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Wtt ittKM ttWKIX PUBLISHED BY A. J. WIUJAMWB SONS. VOL. XLI.-NO. 35. Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., as Second Class Matter. THE N YORK l) IS PATCH, PUBLISHED AT NO. 11 FRANKFORT STREET. Th© NEW YORK DISPATCH is a Journal of light, agree able and sparkling Literature and News. One page is de voted to Masonic Matters, and careful attention Is given to Music and the Drama. The Dispatch is sold by all News Agents of the city and suburbs, at FIVE CENTS A COPY. TERMS FOR MAIL SUBSCRIBERS: SINGLE SUBSCRIPTIONS K SO a year TWO SUBSCRIBERS 400 “ FIVE SUBSCRIBERS eOO ■■ ALL MAIL SUBSCRIPTIONS MUST BE PAID IN AD VANCE. POSTAGE PAID EVERYWHERE BY THE DISPATCH OFFICE. Address NEW YORK DISPATCH, Post Office Box No. 17 75. playFSjlTyers. THAT AWFUL “ OFF YEAR.”” The Managerial Scarecrow—What it is Made of—The Playwright’s “ Off Year ’’—Why They are “ Off-Uns ” —Strikes and Anarchists and Barnum’s Big Show. BY JOHN CARBOY. Out of any collection of twenty managers you may meet you will find that at least seventeen of them will attribute the failures and losses they had during the past season, to the fact that it has been an “offyear.’* Last season, the season before, and ever since they have been in the business —their wrecking on the road, and whatever troubles overcome their enterprise—brought up the same old cause—“lts an Off year my boy/’ " Didn’t expect much, you know—l knew it was an off year. Not a combination on the road made a dollar—lucky if they got back with their traps all right. I tell you when you strike an Off year with a show—you can’calculate you’re going to be floored —and the better the walking the sooner you’ll get home. Its worse than a cyclone in a barnyard.” And every one of these seventeen religiously believes that nothing but an *• Off year ” could have prevented him from making “ barrels of money.” I remember meeting Bartley Campbell just after bis return from his Western expedition with THE SPECTACULAR “ CLIO. ” “Well, how did ‘Olio’ make out?” Poor Bartley threw his hat back and glared at me In surprise. " What ? • Clio ’ made nineteen thousand dollars Blear. See ? And if this hadn’t been an off year, I’d have made fifty thousand dollars on it. Wait till next season. See? ” Insane as he was, he did not forget to lug in that wretched “ off year ” by the ears, as a scape-goat. So far as he was concerned, it was an “off year ”— for “ Clio” failed miserably. However, his receiver and his creditors only can teii what a Swamp of debt that “Clio” lured him into, I fancy that two shell playa as “Clio” and “Pa quita” would make a lunatic of almost any man ager. It was an *• Off year ”in solemn earnest when with dazed brain and weakened hand he recon structed the former and wrote the latter work. But to this “Off year” business—with these sev enteen managers who represent, let us say, more than one-half who, season after season, invade the rustic realms and the minor METROPOLISES OF THE COUNTRY. I say metropolises. The citizens of any outside city which can boast of a couple of beer mills, an •' opera house,” an always half empty high-toned hotel, a railroad depot and a big divorce case, inva riably speak ot the place as a metropolis. And you’ll never catch the citizen of the me tropolis of Mudroost or Greasersnest nominating their little six-by-nine kerosene-lighted “Temple of the Drama”—a theatre. Not if he knows it. It is an Opera House. And the local press refers with pride, in well-worn long primer type, on its edi torial page, to the fact that " our talented aud ener getic manager proposes to add two new sets of scenery hangings to the stage in readiness for next season's opening, and will start for New York to •ecure attractions and other necessaries to ensure our metropolitan temple of the drama a brilliant campaign. He informs us that he has already en gaged, for positively only one week, the distin guished and world-renowned comedian, Alvin Jos lin Davis—at an enormous outlay—to inaugurate the season.” These managers, then, season after season, come back upon us with the dust of the railway journey upon their shoulders, and gathering in little groups in the afternoon shadows of the Morton House, or bracing up in the haunts in the vicinity of the Bijou Opera House, will narrate to each other and to you or me, or any chance interlocutor, the sor rows of the special “ Off year.” Well, what made it an "Off