waiting for further questionings, he lifted the corner of the white cloth that covered the dead. Dr. Lester had given previous . Instruc tions to his man that, If Lord Carrismoyle came by this train, he (the groom) was to walk home. So quietly was the affair managed that. Carrismoyle . scarcely; no ticed the servant's dearture. He hardly knew, that he and his friend were alone together In the dogcart; yet it would have "My dear Lester," said Carrismoyle, In a voice unlike his own, "I see quite • well that your object Is to take my. thoughts off myself and— what has happened here, by rousing my sympathy for another. I do sympathize with Sir Redways. And I am perfectly able to hear all that— that there is to hear." "Yes; you think so now. But you are a brave fellow. It isn't in you to be a coward— as a man must be to set free that 'prisoner of the gods,' as Plato calls the-, soul, before its appointed time. So I know you are to be trusted. Sir Red ways wouldn't have broken down it he'd been a few years younger. But he's old— I never quite realized that till yesterday. I think, in spite of himself, he hoped a little-^-in you— and then to . find out 'sud denly that it was ali over, was too much for his strength, which had been a good deal broken in the last ten days by that severe attack of influenza, from which he'd by- no means recovered when he went out with us last night." "I knew you would take this train if you found the telegram in time," he said, as he steered Carrismoyle toward the exit, "so I came to meet you on the chance. I'm thankful I did. And I'm glad that you are here, my poor boy, if it's in me to be glad of anything to-night. Poor old Sir Redways has had a bad breakdown— a ' slight stroke of paralysla. If he had an Incentive for living he'd get over It all right; but as It Is, I don't think he will. I believe* the old man will slowly fade out of life." "He's to be envied, I think," said Car rismoyle. As Carrismoyle stepped out of his com partment, followed by the "shadower," Lester strode quickly forward and silent ly held. out his hand. Carrismoyle could not have spoken at that moment; but presently Lester began to talk In his quick, dependable way with the sympa thetic voice, which had been as balm to many who suffered. And neither of the two guessed that Carrismoyle had been "shadowed" from Savile row to Devonshire by a man who had had a "tip" to watch him, and was much surprised at the meeting of. these two. ¦ One thing he forgot. It did not occur to him to telegraph Lester that . he was coming, and by a certain train; yet when he arrived at Waycross in the starlit darkness of a frosty December night, there was Lester standing on the plat form waiting. The messenger boy received explicit In structions. And when they had been car ried out he was to wire Lord Carrismoyle at Dr. Lester's house In Waycross. f All being understood and a short note writ ten to Mrs. Dawson, Carrismoyle drove on to the station and was only just in time to catch his train. He ha£ had no lunch, indeed had scarcely tasted, food for twenty-four hours, nor had he slept at all; yet he was not conscious of being hungry or weary. His body seemed a mere machine to execute the demands of his brain. ! •That would be nonsense, of course, and he smiled with sneering bitterness when he thought how little importance it was whether he were tired or hungry. When he had avenged Cecily, then— he would be glad to die. In such a mood fatigue, hunger, thirst, all bodily needs and ail ments appeared absurdly insignificant He made his preparations automatical ly, not so much like, one who dreams as one who is dead and has been galvanized into a strange semblance of life. He wrote a check; he rang for his valet; he directed Taunton to fetch a messenger, and see that one of the oldest and the most reliable was sent. While his man was gone he refreshed his memory of the time table, for. although it was only yes terday afternoon that he had gone so hopefully, so happily to Waycross, al ready he seemed to look back over a chasm into which spent years had fallen, and he. had forgotten the hour when, he had started. By the time of the messenger's arrival he had reminded himself that he was al ready too late for the train in which he had gone yesterday. The next was a slow train, leaving at 2 o'clock; but, that was better than waiting hours for a better one, and he could easily catch it. since some one else was going to the bank and Alberta street. , /. , A He had, told Mrs. Dawson that he would perhaps return to hear her news In the evening. .This he could- not do.- But he could still call upon her in the morning; for he would arrive at Waycross soon after 7 to-night, would hear what his friend had to tell, and, if possible, see all that was left on this earth of beautiful Cecily Grant. Then he would travel back to town by the midnight train, as he had yesterday. Already he seemed to hear Lester's protestations. "My dear-boy, it's impossible. You mustn't think of doing such a thing. After all you've gone through these, last two days, you can't stand it." ' Carrismoyle thought of Taunton, in stead of a district messenger, for this mission; but Taunton had only been with him since his return from South Africa, and the valet had rather a sly and curi ous face. It seemed preferable to Carris moyle-to employ. a stranger, a^ervant of the public, a person practically # an auto maton. He would not now go to the bank/him self, and then take the first half of the thirty pounds to Mrs. Dawson, because he intended to catch the next train to Way cross. He could, however, send a messenger boy on both those errands; and the messenger could also be instruct ed to see that a telegram adddressed to the .person named Berkeley, making an appointment at Alberta street for the following day, was sent off. And unless this were done, he need not pay the money. For the time he had forgotten