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aTS 1 SA
ST HVUIl COXWiT.
Author of "Called Bad."
CHAPTttt HI COVT1NCID..
jau.-vover, a strange, uncontrollable im
pulse stayed me. The touch of that deadly
v eapon still bunted my hand. Philippa's
words still' rang in my ears. "On, on, on,
uptho road jet awhile!" she had cried.
What did she mean? What had been done
I must retrace my step. I must see ! I
must know I Phlllppa isfljing through the
cold, dart, deadly night; but her 'nunc is
but the frame of a woman. She must soon
grow exhausted, perhaps sink senseless on
the road. Nevertheless, the dreadful fears
which are growing in my mind must be set
at rest; then I can resume the pursuit. At
all cost I must know what has happened 1
Once more I turned and faced the storm.
Heavens! anj thing might happen on such a
night as this 1 I went on and on, flashing
my lantern as 1 went on the center and each
side of the road. I went some distance past
that spot where I Judged that Phlllppa had
swept by me. Then suddenly with a cry of
horror I stopped short At my very feet, in
the middle of the highway, illumined by the
disk of light cast by my lantern, lay a whit
ened jiass, and as my eye fell upon it 1
kne only too well the meaning of rhllip
na's wild exclamation, "The wages of sin I
The wages of sin I"
AT ALL COST, SLEErl
Dead! Before I kneeled beside him and,
after unbuttoning his coat, laid my hand on
his breast I knew the man was dead. Be-
- fore I turned the lantern on his white face
-, Iknew who the man was. Sir Mervyn Fer-
,'rand had paid for his sin with his life! It
'needed little professional skill to determine
the causeof his, death. A bullet fired, it
seemed to me, at close quarters had passed
"'absplutely. through the heart He must
, 'have fallen without a moan. (Killed, I knew,
..- by the hand of the woman he had wronged.
' - It could not be true! It should not be truol
.Yet 1 shuddered as I remembered the pas
sion she had thrown into those words, "Basil,
did you ever hate a man?" I gave a low cry
of anguish as I remembered how I had
- hurled from me the pistol she had let fall
r - the very weapon, which had done the dread-o-ful
, Killed by Phlllppa I Not In a sudden burst
"of uncontrollable passion, but with deliber
ate intent She must havo gone armed to
Seethli2rrShe must hare shot him through
.. tiMieart; must have seen him fall. Then,
only then, the horrible deed which she had
wrought must have been fully realized!
Then she had turned and fled from the spot
in a frenzy. Oh, my poor girl I my poor girl I
Utterly bewildered by my anguish, I rose
1 "If topi Jny knees and stood for a while beside
1 1tiefeorpse, It was in that moment 1 learn
'c8 how much I really loved the woman who
had done this thing. Over all my grief and
.Jiorror this love rose paramount At all cost
I must save- her save her from the hands
J of justice ; save her from the fierce elements
which her tender frame was even at this
moment braving. Eight or wrong, she was
me woman I loved; and I swore 1 would
save her from the consequences of her crime,
even Heaven help me! if the accusation,
when made, must fall upon my shoulders.
Yet it was not the beginning of any
scheme to evade justice which induced me
to raise the dead body and bear it to the
aide of the road, where I placed It under the
low bank on which the hedge grew. It was
the reverence which one pays to death made
me do this. I could not leave the poor
wretch lying In the very middle of the high
way, for the first passer-by to stumble
against To-morrow he would, oi course,
be found. To-morrow the hue and cry
would be out! To-morrow Phlllppa, my
Philippa, would Oh, heavens 1 never,
So I laid what was left of Sir Mervyn Fer
rand reverentially by the side of the lonely
road. I even tried to close his glassy eyes,
and I covered his face with his own hand
kerchief. Then, with heart holding fear
and anguish enough for a lifetime, I turned
and went In search of the poor unhappy
Where should I seek her? Who knew
what her remorse may have nrged her to
do?Who knew whither her horror may
have driven her? It needs but to find Philip
pa lifeless on the road to complete the
heaviest tale of grief which can be exacted
irom one man in one short night! I clinch
ed my teeth and rushed on.
I had the road ah to myself. No one was
abroad In such weather. Indeed, few per
sons were seen at night in anv weather in
this lonely part of the country. I made
straight for my own house. The dismal
thought came tome, that unless Philippa
kept the road she was lost to me forever. If
she strayed to the right or to the left, how
on such a night could I possibly find her?
My one hope was, that she would go straight
to my cottage; so thither I made the best of
my way. If she had not arrived, I must get
what assistance I could, and seek for
her In the fields to the right and left of the
road. It was a dreary comfort to remember
that all the ponds and spaces of water were
frozen six inches thick!
I hesitated a moment when I reached her
late residence. Should I inquire if she had
returned thither? No; when morning re
vealed the ghastly event of the night my
haviug done so would awake suspicion. Let
me first go home.
Home at last In a moment I shall know
the worst I opened the slide of my lantern,
which was still alight and threw the rays
on the path which led to my door. My heart
gave a great bound of thankfulness. There
on the snow, not yet obliterated by more re
cent flakes, were the prints of a small foot,
i-uuippa, as i prayeu out scarcely dared to
hope she might, had come straight to my
My man opened the door for me. It was
well I had seen those foot-prints, as my
knowledge of Philippa's arrival enabled mo
to assume a natural air.
"My sister has come?" I asked.
"Yes, sir; about a quarter of an hour ago."
"We missed each other on the road.
What a night f I said, throwing off my
snow -covered coat
"Where is she now?' I asked.
"In the sitting-room, sir." Then, lower
ing his voice, 'William added, "She seemed
just about in a tantrum when she found you
weren't at home. I expect we shall find her
a hard lady to please."
William,-in spite of his stolidity, occasion
ally ventured upon some liberty when ad
His w ords greatly surprised me. I forced
myself to make some laughing rejoinder;
then I turned the handle of the door and
entered the room in which Philippa had
Oh, how my heart throbbed! What would
she say to me? What could I, fresh from
that dreadful scene, say to her? Would she
excuse or palliate, would she simply con
fess or boldly justify, her crime? Would
she plead her wrongs in extenuation? Would
she assert that in a moment of ungovernable
rage she had done the deed? No matter
what she said; she was still Philippa, and
even at the cost of my own life and honor I
would save Iit.
Yet as I advanced into the room a shud
der ran through me. Fresh to my mind
came the remembrance of that white face,
that still form, lying as I had left it, with
the pure white snow falling thickly around
Philippa was sitting In front of the fire.