year?” What was the matter with it ? A grand sweep of the cholera ? Inundations everywhere ? Big fires in every city and town you entered ? Camp meetings and re vivals ? Did you strike into every town with your dates on the same night with Barnum’s show ? Political excitement ? John Sullivan on the ram page ? Anyhow, what made the year so awfully off with the show business, and with your share in it particularly ? AND THE ANSWER ? To use the expressive, though not strictly refined phrase—you will " get it right in the neck” from the questioned managerial functionaries. “No, nothing of the kind. It was the infernal strikes all over the country—riots, murder—no money, factories shut down—no business.” “ Ah—the Knights of Labor knocked out your nights of labor, eh?” Then your wary managers knowing that they will be on the road again next season with some sort of a show—or perhaps with the same one under a new name, will hedge in order not to be boycotted, and come at you with, “No, sir, not the Knights of Labor. No, sir, they’re a noble lot of down-trodden men battling for their rights. No, sir. It's the blasted blood-boltered Anarchists and Socialists that raised sheol in the strike business and fright ened everybody out of the streets o’ nights.” And this is the nomadic combination manager’s reason accounting for this accession to the long and unbroken line of “Off years.” And the manager's “Off year” shibboleth finds echo in the minds of the acting members of the profesh who invite their souls and loaf away the Summer vacation recuperating for a whack at an other “ Off year.” They didn’t get their salaries—managers meant well—but how could they know it was going to be an Off year ? Bills all paid ? “Well”—comes the answer—“ well, yes—with difficulty ?” Which was the reply long ago given by Fitz James O’Brien to Frank Leslie when that distinguished publisher asked tbe no less distinguished author and poet, in one of their usual quarrels : “ Don’t I pay you for what you write ?” So it is that the Off year, like the ghost that never walks, is always with these managers and their trusting companies. Here in the city, the manager who has unwit tingly or through hie lack of judgment waded into the sloctgb of failure very nearly up to the line of bankruptcy in his season, will summon his spectre of tbe "off year.” "Hov# can there be any business for the theatres anyhow ? Look at what we’ve had. The car tie up; Lent; bad weather; Barnnm’s big show; the Madieon Square Garden sluggers; general innocuous desuetude, and—and”—if he can't think of any thing else, he will add as the round and top of his jplaint—"and the boodle aidermen excitement.” Oh, this awful Off year that, like the irresponsi ble but exceedingly bothersome ghost of Banquo, will not down! THIS TERRIBLE "OFF YEAR,” which strands so many luckless managers and their companies and wipes their plays into ob livion, in order that a few plays, a few managers and their companies, may prosper and grow fat with success season in and season out, and never know of the existence of such a terror as an " off year.” Now, there are Barrett, Booth, Tom Keene, Jeffer son, Irving, Nat Goodwin, Mary Anderson, Marga ret Mather, Modjeska, Clara Morris, Fanny Daven port and half a score of other actors and actresses in the starring line, who are never troubled by one of these off years. They fill the round of their sea son and close it with a large and well-earned bal ance on the profit side of their account. As for plays, Hoyt, with his "Rag Baby,” "Tin Soldier,” and similar laughter-creating contriv ances, has as yet encountered no off year to dry up his ink and resources, rust his pen and wither his ambition. Elections, strikes, big shows, revivals, fires and inundations have not cried halt to “ Fedora,” “The Wages of Sin,” "The Black Hussar,” “One of Our Girls,” "Siberia,” and half a dozen other produc tions, have been repeated season after season on the road, North, East, West and South, and still hold their own in the record of success, and with no hint from their managers or any of the players that they ever heard of any such a demoralizing ogre as an " Off year.” Why? And here comes the head and front—the explana tion of this mystery—the O. Y. There can be no such thing as an "Off year” to that play, that actor or actress—or that manager whose claims are in accord with popular favor. There is no regular season in any town or city where there is not a demand