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The San Francisco call. (San Francisco [Calif.]) 1895-1913, September 21, 1902, Image 5

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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

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