Mrs. Dawson and the strange discoveries he had made in Alberta street; and now that he recalled the woman and what had happened in her house, he told himself, miserably at first, that since Cecily was no more, all he had learned was in vain. But then he remembered that without Mrs. Dawson it would be extremely diffi cult, perhaps impossible, to reach the man Berkeley, at all events without un bearable delay and constant watching. As It was, he had but to' carry out the programme as arranged, and he stood as good a chance as ever of coming face to face with the suspected murderer to-mor row. * ••'... The one dominant thought in his mind, since receiving Dr. Lester's telegram had been that she was gone. But now another, though not taking its place, came and stood beside it, two dark, shadowy shapes together. Carrismoyle began definitely to plan how he should carry out his" re venge. Cecily was dead, but it still remained to find and punish her murderer; and that task was for him, only for him. Almost, for a moment, Carrismoyle wished that he might go mad— if madness meant forgetting— now that there was no longer any hope, any need, to work for her. y , Yet, was there nothing that he could do? could even have seen her married to an other man, he could have seen her yes turned from him in coldness, if only, only she could still have been alive. And, since it was fated that she must die,' if she could have passed quietly away from this world to another, with her friends at her side, there might at least be, after a long time, some kind of dull resigna tion; but that the beautiful, beloved, petted young girl should ' have been wrenched out of life with pain? and fear, and violence, was a thing to drive those who adored her to frenzy. Carrismoyle would now be expected to write his letter to the mysterious Mr. Berkeley; but he must rack his brain for an excuse not to have it go after all. For he had sent Mrs. Dawson out to buy paper merely that he might he alone; and the "Inspiration" he had had at the moment of the suggestion was for a very different end. "I'll go on by myself, and let them go on by themselves," he decided. And no •ooner was the resolution fixed than Mrs. Dawson's figure once more quickly passed the window. But apparently Jessie had been left ut terly out of the question, and at present, until the police arrived where CarrlBinoyle had started, he might do better alone and ¦unhampered. If he told what he had learnt, that would practically mean sit ting still, and doing no more on his own account; for Scotland Yard would have no particular fancy for amateur assistance— "Interference" it would probably be called —and would discourage It. If the man who had questioned Miss Morley early In the morning had been a person of alert mind, it seemed to Car rlsmoyle that he would have catechised that confused lady until he discovered the error In her misguiding statement con cerning the manner In which the missing girl's Journey had been begun. Had the nun done this, Instead oX trusting alone to flnQive the cab In which she had driven to the station, he would at once have sent In quest of Jessie Delancey. But he hoped it was not by sophistry he decided that duty did not compel him to share the advantages he had gained. There was a vulgar but expressive oia proverb which said that "too many cooks spoil the broth." And maybe It might be more or less appropriate to the present case. He was human enough to desire pas sionately that he might he the one to find his beautiful girl— not because he thought to claim her father's impulsively made promise, should he alone succeed, but be cause he would not be able to quench a burning jealousy of any other human be:ng fortunate enough to do for her what he could not do. Yet. as he tried honestly to read his own heart, -he believed that, if it were merely a lover's vanity which prompted him to keep what he knew to himself, letting the police go their own way, he would be strong enough to resist the temptation of yielding to It. He replaced on the mantelpiece the lit tle gray purse, empty indeed now— for it behooved him to be cautious, exciting no suspicion as he groped along the path that led through mystery to discovery: and. sitting down at the table as if he were impatiently awaiting Mrs. Dawson's return, to begrin the suggested letter, he gave his whole soul to thinking out trie situation. Now that he had collected so many bits of evidence, there were two courses open" to him. He could put his proofs Into the hands of the police, thus saving their time, and atoning for the delay caused by Miss Morley"s unconsciously mislead ing report, or— he could go on as he had bf£un— alone. etantlal evidence was far more mislead ing than usu.il If Berkeley and he were not closely allied, while it began to be eai^y for Carrismoyle to see how Jessie "Delancey" might have been the connect ing link. . ¦ She saw Carrismoyle. and, only gently touching his hand without a word,' she slipped quietly away. ' He took a step forward, blindly, and the door softly closed behind him. Lightly he touched the door; It opened, and his prophecy was proved correct, for Lady Stanton stood on the threshold, her plump, pretty figure , In dead black, sil houetted against a faintly lighted back ground. JThey went half way down thiSj tlien de scended 'step or two, turning into an other corridor at a right angle with the first. In a moment Lester stopped ..before a closed door. "She is here," he said. "I think Lady Stanton will be with her, per haps, but— she will come out and let you go in alone." He and Carrismoyle went slowly up the broad; shallow flight of polished stajrs which led from a big, handsome square hall on the ground floor to a long, dimly lighted corridor above. i j -' - Dr. Lester had been for. years a per sona grata in this house, and a few half whispered words from him to the butler made clear the way for what was to come. „ • ¦ "I know where," he said. "No one heed go with us." So at. last they arrived at Stonecross Abbey— the great gray, house with the bleak glint of starlight on Its many dark windows, only a few showing streaks of yellow light between heavy curtains. They spoke no more, as they drove fast through the tingling air, the road lying like a dark ribbon before them, with a thin white film of snow unmelted still upon the grass- on either side. • " "There was so much other proof," Les ter ' answered, sadly. "If there! d been room for doubt, I wouldn't have tortured you with such a telegram as I sent. But you aren't the sort that want to have things broken to you, Carrismoyle. There was the golden hair— that wonderful hair!