for dramatic enter tainment; there is not a play-going community anywhere gathered on tbe face of this land ot liberty and lunch routes, that is not ready to wel come and encourage plays and players that are de serving. And as an appetizer, these playgoers—here and elsewhere, will sometimes endure without any marked show of disgust—even the St. Vitus spasms of an Alvin JosMn, or the weird and 'inexplicable phantasies of a “Smiff,” or “ The Baron.” Of course the "Off year” catches them in the end. The mills of the O. Y. grind slow, but they grind exceedingly fine. This " Off year” is a fatality which never has yet brought ruin and failure to anything in the theat rical line except bad plays and bad actors. AH years are off—for them. The fittest may not always survive but they have remarkable staying powers. No, Messrs. Manager! and Messrs. Playwrights. It is your bad judgment and your vanity which brings you every season within the shadow and troubles of an "Off year.” The best of meh make mistakes; but tbe best of men, in whatever their calling may be, are not those who seek to lay the blame of their mistakes elsewhere than at their own door. As an old stage doorkeeper of the Bowery Theatre once said to Studley, who was “ raising <3ain,” about something that had gone awry: "You didn’t use your clrcumspicion and judition right, Mr. Studley; ef you had, thipge '4 have been as straight as a brace.” And so it isn’t, after all, this scapegoat, **the Off year,” that is to blame. It’s the managerial dis use of proper " clrcumspicion and judition.” I haven’t heard Dan Frohman, J. M. Hill, A. M. Palmer, the Aronson'?, Col. McOaull, Wallack, Horace Wall or John Stetson metaphorically blaspheming and kicking every season at "the Off year” scare crow. When a manager’s methods, a play, or a star is not wanted—by the public, it is not the year—it is the manager, the playwright, or the stellar aspirant who is “off.” And the sooner he becomes conscious of this, he will find it greatly to his advantage to remain off and go into some other business. SHE VISITS THE COURT. A Gospel Temperance Woman Graphically Describes what She Saw and How She was Treated in Justice Naeher’s Court. Her Trouble with Mrs. Feirinsrer and Her Call Upon Lawyer Donnelly. SHE WOULD WED A MINISTER ONLY LIVING ALONE WITH HER CAT. Mrs. Martindale, who is one of the most forcible as well as voluble talkers in the Williamsburg Wo men’s Gospel Temperance Union, which holds forth in the building at the corner of Fourth and South Third streets, is just now in a sea of trouble, aud she has only her cats to console her. Her trials and tribulations began two weeks or so ago, whon she hired a furnished room in her house, at No. 31 Wythe avenue, to Mrs. Julia Feiringer and her husband. Julia, before she moved into the room, was profuse in promises as to promptness in the payment of her rent after the first week, but she failed to keep them. She was a good talker, and when Mrs. Martindale and herself measured tongues they made things lively in the neighborhood. When Julia was approached about money, she generally told of her many distinguished acquaint ances, and turned up her nose at the idea of her landlady and her cats. Mrs. Martindale boasted of as many prominent friends in the Church and the Gospel Temperance Union, and never tired of denouncing the little hell (saloon) next door. Julia’s husband absented him self after the first few days, and Julia went to the Clymer street station-house time and again and in quired if he had not been sent to jail. Mrs. Martindale was unable to get her rent, and to eject Julia would cost four dollars—a sum which she deemed altogether too Urge td spend for that purpose, so she decided upon executing a flank movement. On Thursday Mrs. Feiringer was very noisy, and the people of the whole neighborhood collected in front of the house to witness her capers. She called her landlady all kinds of names on which she could lay her tongue, and even went so far as to slander her by telling her that she did not practice temperance so strictly as she preached it. An officer arrested Julia and took har to the Cly mer street station-house. She locked her room door, however, before her arrest, and took the key with her. Mrs. Martindale was in court bright and early the following morning, and she tried unsuc cessfully to obtain an audience with Mrs. Feirin ger, in order to get the key of the room. She told of her rebuffs in