Her hat was removed her dark hair dis
heveled and gleaming wet wlththo snow
which had melted in it She must have seen
me enter and close the door,but she took no
notice. As I approached her she turned her
shoulder upon me in a pettish way, and as
one who by the action means to signify dis
pleasure. I came to her side and stood over
her, waiting for her to lo-tkupand speak
first She must speak first! What can I
say, after all that has happened to-night?
But she kept a stony silence kept her
eyes still turned from mine. At last I call
ed her by her name, and bending down,
looked into her face.
Its expression was one of sullen anger,
and moreover, anger which seemed to deep
en as she beard my voice. She made a kind
of contemptuous gesture, as If waving mo
"Philippa," I said, as sternly as I could.
1 laid mr hand nnoa her ana. She shook J
It off fiercely, and tlieirstarted to ner roecl
Ion ask me to speak to you," she said;
"you who havo treated me like this! Oh", It
is shameful! shameful ! I come tlnough
storm and snow come to on. w ho were to
welcome mo as a brother! Where are you?
Away, jour wretched servant tells me.
Why are jou away? I trnsted joh! Oh,
you are a prettj brother I lfu J on liad cared
for me or respected tnV. j-o ti would have
been here to greet me. Nil j-ou are all In
a league all In a league to ruin me! Now
Iambercwhat will j-ou do? Poison me,
of course ! kill me, and make away with me,
even as that other doctor killed and made
away with my po r child? He did! I say
he did! I saw him doit! .V child of shame,
he said ; so, lie kilted it! All, all, all.-evcn
you jou, whom 1 trotted leagued against
She was trembling w Ith excitement Her
words ran one into the other. It was as
much as 1 could do to follow them; j-ct the
above is but a brief condensation of what
she said. With unchecked volubility she
continued to heap reproaches and accusa
tions, many of which were of the most ex
travagant and fmolous nature, on my heiuL
At last she was client, and reseated herself
in her former attitude; and the sullen, dis
contented, ill-used lookagain scltled on her
And yet, although I, who loved her above
all the world, was the object of her fierce
reproaches, no words I hadasj-et listeiud
to came more sweetly to my ear than these.
A great joy swept through me; a tide of re
lief bore me to comparative happiness.
Whatever dreadful deed the poor girl had
that night nccmnplished, she was morally
innocent Philippa was not accountable for
hiT actions! She was mad when she. broke
from my grasp; she was mad now as she
sat by my fire, eying me with morose, sus
picious glances. She was mad and inno
cent! Her manner toward mo troubled me but
little. It is a well-know n peculiarity of the
disease that the patient turns with hatred
from those who were the nearest and dear
est to her. Fits of sullen, stubborn silence,
alternating with tierce outburstsof vitupera
tion, are the mot common characteristics of
the mania. Hideous startling as it is to
see the change wrought in the sufferer, the
malady is bj no means of such an alarming
nature as it seems. In fact the majority of
cases are treated with jcrfect success. v
But all this is professional talk. Again I
say that the discovery of Philippa's state of
mind was an immense relief to me. My con
science was cleared of a weight which was
pressing upon it I felt braced up to use
every" effort, and thoroughlj- Justified In fol
lowing whatever course I thought best
Moreover, a newrelationshlpwasnow estab
lished between Philippa and mjself. For
aw-hile every feeling save one must be ban
ished. We were now doctor and patient.
After much persuasion, I induced her to
let me feel her pulse. As 1 expected, I
found it up nearly to one hundred and
twenty. This did not alarm me much, as in
the course of mj- practice I had seen several
of these cases. The preliminary treatment
w as simple as A B C; at all cost sleep must
Fortunately, I had a well-stocked medicine-chest
In a few minutes I had prepared
the strongest dose of opium which I dared
to administer. In such a case, as the present
knew that no driblets would avail; sol
measured out no less than sixty drops of
laudanum. Sleep the girl must have. That
; poor seething, boiling bram must by artifi
cial means be forced to rest for hours. After
that rest I should be able to say what chance
there was of saving life and reason.
But preparing a dose of medicine, and
making a patient like this take it are two
different things. I tried every ait, every
persuasion. I implored and commanded. I
threatened and insisted. Philippa was ob
durate. Poor soul! she knew I meant to
poison her. On my part, I knew that unless
she swallowed that narcotic to-night her
case was all but hopeless.
I rested for awhile; then I sent for luke
warm water. After some resistance she
suffered me to bathe her throbbing temples.
The refreshing coolness w hich followed the
operation was so grateful to her that she let
me repeat the action again and again. A
soft and more contented look settled on her
I seized the moment Once more I pressed
the portion upon her. This timesuccessful
ly. My heart trembled with joy as I saw
her swallow tbe drug. Now she might be
I still continued the comforting laving of
her temples, and waited until the drur took
its due effect By and by that moment came.
The large dark ejes closed, the weary head
sank heavily on my shoulder, and I knew
that Philippa had entered upon a term of
1 waited until her sleep was sound as the
sleep of death; then I summoned my man.
I had already told him that my sister was
very 111. Between us w o bore her to her
room and laid her ou the bed. I loosened
her dress, cut the wet boots from her cold
feet, did all I could to promote warmth and
such comfort as was ossible under the cir
cumstances. Then I left her, sleeping that
heavy sleep which I prayed might last un
broken for hours, and hours, and hours.
A WHITE TOMB.
From the moment when the truo state of
Philippa's mind flashed upon me, to the
moment when I left her sleeping that heavy
sleep, I had little time to think of anything
else than the best means of saving her life,
and. If possible, her reason. True, through
out the whole of my operations to effect this
end, a dim sort of horror prevaded me a
recollection of the ghastly object which lay
on the roadside, some three miles from us;
but it was not until I turned from my pa
tient's door that the terrible situation in
which she was placed presented itself tome
In all its dread entlrctj. Half broken-hearted,
I threw mj-self wearily into my chair,
aim covereu my iace witn mv hands.
Any hope of removing Philippa there,
put it in plain words any hoje of flight,
for days, even weeks, was vain. Let every
thing go as well as can be in such cases, the
girl must be kept in seclusioirand quiet for
at least a fortnight or three weeks. I groan
ed as I thought of what would happen if
Philippa was arrested and carried before
the magistrates, accused of the awful crime.
From that moment until the day of her
death she would bo insane.
Yet what help was there for it? The mo
ment the deed is known the moment Mrs.