— the fact that it had lately been cropped close to the head (you. know what was in the box!), the dark eyebrows, the youthful figure, the measurements of the body, -the perfect white teeth, except that— that even those which had been broken in front by the cruel, beating against the rocks; a ring that she . had worn since early girl hood, on one of the fingers; clothing em broidered with her • initials, and other proofs besides, which all point without a chance for doubting toward the one ter rible conclusion which we would all put from us if we could. You don't know what a grief it is to me that I must rub these details into a raw wound. But — it would have been less merciful to let you see her without having been prepared.." ¦ "I know. And I thank' you," said • Car* rismoyle. "Then how did you identlf-* her?" de manded Carrismoyle, his voice sharp with agony. • "Very well." he said, "I meant toHake you home to-night, but you- know what la best for you. We'll go to Stonecross Abbey. They'll put up my horse; and I'll wait for you, of course you know, as long as you wish. But I'm afraid in mercy I must warn you of— one thing. It will be a torture, not a comfort, to see that— po\>r:body. It's certain now that- murder has been done. . She— was stabbed. And, for some strange reason, she was laid in No Man's Cave, as it was supposed at first, then taken away again and left to the mercy of the sea. And— poor y boy, the sea wasn't merciful! Her poor little body was beaten backward and forward on the rocks for so long- that now the face is unrecognizable " ¦ .-..-'¦ ¦¦¦ Lester did not answer for a moment. He saw that Carrismoyle was in a fever ish, excited state; he. guessed that the young man had had no sleep, and little food, and he knew that It would be better for hla body v that he should be taken home and delivered over t6 Mary's kindly ministrations: but, after all, there ,was something besides his body to think of just now. So he made no effort to oppose Car rismoyle's wish. Poor Sir Redways could not order his enemy's son from his door now, even if . he wished. . Carr, ismoyle would be allowed to go with him— Lester —to the room where all that was mortal of the dead girl lay. "To-morrow!" echoed Carrismoyle,- an ticipating the words. "Don't speak to me of 'to-morrow, 1 man. It must be to-night. For heaven's sake, let me see her now— now!" ; "Yes. She has been taken there, of course. 'And— it was poor Lady Stanton who' broke . the news to -him— almost breaking her own heart. at the same time. But she has great courage-rand tender ness. It would be better if you did not see— the dead at all.* Still, if you wish it. to-morrow— — " ... jarred upon him greatly had any one 4 else been there. -- . "• ' i .-"¦ "She— is at Stonecross Abbey?" he asked. . " THE SUNDAY CALti. Concluded Next Week. THE KEEPING OF THE TRYST. Seldom had houra been so long to Car riamoyle as those which intervened be tween his morning: visit to Mrs. Dawson and his return to the house for a differ ent purpose in the afternoon. Time dragged. He knew not what to do with it. He forced himself to eat, for be did not wish to lose his strength when perhaps he might stand in special need of it. There were long arrears of sleep to make up; and some men might have slept, but Carrismoyle was not one of them. The blood was racing through his veins; life was pitched in a high key. As the time dragged on he tortured himself with many self communings and accusations. Was he doing the right thing in acting alone, without acquaint ing' the police with such discover ies as he had made and the proceedings he intended to take? Instead «of helping on his love's cause, was he hindering it? Was he, after all, like a stupid fly which has blundered Into the spider's web?. Hail Mrs. Dawson tricked him, and was she playing Borne deep game, in which she and .Berkeley would have everything their own way while he was vainly con gratulating himself on his own sharpness! CHAPTER VIII. •Almost as he was minded to listen to the beguiling -voice which bade him keep forever in his heart the beautiful picture enshrined there now. His hand fell, to his side . again. He ; took .. a step away, then turned back. He was struck with sudden horror at the thought that ; there might have been a mistake/ and. he. would ha.ve to let the ' opportunity sIId from him ., The last time he- had seen her she had been so bright, so beautiful, so radiant with youth and life. Would it not be bet ter, to remember her always as she ; had been.Jnstead of letting ,what he must see now come between him and that gracious image? This would be unforgettable* till the day of his death. ' <. Was there anything to be gained from deliberately putting himself to the torture? Had not Rob ert Lester advised him rightly, after all? He did not at once lift the drapery which covered yet. outlined tho still form with an effect, in the dim light, of a re cumbent'marble figure only half ; carved from the white; block. When the brief storm of anger had died away and ; a prayer, .wordless, well-nigh unconscious, had gene up from his heart, he laid his hand on .the white cloth. Even then It seemed, as if something held- him back. 5