court at the station-house after her return, substantially as follows : "I belong to the Woman’s Gospel Temperance Union, and I'm a member of the South Second street Methodist Church, and all the members can tell you, Sergeant, the kind of woman I am. There isa hell hole next door to my house, and 1 tried my best to get it out of there, but devils have the upper hand in this country now, and the followers of tbe Lord have no show; but things will change, mark my word! or Brooklyn will, like Sodom, be de stroyed. I went to the court about that wicked virago, who calls herself Feiringer, Ringer, Finger, or some such name. I was shocked when I saw the place, and 1 was afraid to go up-stairs, for I am cer tain the Lord will have it blown up or torn down some day.” " Why so, Mrs. Martindale ?” timidly asked the sergeant. " Why so ?” she echoed, in astonishment. "Have you ever been there ? Yes; of course you have, and yet you ask me why so. Don’t you know that there is a great big hell, that people call a brewery, underneathit? The doors of this hell were wide open, and I saw policemen, with big shining but tons, in there, drinking. I called one of them out aud asked him what he was doing there, aud he re plied, ’Skip the gutter. Granny.’ I then asked him in my severest tones where Judge Naeher’s court was, and be pointed to tbe ball door and said it was up stairs. I told the policeman that the Judge had better hold court down stairs in the saloon and have done with it. And so he ought to. I went up stairs aud was walking up to the Judge to have a chat with him, when a shiny-buttoned fellow like yourself, sergeant, would not let me in side the iron railing. He asked what my business was, and I told him it was none of his business; that I wanted to have a chat with his boss. He just pushed me back, and I would have boxed bis ears for him but he got out of my way. The Judge ordered the officer to arrest me for talking so aud making an excitement, but I never do anything of NEW YORK. SUNDAY, JUNE 13, 1886, the kind. The officer wanted me to sit down on a bench beside the filthy things there. I was going to do nothing of the kind, and I just went down stairs. I told an officer that I wanted to see Julia to get my key from her, but I wouldn’t be let see her. “The officer said that she was committed for six ty days, and stated that she bad given the key to Judge Donnelly or Lawyer Donnelly, whose office is next to a hell-hole on Broadway, and I went straightway to see him. 'Now, old lady,’ said Judge Donnelly, ‘I have no key belonging to any person named Feiringer. You should have taken the drop on the fly-cops around the court.’ I scarcely knew what he meant, and I told him so. ' Why, madam.’ said he. just like a gentleman, ‘ I’d no more defend such trash in court or have any thing to do in any way with persona like this Feiringer woman than I would think of going into a gin-mill.* He’s a real good man, and if he’s not a Judge he ought to be. for we want just Ruch men on the bench. Now, sergeant, tell me how I’m going to get the key ?” "I can’t.” "I just broke the lock a while ago and put Julia’s trunk in the hallway, and her husband wants to take it away, but I want fifty cents lor storage on it.” •• Get your husband to attend to the matter.” "I’ve got no husband or nobody but my cat. We live alone.” “Yoh ought to get married.” "All the old, bald and gray-headed fools make asses of themselves now-a-days by marrying giddy little girls. It’s disgusting to think of it. I would piarry no man but a preacher, who devotes hie life to the service of the Lord.” The names of the pantors of several churches, cler gymen who are widowers, were mentioned, but she said she would not have any of them, as they were not Methodists. “There are two things in this world that I hate and detest,” said Mrs. Martindale, as she was leav ing the station-house, “ and they are free love and free beer.” She has not yet got her key. DEATHITTfIpASEMEn. The Tragedy at the Golden Dove Inn. John Blakeslee’s Mania for Spec ulation and Its Ruinous Consequences. THE LONELY OLD MAN. A TERRIBLE DEED DONE IN THE DARK. THE PERFUME OF ALMONDS. ine xo is .v ni, r: i’ at i:. There never was before such Kild excitement about “The Golden Dove ” hotel at Kesselbrunnen, as on that bright June morning in 1858, when the elderly English gentleman registered as Robert Litchwell, was found dead in his bed, with just a faint suspicion of almond perfume in the