Wilson learns that Sir Mervyn Ferrand has
been found shot through the heart, she will
let It be known that Lady Ferrand is at
hand; and Lady Ferrand, who has been
passing under the name of Mrs. Farmer,
will be sought and found. And then I
Even if she did not die at once even if
she recovered oh, the shame of the trial!
No Jury could or would convict her; but for
Philippa, my queen, to stand in the dock, to
plead for her life. To know that, whether
convicted or acquitted, the deed was done
by her. To know that all England is talk
ing of her wrongs and her vengeance. Hor-
riblel ilomblel It shall never be. Rather
will I give her a draught of opium heavy
enough to close her eyes forever. There will
be plenty more of the drug left for me I
Fool that I was! Why did I do things by
halves? Whj-, for her sake, did I not hide
the dead man where none would find him?
Why did I not rifle his pockets, so that sus
picion should have pointed to a vulgar mur
derer; someonp who had killed him for
mere plunder? Why did I not at least de
stroy any letters or papers w Inch were about
him? Identification might then have been
rendered difficult, and pet haps been delayed
for weeks. In that time I might have saved
Why do I not do this now? I started to
my feel; then sank back into my chair. No;
not even for Philippa's sake could I go again
to that sjiot. If I did so, I should return as
mad as she is now.
Not being able to bring mj-self to adopt
the grensome alternative, I could do noth
ing, save wait events nothing, at least, to
avert the conseqm nces of her delirious act
But for her sc in -t.iing mustbedone. How
could she, in her frenzied state, be left here
her only companions two men? Nurses
must be at once procured. I summoned
William, and to'd him lie must go to Lon
don by the first train in th morning.
William would have received my instruc
tions to go to the Antipodes with impertur
bability. He merely expressed a doubt as
to whether any one would be able to get to
London to-morrow on account of the snow.
I walked to the win tow and looked out
The nlirht was still nnn mad whirl nf
snow - flakes. - The window-panes were half
eorcrea 07 sucn as manairea m ima a rest
THE, GLOBE REPUBLIC. SUNDAY MORNING,
ing-place there. As I watched what I could
see of the wild white dance, I found myself
thinking that by now that dead man on the
road must be covered an inch must have
lost jJiape and outllneIshivered as I turn
ed away. " j t? j
"They are tare to keep the line to town
open.'Isaid,, "If you can get to Boding,
j-on canget to London."'
"Oh. I cm get to Boding right enough!"
Then I told him what he was to do. He
was to take a letter to one of theTfursIug
Institutions and bring back two nurseswith
him. 'No matter what the weather was
when they reached Boding, they -were to
come to my house at onceeven if they had
to hire twenty horses to drag them there.
He wa also to get mo a few drugs which I
"William said no more. He nodded, to
show that he understood me; and I knew
that if it were possible to do my bidding it
w ould be done.
Of his own accord ho then brought me
food. I ate, for I knew that I should want
all my strength to support the anxiety of
the next day or two.
1 stayed uptho whole night On, that
awful night! shall I ever forget it? The
solitude the raging snow-storm outside
the poor creature, to whose side I crept
noiselessly every half an hour. She lay
therewith a face like marble, calm and
beautiful. The long, dark lashes swept her
pale cheek. The only movement was the
regular rise and fail of the bosom. Oh,
happy oblivion! Oh, dreaded wakening!
As 1 looked at her, in spite of the lovo I
believe that, had I thought such a prayer
would be answered, I should for her sake
have prayed that those lashes might never
again be lifted.
Morning at last broke on my dreary vlglt
Philippa still slept I returned to the sitting-room
and drew back the curtains from
the window. Yes; it was morning such a
morning as leaden, wintry skies can give.
It was still snowing as heavily, if not more
heavily, than it had snowed last night For
twelve hours the flakes had fallen without
There was little wind now; it had drop
ped, 1 knew, about an hour ago. The world
so far as I could see, was clad in white; but
the snow lay unevenly. The wind had
blown it into drifts. On my garden path its
depth might be counted by Indies; against
my garden wall by feet
William now made his appearance. He
prepared some breakfast for himself, and
then, having done justice to it started for
Boding. It occurred to me that he might be
the first to find the object which lay on the
Except that so doing might delay him and
cause him to miss the train, this mattered
little. I was now calmly awaiting the inev
itable. Some one must make the discovery.
However, as I wanted the nurses, I said to
"Kemember this is life and death. Noth
ing must stop you." He touched his hat In
a reassuring manner, and tramped off
through the snow.
I returned to my patient's bedside and sat
watching her, and waiting for her to awake.
Hour after hour I sat by her motionless
form. Now and again I glanced from the
beautiful, senseless face, and looking out of
the window saw the snow still falling.
Would my messenger ever be able to reach
town; if he did so, would he be able to re
turn? I was bound to have a womau's aid.
The presence of the roughest daughter of
the plow would be welcome to me when
Philippa awoke. And it was now time she
Although I felt her pulse almost every
other minute, and could find no reason for
alarm I am bound to say that her longsleep,
protracted far beyond any I had in my ex
perience seen produced by the exhibition of
narcotics, rendered me very uneasy. I shall,
I am sure, scarcely be credited when I say
that Philippa's unconsciousness lasted for
sixteen hours from half-past nine at night
to half-past one on the following afternoon.
I began then to think the duration abnormal.
and determined to take some steps toward
But I was spared the responsibility. She
stirred on the couch. Her head turned lan
guidly on the pillow. Herdark eyesopened,
closed, and opened again. She looked at
me in a dazed manner, not at first seeming
to know me, or to understand why I was
near her, or where she was. A prey to the
wildest anxiety, I leaned over her, and
waited until she spoke.
Little by little her bewilderment seemed
to leave her. Her eyes rested with curious
inquiry upon mine. "Basil," she said,
faintly, but in a tone of surprise, "you here!
Where am I?"
"Under my roof your brother's root." I
"Ah! I remember," she said, with a deep
sigh. Then she closed her eyes, and once
more seemed to sleep. I took her hands and
called her by name. Once more she opened
her ej-es. They expressed no fear of me, 110
dislike to me. They conveyed no reproach.
They were calm, and, weary, but gavo no
evidence of any mental disorder.
"Have 1 been ill long, Basil?" she asked.
"Not very long. You are going to get bet
"I came to your house, did I not?"'
"Yes; and here I mean to keep j-ou. Do
j-ou feel weak?"
"Very weak. Basil, I have dreamed such
"Yon have been feverish and delirious.