atmos phere of his room. The other Englishman stopping there at the time, Mr. John Reofrew, seemed, al though but a casual acquaintance of the deceased, to be much affected by the sudden death of his countryman, and his fair daughter Adela was so overcome by the shock of the sad occurrence that she was thrown into a brain fever. When she re covered sufficiently to be moved, her father—who bad never left her, day or night, during her illness —took her away, none knew whither. Before that time, Robert Litchwell, whose death had been offi dally declared due to heart disease, was quietly laid away in the little village burying ground and, as but a very small sum of money was found among the dead man’s effects, Mr. Renfrew generously paid the funeral expenses. Five years later, an Englishman, past middle age, was murdered and robbed in a low New Orleans street, one dark night, and his body was identified as that of one John Renfrew, who was largely inter ested in blockade running in the earlier part of our Civil War. He had gone to seek in their haunts some rough characters whom he did business with and some unknown person, either knowing that he always carried a considerable sum of money with him, or merely guessing that he might be a profit able subject, had knifed and plundered him. There were too many stirring events going on all around just at that time for the death of one man to attract much attention, and the public hardly gave a second thought to it. It was, however, an event of more vast importance than all tbe sur rounding clash of arms in the nation’s battle for life, to one poor woman—his daughter. She was a fragile, timid, startlingly pale creature, who seemed to have become PREMATURELY OLD, uot simply in the whitening of her hair and the dimming of her eyes, but in the bending of her slender form and the banishing from her heart and brain of all trace of youth. Although she unques tionably grieved lor her father, she at the same time manifested a sense of relief, aud it was noticed that when she was first told of bis fate, the excla mation, " Expiation 1” burst from her lips before she swooned. Her use of that word was never ex plained until a few weeks before her death, which occurred within a twelvemonth after that of her father. Then, feeling herself about to lay down the sad burden of a most unhappy life, she made a con fidante of a good woman, the wife of the physician who attended her in her last illness, and in so doing besought the doctor s wife to see that, after she was gone, the great fortune left by her father should all be applied to righting, as far as possible, a terrible wrong, the secret of which had long been locked in her breast, * Her father's great fortune was a delusion, but she was never undeceived about it while she lived. The fact was that his partners in the blockade running ventures coolly appropriated, without a word of explanation to anybody, all his interest in their enterprise, and even managed to get possession of a very large sum in gold that he had left for safe keeping at Nassau. As for the money he had iu this couotry, it was all in Confederate States bank bills, that he had had to take, but which were even then at an enormous discount, and, ere long, be came absolutely valueless. So John Renfrew left nothing adequate TO MAKE AMENDS, if indeed that phrase maybe used in connection with so hideous a crime as his, that his daughter, iu her last hours, unvailed. The story thereof will doubtless be more intelligi ble in a narrative form than in the disjointed and tangled way she gave it. Thus straightened out and supplemented by such knowledge as the doctor was enabled to gain by correspondence with Eng land, in an honest attempt to comply, as far as possible, with the dying girl’s request to his wife, it presents the following facts: ' To begin with, the family name of Adela and her father was not Renfrew, but Blakeslee. John Blakeslee was a solicitor in London, in 1857. lie became possessed of a considerable fortune by the death of his father three years before and, at the date specified was in apparently fair practice. Un fortunately he had always been infatuated with a desire for financial speculation. There was gaming blood in his veins. When a young man he gambled and perhaps continued to do so in his maturer years, but practised the vice with much care for concealment. As his practice enabled him to do so, he ventured into the hazardous sea of