People like that always fancy strange
She was Indeed as weak as a child; but
for the time, at least, she was perfectly
sane. I could have cried for joy as I heard
her faint but collected words. Sho was now
fully awake, and perfectly quiet I gave
her some refreshment; then seeing she was
lying In peaceful silence, I thought It better
to leave her. As I quitted her room I drew
down the blind, fearing that the whirlinc
snow might bring recollections which it was
my one wish to keep from itvading her
The long dreary day wore away. The
light faded, and anothcrnlghtbegan. Philip
pa still lay calm, silent, and almost apa
thetic. I did nothing to rouse her. I went
to her side as seldom as possible. Most
anxiously, as evening came, I awaited the
appearance of my faithful William and the
Would they be able to reach us In such
weather? It was still snowing fiercely. For
more than twenty-four hours the mad white
revel had continued without intermission.
Indeed, that storm which burst upon the
world as I turned from Philippa's house on
the preceding night is now historical ; it was
the beginning of the heaviest and the long
est iaii wnicn me record of fifty years can
show. For two nights and a day the snow
came down in what may almost be called
drifting masses. During that dismal day I
saw from the window the heaps against the
wall grow deeper and deeper, and even in
my preoccupied state of mind found myself
marveling at the sustained fury of the storm.
At eleven o'clock at night I sadly gave up
all hope of the much-needed assistance ar
riving. After all. It seemed that William
had found it impossible to fight against the
weather; so I made my preparations for an
other night of solitary watchfulness. My
delight then may be Imagined when, look
ing for the hundredth time up the road, I
saw close at hand two flashing lights and
knew that William, the faithful, had done
my bidding. In a few minutes two respect
able women from one of the best of the
London Nursing Institutions were within
The train had, of course, been late, very
late. At one or two places on the line It had
almost given up the battle, and settled down
quietly until dug out; but steam and iron
had conquered, and at last it did get to Bod
ing. There William, knowing my dire
necessity, offered such a magnificent bribe
that he soon found an enterprising proprie
tor who was willing to make the attempt to
force two horses and a carriage over six
miles of road between Boding and my house.
The attempt was successful, although the
rate of progression was slow; and William
triumphantly ushered his charges iuto my
After giving them time for rest and re
freshment, I explained the nature of the
case, set out the treatment I wished to be
adopted, and then led them to Phlllppa. X
left the poor girl In their charge for the
night, then went to take the sleep of which
I stood so much In need.
But before eolne to bed I saw William. I
dreaded in hur him av what imicsoma-UiEs which I would have recalled. Love, if
sight he had seen that morning; yet I was
" " - 1 -
bound to learn' if the deed bad yet been
madODublle. ,, ,
"ild you manago toget to Jtoonigaiingnt
this morning?" I asked with assumed care
lessness. "I managed all right, sir," said William,
"Snow deep on the road?"'
"Not so deep as I fancied 'twould be. All
drifted and blown up to one side, like. I
never seen such a thin?. Drift must have
been feet deep this morning. What must it
be now, I wonder? Something liko the
Arctic regions, I should think, sir!"
For the first time for hours and hours, a
ray of hope flashed across me. William had
walked that lonely road this morning, and
noticed nothing except the drifted snow!
Oh that Philippa were well enough to leave
thisp'ace to-morrow! We might fly and
leave no trace behind us. She m'ght never
know what sho had done In her madness.
The fearful secret would be mine alone. A
burden it would be, but one which I might
easily find strength enough to bear. Bear
it! icould bear it and bo happy; for some
thing told me that could I but save l.er
from the peril which menaced her, Philip
pa and I would part no more in this world
until death, the only conqueror of such lovo
as mine, swept hs asunder.
Once more I looked out Into the night
Still the snow-flakes whirled down. Oh,
brave, kind snow! Fall, fall, fall I Pile the
masses on the dead w retch. Hide him deep
in jour bosom. Fall forwecks.for mouths,
forever! Save mj-love and me!
THE SECRET KEPT.
It Is needless to say that when I awoke
the next morning my first thought was of
Philippa; but my first action was to go to
my window and look at the skies. My
spirits ros; I felt that Philippa would be
saved. Tho wind was due east; so long as
it staj-ed there the frost would last and that
white tomb on the roadside hide the secret
of the dreadful night
I found, moreover, that Philippa's condi
tion was all that could, under the circum
stances, bo hoped for. Since she had awak
ened from that long sleep into which the
opiate had plunged her, there had been no
recurrence of the delusions; no symptoms
which gave me any alarm. She was, of
course, weak in body, but quiet and collect
ed. She spoke but little, and tho few words
which she did speak had no bearing on for
bidden or disturbing subjects.
Day after day went by, and still the brave
black frost held the world in its iron grip,
and kept the secret of tho night Morning
after morning I woke to find the wind still
blowing from the east the skies clear and
showing every evidence of a long spell of
hard weather. A presentiment that we
should be saved was now firmly established
in my mind. The heavens themselves seem
ed to be shielding us and working for us.
Day by day Phlllppa grew better and
stronger. As soon as It became a certainty
that all danger to life or reason was at an
end, I began to consider what course to
adopt The moment she was well enough
to risk the journey, or even, if a thaw set
in, before then, Philippa must fly from the
scene of the tragedy in which she had play
ed so terrible, yet morally irresponsible, a
part We must p'lt lands and seas between
ourselves and the fatal spot But how to
persuade her that such flight was absolutely
nccessarj? Brother and sister as wo now
termed ourselves, would she ever consent to
accompany me abroad? Had I the right to
put the woman I loved In such an equivocal
No! a thousand times no! And yetl knew
there was no safety for her In England; and
with whom could she leave Ergland save
I dared not urge upon her my true reason
for flight. It was my greatest hope that the
events of that night had left her mind when
the madness lctt her, never to be recalled.
And now time was pressing; ten dajshad
passed by. The glorious frost still kept oui
counsel, but it could not last forever. Th
time must come when the w liite heaps ol
snow would melt and vanish awaj-, and
then Sir Jlervyn Ferrand's cold dead face
would appear, and tell the tale of his death
to the first passer by.
I had scarcely quitted the house since that
nicht Yet one day a kind of morbid fasci
nation had led me to walk along the road
toward Boding, and to lialtatwhat I judgid
to be the spot where I laid the dead man by
the side of tho road. I fancied I could single
out the very drift under which that awful
thing laj-, and a dreary temptation to probe
the white heap with my stick, and make
sure, assailed me. I resisted it, and turned
away from the spot
There was a certain amount of traffic on
the road. Bj- now the snow had been beaten
down by cart-wheels and people's feet so
that It was quite possible to w alk from one
place to another. As I reached the house
from which Philippa fled to seek refuge
with me, I encountered Mrs. Wilson. I w as
going to pass w ithout any sign of recogni
tion, but she stopped me.
"I thought j-nu were going to take j-our
sister awaj-?-' she said.
"Lady Ferrand was unfortunately taken
very ill when she left you. She is now hard
ly well enough to ba remov ed."
"Has she heard from Sir Mervyn?" asked
Mr-. Wilson, abruptly.
"Not to my knowledge," I replied.
"It is strange. You know, I suppose.that
ho was expected at my house that night?''
"Certainly 1 do. It was for that reason
my sister left you."
Mrs. Wilson looked at me thoughtfully.
"She will not meet him again'"'
"Never," I said, thinking as I spoke that
my words bore a meaning only known to
"Does she hate him?" sho asked,suddenly.
"She has been cruelly wronged," I said,
She laid her hand on my arm. "Listen,"
she said. "If I thought she hated him, I
would see her before she leaves, and tell htr
something. If I thought he hated her, I
would tell hlra. I will wait and see."
She turned away and walked on, leaving
me to make tho best of her enigmatical
words. She was evidently a strange wo
man, and I felt more sure than ever was in
some way mixed up with Sir Mervyn Fer
rand's early life. I had a great mind to fol
low her and demand an explanation, but
caution told me that the less I said to her
the better. It was from this woman's knowl
edge of the relationship between riiilippa
and the dead man that, when tho secret of
the night was laid bare, the greatest danger
After walking a few paces, Mrs. Wilson
turned and came back to me. "Give me an
address," she said; "I may want to write to
I hesitated; then I told her that any let
ters sent to my bankers in London would
reach me sooner or later. It was too soon
to excite suspicion by concealment of one's
It was after I had gazed at that white
tomb by the roadside that my impatience to
remove Philippa grew fiercer and fiercer.
Moreover, I had at last made up my uiind
what to do with my precious charge. As
soon as she is well enough to bear the jour
ney, I resolved'to take her to London, and
place her in the hands of one of the truest,
noblest, tenderest women in tbe world, my
She was in London, waiting for me to Join
her. I had written, telling her that the
serious illness of a friend prevented me
from leaving my home for some days. Now
I resolved to go to her, and tell her all
Philippa's sad tale all save the one dark
chapter of which she herself, I hoped, knew
nothing. I would take her to my mother. I
would tell my mother how I loved her; I
would appeal to her love for me. and ask
her to take my poor stricken girl to her
heart, even as she would take a daughter;
and I dared to hope that, if only for my
sake, my prajer would be granted.
Philippa was by now thoroughly convales
cent As I lay down my pen for a moment
and think of that time, with its fears and
troubles, it is a marvel to me that I could
have dared to wait so long before removing
her from the neighborhood. I can only at
tribute my lingering to the senso of fatality
that all would go right,ortotlieprofessional
instinct which forbade me urging a patient
to do anythingwhlcli miglitrctard recovery;
but the time had at last come.
Save for her quiet and subdued manner,
my love was almost her old self again. Her
words and manner to me' were tender, af-
lecuonaie ana sisteny. 1 need hardly say
that during that time no word crossed m?
wiwwwismoihi iiau 1am asiue until
rs .1 u.f. t t. ,. .. ' .7
happier days dawned; for I say it advised
ly, and at risk of censure Philippa was to
FEBRUARY 15 1886
me pure and Innocent ason the day when
first we met If her hands were stained
with the blood of Sir Merwn Ferrand. she
knew it not Her wrongs had goaded her
to madness and her madness was responsi
ble for the act, not she herself.
The man's name never crossed her lips.
For all she spoke of him he might never
have existed, or, at the most been but a
part of a forgotten dream. As soon as sho
was well enough to rise from her bed, and
I could for hours enjoy her society, we talk
ed of many things; but never of Sir Mervyn
Ferrand and the immediate past
But, nevertheless, there were times when
her look distressed me. Now and again I
found her gazing at mo with anxious, troub
led eyes, as if trjing to read something
which I was hiding from her. Once she
aked mo how she came to my house that
"O.it of tho whlrlingsnow," I said as light
ly as 1 could. "You came In a high state of
fever and delirium."
"Where had I been? What had I been
"You camo straight from Mrs. Wilson's I
suppose. I know no more."
Then she sighed and turned her head
away; but 1 soon found her troubled dark
ejes again fixed on my own. I could do
nothing but meet their gaze bravely, and
pray that my poor love might never, never
be ab'e to fill those hours which were at
present a blank to her.
At last exactly a fortnight from the fatal
day, we left my home. I was now what Is
legally termed an accessory after the act,
and was making every effort to save the
poor girl from justice. In order to avert
suspicion, I decided it was better not to shut
up my house: so I left tbe faithful William
to take care of itand await my instructions.
At present it was advisable that any in
quirers shou'd leaiji that I had gone to Lon
don with my sister, and that the time of our
return was uncertain. By and by. It all
went well, I could get rid of my cottage in
an oidinarj- way. L for one, should never
w Mi to visit the place again.
Puillppa acquiesced in all my arrange
ments. She was quite willlngtoaccoinpany
me to town. She trusted me with childish
simplicitj-. "But Basil, afterward what
afterward?" she asked.
Even in the midst of the menacing peri, it
was all 1 could do to refrain from kneeling
at her feet and telling her that my love
would solve the question of the future.
"1 have a surprise for j-ou In London," I
said, as cheerfully as I could. "Trust j our
self to me; j-ou will not regret It."
She took my hand. "Whom else have I
to trust?" she said simply. 'Basil, you have
been very good to me. 1 have made your
life miserable; it is too late to atone; but I
shall never forget these days."
Her eyes were full of tears. 1 kissed her
hand reverently, and told her that when I
saw the old smile back upon her lips ail I
had done would be a thou-and times repaid;
but as I spoke I trembled at the thought of
what might be in store for both of us.
We drove to Boding, and were perforce
obliged to take the road which passed by
Mrs. Wilson's house. Philippa half rose
from her seat and seemed to be on the point
of asking me some question; but she chang
ed her mind, and relapsed Into silence. I
felt a horrible dread lest the roadside objects
and landmarks should awaken recollection,
and my heart beat violently as we neared
the white heap by the hedge, that heap
which 1 believed held our secret I felt that
I grew deadly pale. I was forced to turn
my head away and look out of the opposite
window. My state of mind was not made
easier by knowing that Philippa was gazing
at mo with that troubled look in her eyes.
Altogether I felt that the strain was becom
ing too much for me. and I began to wonder
if my life would ever again know a happy
or secure moment
After a long silence Phllippaspoke. "Tell
me, Basil, hive jou heard from that man?"
1 shook my head.
"Where is he? He was coming that night
Did he come?"
"I suppose not Why do yon ask?"'
"Basil, a kind of horrible dream haunts
me. There was something I dreamed of
that fearful night, something I dream of
now. Tell me what It was."
The perspiration rose to my brow. "Dear
est" I said, "no wonder you dream. You
are well now, but that night you were quite
out of your senses. Your fancies are but
the remains of that delirium. Think no
more of that wretch; he is probably living
in Paris after the manner of his kind.
Think only that life Is going to be calm and
Anj-thine to keep the knowledge of her
fatal act from her! I forced myself to talk
In a light, cheerful manner. I jested at the
appearance of the few muffled-up country
people whom we passed on the .oad. 1
pointed out the beauty of the trees on tho
wayside, each branch of which bore foliage
of glistening snovy. I did all I could to turn
her thoughts lnto"other channels to drive
that strange questioning lookfromhereyes.
Bight glad I felt when we were at last in
the train, and the first stage of our flight an
Upon reaching London, I drove straight
to the hotel at which my mother was stay
ing. It was one of those high-priced respect
able private hotels In Jermj-n street 1 en
gaged rooms for my sister and myself. I
sent Philippa to her room to rest; and then
went to find my mother. In another minute
I was in her arms, and ere half an hour was
over I had told her Philippa's story, and my
love for the woman on whose behalf I be
sought her protection.
Yes, I had done right to trust her. I knew
her noble nature; her utter freedom from
the petty trammels of society. Iknew the
love she bore her son. Let me here thank
her onca more for what she did for me that
she heard all my outpourings in silence.
I told her all, save two things the name of
the man who had wronged my love, and the
fate which had overtaken him. I told her,
as I have dared to hope that in time to come
my love would be rewarded. I prayed her
to take my poor girl to her heart, and by
treating her as a daughter restore, if it were,
My mother heard me. Her sweet face
grew a shade paler. Her lips quivered, and
the tears stood in her eyes. I knew all that
was passing through her mind. I knew how
proud she was of me, and what great things
she had hoped 1 should do In the world. She
was a woman, and, woman-like, had counted
upon her son's bettering himself by mar
riage; but in spite of all this I knew I was
right m counting upon her aid. Once again,
my sweet mother, I thank you.
She rose. "Let me see the woman you
love. Where is she? I will go to her."
'She is here, in this house. Ah, mother.
I knew you would do this for me."
She kissed my forehead. -'Bring her to
me," she said.
I went out and sent word to Philippa that
I wanted her. She soon came tome. She
had removed the stains of travel, and al
though pale, looked the perfection of grace
ful beautj-. 1 led her to my mother's room.
She stopped short as she saw it tenanted by
a lady. A quick blush crossed her cheek.
"Puillppa, dearest," I said, "this is my
mother. I have told her all, and she Is
waiting to welcome you."
Still she stood motionless, save that her
head bent dowii and her bosom heaved. My
mother came to her side, and, placing her
kind arms round her, whispered some words
which I neither heard nor tried to hear.
Philippa broke into a storm of sobs and for
some moments wept on my mother's shoul
der. Then she raised her head and looked at
me, and my heart leaped at the expression
in her tearful ej-es. "Basil.'my brother, you
are too good to me!" she ejaculated.
My mother led her to the sofa, and, with
her arms still round her, sat down by her
side. I left them, knowing that my love
had now the truest, noblest heart to sob
against; the quickest, most sympathetic ear
to listen to the tale of her wrongs; and the
softest, kindest voice to soothe and console
Ah! how happy I should have felt, could
that one night's dark work have been un
done could that white tomb forever hold
its ghastly secret!
THE MELTETO Or THE ETOW.
The first stage of our flight toward safety
accomplished, I sat down to once more re
view the situation, and to take such counsel
as I could give myself. I endeavored, to
foresliadc ar the consequences of the inevi
table discovery of Sir Mervyn's Ferrand'a
death I Iried calmly to ascertain In what
I quarter the danger of dlscovcrynatsituated,
and how best to guard against or turn aside
Undoubtedly the chief person to fear was
Mrs. Wiison. ane alone miewtnat trie man
Intended to reach Boding that night. She
alone knew In what relation, or supposed
relation, he stood to I'.illipj.a. The verj
night of his death would tie fixed bj- the
now storm; and I felt sure that as soon as
the dead man was Identified Mrs. Wilson
could not fail to associate her guest's sud
den departure and subsequent illness with
the terrible event The moment she rev eal
ed what she knew or suspected, suspicion
must point to the right person, and pursuit
must at once follow. My heart grew sick,
as think how I would, I could see no loop
hole by which to escape from this danger.
About secondary things I troubled but
little. Upon calm reconsideration, I did not
believe that my stolid William would for a
moment jump at the right conclusion. If he
were led to suspect either of us it would be
me, not Philippa; and I well knew that he
was so uiuch attached to me that, although
he felt certain I had done the deed,he would
feel equally certain that I had good and
proper reasons for doing it and no word to
my detriment would pass his reticent lips.
No, there was little to fear from William
I had blamtd mj-self deeply for the im
pulse whicli had urged me to hurl tho fatal
weapon away. Why did I not keep it and
bury it fathoms deep? If that pistol were
found, it would possibly furnish a c!e
which might be followed up, and undo
ev erything. My only hope was that I had
thrown it in some spot where It might lie
for years undiscovered, until all association
between it and the murder had disappeared.
To sum up briefly, I was bound to decide
that the damning circumstantial evidence
which could be furnished by Mrs, Wilson
drove me back to my original Idea. There
was no chance of my poor Philippa's rer
malning unaccused or unsuspected of th;
deed she had unwittingly done; so her only
hope of safety indeed, considering all, i
maj- also say my only hope of safety was
rapid flight We must gain Tsome land in
which we could dwell without fear of being
arrested. What land was there?
Many a one. The date of my story Is be
fore 1873, when nearly all the extradition
treaties were made. At that time such
treaties existed with only two foreign coun
tries. France and the United States; so
that our choice of a resting-place was not 50
limited as those who are fljlngfrom the
clutches of the law find it to-day. However,
in order, to make certain, I paid a visit to a
legal friend of mine; and, by quoting a ?up
positlous case, managed to acquire a good
deal of information respecting the dealings
of one nation with another, so far as fugi
tives were concerned.
1 found that although, with the two ex
ceptions above-named, there was no sctt'ed
international law on the subject there was
a kind of unwritten substitute, which was
knownby the name of the Comity of Na
tions. Under this code of courtesy, a no
torious criminal, who had sought refuge in
the arms of another country, was not un
commonly, although there was nolawunder
which he could be arrested, given up to his
pursuers by being simply driven across the
frontier of the country in which he had
hoped to find security. However, I gather
ed that this so-called comity was scarcely
expected to be exercised by the most friend
ly state, unless the fugitive had fled almost
red-handed, and so placed his guilt beyond
doubt No one exactly knew how far this
obliging expulsion might be counted upon.
It was generally supposed to be decided by
the amount of Influence or persuasion which
one government could exercise on the other.
This Information rather upset my precon
ceived Ideas as to the ease with which safety
might be obtained; but reflection told me I
had little to fear. The case against Philip
pa could be nothing more than one of sus
picion. No one, not even 1 myself, had seen
the deed done. A warrant would, no doubt,
be Issued for her arrest; bnt If our flight
precluded Its execution, I did not believe
that any government would put itself out of
the way to aid the English law. There was
no one, save myself, who could positively
swear that Sir Mervyn Ferrand had been
killed by Philippa.
I learned that Spain was then, even as It
is now, the land safest against English law.
Perhaps the reason Is that the grave, yet at
times hot-blooded Spaniard reckons human
life at a lower value than more northerly
nations Any way, it was" to Spain that I
turned my eyes; Spain that I resolved to
reach without an hour's unenforced delay.
The very next day I broached the subject
of foreign travel to my mother. Although
so short a time had passed since they first
met I was overjoyed to see the terms upon
which she and Philippa stood. The girl
seemed to cling to her as to a natural pro
tectorseemed ready to Install her in the
place of the mother she had lost After all
the love of her own sex is indispensable to
a woman's happiness. It did mv heart good
to see the two together. Philippa talked to
my mother as she had never jet talked to
me; and I knew that when the day came
upon which I should ask for the only re
ward I wanted, my mother's kindness to the
forsaken and shame stricken girl would bo
an advocate that pleaded strongly In favor
of my suit
But could it ever be? Could we know
happiness in the face of that dark night's
work? Ah me ! my heart sank ss I thought
that any day might brinz the crashinc blow.
Let there be no delay. Let ms'not blamo
myself hereafter for any negligence or false
security. Let us away from the peril.
"Mother," I said, "will you come abroad
with Phlllppa and me?"
"Abroad, Basil ! I have only Just come
"No matter; come with us at once. L:t
us go to some place where Is warmth and
bright sunshine. Let us go to Spain."
"Spain! why Spain? Besides surely
Philippa is not fit for a long Journey 7'
"It will do her good. Her recollections of
this country are but sad ones."
"Well, In a week or two I will see about
"No, at once. Let us start to-morrow or
the next day. Mother, I ask it as a favor."
"Give me some good reason, Basil, and I
will do as you wish."
"Look at me, and you will see the reason.
Cannot you see that I am ill, worn out nerv
ous? I must have a change, and at once."
She gazed at me with solicitude. "Yes I
know you are not well; but why Spain?"
"A whim a sick man's fancy. Perhaps
because it Is Philippa's father's country put
it into my head. Mother, tell me, how do
you like hi r?"
"She is the woman you love; she Is very
beautiful; sho has been cruelly treated; she
Is blameless; to say more after so short an
acquaintance would be exairceration."
"You will come to Spain with me with
She kissed me and gave In to my whim.
I sought Philippa.
"My mother is going to take us abroad," 1
said with a smile, which was forced, as all
my smiles now were. "She will see to
ev erything for you."
"She is kind she is sweet," said Philip
pa, clasping her hands "Basil, I am be
ginning to worship your mother. But why
are we going abroad?"
'To get away from sad thoughts, for one
thing; for another, because I feel ill."
Sho gave me a quick look of apprehension
which brought the flush to my cheek. "Oh,
let us go at once I" she cried. "Let us leave
this land of ice and I will nurse you and make
youwelL Where are we going? When are
"To Spain to-morrow or the next day."
She looked at me with the troubled irazo
which I had so often noticed. "Basil," she
aid, "you are doing this for my sake."
"And my own, I fear."
"I threw away your love I spoiled your
life. I came to you a shamed woman. You
saved me! You did not scorn me. You
brought me to your mother's arms Basil,
may God requite you; 1 never can."
She burst into tears, and left the room
It was well I settled the mattcrof the for
eign journey then. That afternoon the wind
changed and a thaw set In a thaw that
slowly but surely drew away the thick w hite
veil which covered the whole of England.
That night I had little sleep. I could do
nothing but lie awakeand picture thatwhlte
tomb slowly meltinj away, until the white
face beneath peered out of it and made the
dread secret known to all. To-morrow morn
ing we were to start. I prayed Heaven that
it might not be too late; thajt tbe next twenty-four
hours might pass without what 1
dreaded taking place. Por I knew, that by
now that ghastly object on the roadside
oiust do tying witn ma ngntofuay on Its
With an iffort I opened the morning's pa
per, and ran hastily up and down the col
umns. What cared I for politics, foreign
news, or inonej'-iufiiiLei intelligencer nere
was the one paragraph which riveted all my
attention. The white tomb had given up its
secret! I Lead I Ti me those words were
written in letters of fire!
"UoitiuBLE Disco veky Near I'.odisq.
Tile melting of the snow has brought to
light what to all appearances Is a fearful
crini;. Yesterday afternoon a laborerwalk
ing on the highway discovered the body of
a gentleman lying by the roadside. His
death had been cau-ed by a pistol-shot It
Is supposed that It must have occurred on
the night of the great snow-storm, and that
the body has lain ever since under the snow,
which had drifted to the depth of some feet
The facts that death must have been In
stantaneous, and that no weapon can be
found near the spot, do away with the
theory of suicide. Litters and papers found
upon the corpse tend to show it to be that
of Sir Mervyn Ferrand, Bart The unfor
tunate gentleman's friends have been com
municated with, and the inquest will be
opened to-morrow." l
For some minutes I sat liko one stunned.
I tore the paper to pkcs and burned it I
think of all my dark days that one wa the
one I would be least willing to pass again.
I trembled at every footstep on the stairs.
Any man who paused for a moment outside
our windows sent a cold chill over me. And
'n the midst of my misery I had to wear a
cheerful face, and talk to Philippa and my
mother about the pleasures of our projected
lourney! Ah! if we only reached the end
of it in safety, the pleasure would not be al
The morning dawned. No fatal messen
ger had arrived. I glanced hastily at the
papers which, however, contained no more
information about the tragedy. Shortlyafter
ten o'clock we started to drive to Charing
Cross. The rattle of wheels over the stones
seemed to send fresh life through my veins
We were on the road to safety.
We started In plenty of time, as I wished
to call at my banker's on the way. It was
my Intention to take with me a large sum
In gold. Notes of any kind could be traced,
but the bright sovereigns would tell no tale.
I changed my check, and while doing so
asked if there were any letters for me. Sev
eral persons addressed letters to me at my
banker's. The spruce cashier sent to. In
quire, and, with my bag of gold, passed un
der the brasswlre railing a letter with a wo
man's handwriting on the envelope. I
thrust it Into my pocket, to read at my
We traveled by the tidal train for Paris,
da Folkestone and Boulogne. It was not
the pleasantest weather In the world for
a journey; but I wrapped my charges up
warmly, and did all I could to mitigate the
hardships of the voyage, undertaken osten
sibly for the sake of my health. My moth
er, who was by now an experienced and
seasoned traveler, settled herself down to
the journey, although she little guessed how
short the rest I meant to give her until we
reached our destination. She laughingly
protested against the cruelty of dragging an
old woman like herself away from England
Just as she had returned to it; but there was
that in her voice and manner which told me
she would for my sake make a far greater
sacrifice of comfort than this
I thought that Philippa's spirits, like mine,
rose as we left London behind us She smil
ed at my sallies and feeble attempts at mak
ing merry, which, now that we were fairly
on our road to safety, were not quite so
forced as they had been during the last few
days. She listened with Interest to the pic
tures I drew imaginary ones, of course of
the beauties of the south; and I was glad to
believe that the thought of visiting what
might almost be called her native land was
beginning to awaken her interest Only let
me be able to show her that life could still
promise a pleasant future, and the moody
memories of the past months might be ban
I am sure that no one who could have
seen us that morning would have dreamed
that out of that party of three, consisting of
a comfortable, pleasant-IookingEnglish ma
tron, a strangely beautiful girl, and myself,
two were flying from the hands of justce.
Our appearance was certainly such as to dis
arm all suspicion.
"But where are we going?" asked my
mother. "I objert to go wandering about
without knowing where our pilgrimage b to
"We are going to Paris first then to Spain
to wherever we can find the warmth and
sunshine which Is necessary to my existence.
If we can't find them in Spain, we will cross
over to Africa, and, if needful, go down to
"Then you young people will have to go
alone. I draw the line of my good nature
1 glanced at Phlllppa. Her long curved
lashes hid her eyes; but a tell-taleblush was
on her cheek. I knew that the day was not
so very distant when she would answer my
appeal as I wished. I knew that, could I
but sweep away the record of that one night,
all might yet be well with her. Oh, that she
may never recall what I alone know!
As we were neariug Folkestone I remem
bered the letter which had been given mo
at the bank. I drew it from my breast In
tending to read it; but the sight of the Bod
ing post-mark on the outside made me
change my Intention. I remembered Mrs.
Wilson's half promise to send mesomeeom-
munlcation. I longed and yet I dreaded to
break the seal. I felt it would be better for
me to read that letter alone. Whatever
might be the tenor of its contents, I was sure
it had some bearing on Philippa's relations
with Sir Mervyn Ferrand.
We were soon on board the steamer and
under weigh. Although the Arctic rigors
of the last three weeks had departed, the
air on the sea was too keen to make the
channel passage an enjoyable one. I per
suaded my motherland Philippa to take re
fuge in the saloon ; and then I found a quiet
spot where I was able to read my letter
without fear of interruption,or of betraying
myself by the emotion Its contents might
cause. It was well I did so. for the first
words blanched my cheek. The letter be
gan abruptly, so:
"I know or guess all. I know why Sir
Mervyn Ferrand did not reach my house
that night I know the reason for her
strange excited state. I know why she left
my home before jou came to seek her. I
know how he met with the death he deserv-.
"Ah! she is braver than lam. She has
done what Years airo I sworn I wnnld rtnr
and yet 1 had not the courage. I was base
enough to forego revenge forthe sake of the
beggarly maintenance he offered me for
the sake, perhaps, of my children. I sank
low enough to become his tool to do as he
bade me, even to taking under my roof the
woman who thought herself his wife. Yes,
she has been braver than L But her wrongs
were greater than mine; for I had but my
self to blame for being in such a degraded
position that he could throw me aside like
an old glove. He never married me.
"Fear nothing for your sister. If she be
j-our sister. Tell her my lips are sealed to
the death; and for the sake of her brave act
tell her this:
"Sir Mervyn Ferrand's first wife died on
the lSUi of June. ISO, three months before
the day on which he married your .sister.
She died at Liverpool, at No. 5 Silverstreet
She was buried in the cemetery, under the
name of Lucy Ferrand. She has friends
alive; it will be easy to prove that she was
the woman whom he married. Her maiden
name was King. He hated her. They parted.
He gave her a sum of money on condition
that she never called herself his wife. He
lost sight of her, I never did. For years I
hoped she would die, and that he would
marry me. She died too late for the hope
to be realized. 1 told Kim of her death; but
I changed tho date. I would not tell him
w here she died. Part of his object in com
ing to Boding that nicht was to endeavor to
wring the information from me. He would
never have had It. No other woman should
have been his wire so long as I could stop it
"Now that he is dead, j-ou can tell your
brave sister that she maj-, if she likes take
the name, title, and what wealth she can
claim. Fear nothing from me; lvvillbest-
To U Continued.
HAVE YOU A
IF YOU HAVE
TOU WILL NED
AM wuivutt BnttlUalwtMMT.
nn ; un Mu lallic a Ml a
aalka stmt all, u4jm -
Infon bajiag aarvana.
WM. H. MAULC,
us 191 mat ,
ifz Fjrrf -1 1 aSaae
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I III I HI l ra-T-lTri aaaaTaaaamTar niamTT TaTaTaTaTaW