stock specula tion. By the time he inherited his father’s estate, he was deeply involved. With the £57,000 be queathed to him, he paid off his debts and then plunged into new speculations, more wildly than ever before, to make up what he had lost. Bubble mining companies and delusive American railway shares possessed an irresistible fascination for him. When our great FINANCIAL CRASH took place, in 1857, he was loaded down with securities that seemed to drop in value, as lead falls to the earth. He did not realize, until too late, what a destructive tornado was blowing away fictitious values like chaff before the wind. In the effort to protect his investments, hoping constantly for the rise that never came, he not only sunk every dollar that he possessed that was his own, but poured into the same bottomless pit the little pro perty that his motherless daughter Adela Inherited from her maternal grandmother, and even betrayed his sacred trust as holder of moneys and securities belonging to clients. All was in vain. He did not even once attain a single smile from cold and cruel fortune. Suddenly he awoke from the nightmare of anx iety in which he had lived for months, to find him self confronted by a real horror that was even more terrible than all before. He realized that he had lost not only every penny he owned, but his hon or, and even h» personal liberty, if he did not van ish very suddenly. He vanished. A few days before he took to flight he sent Adela to Cannes, under the pretext of caring for her health. She was, indeed, far from strong, To get the means to follow her. he actually had to sell, to a notorious receiver of stolen goods, some silver ware intrusted to his care. Then, in disguise, he one night left Loudon forever, bitterly saying to himself that he was now “A HOMELESS, FUGITIVE THIEF.” And he was right. That is just what he had be come. Starless anil fahpuhnt. At first he went to Calais, to await there informa tion as to what his victims meant to do. They meant to do the worst for him that was in their power, if they could get hold of him. No compro mise was possible. England was closed to hjm for ever. The press rang with denunciations of THAT SCOUNDREL BLAKESLEE. Why should Blakeslee continue to live to be a constant target for even verbal firing ? So one morning a hat. a cane and a coat with some docu ments in the pocketß, all identified as Blakeslee s, wore found on the pier, and their owner being seen no more, it was conjectured that he had carried his troubles into the water and stayed there with them. Tea days later John Renfrew, a very different looking man irom Blakeslee, turued up at Cannes where he had a little difficulty at first in making Adela Blakeslee believe that he was her father, so complete was his dißguise. From there tbe Renfrews, father and daughter, went to Geneva. From the hour of her assump tion of tbe new name Adele was a changed being. She never smiled, always seemed in dread, and her eyes took a hunted look. Still, sho never was al lowed to know how deep was the dishonor in which her old name was buried. Her father said uo more than that he had failed in business, that he was a ruined and injured man, and that cruel creditors, if they caught him, would put him in jail forever, because he owed them money that he could not pay. Hence the name ot Blakeslee weuld have to be abandoned, and they would never return to England. Possibly those last four words did most to crush her heart and blight her life, for there was a certain young engineer there who was very dear to her, and she knew that under a false name she could never look him in the face again; that that false name, and no other, would be hers until she died. From Geneva John Renfrew took bis daughter to a small German spa, called Kesselbrunner, where they put up at the "Golden Dove” inn, kept by Herr Hans Bergdahl. It was not at all an expensive place, and its waters were really of a curative value, at least in the minds of some quiet, elderly persons who sought health aud not a mere change of scene for disaipaiiou when they went to the springs. At the time the Renfrew* l went there but one other English person was iu the place. That was ROBERT LICHWELL, a shy. suspicious, slender, pale gentleman, mani festly in ill health. He seemed near sixty years of age, yet the impression one got in looking at him was that trouble had done more than time to age him. From the first sight that he aud Adola had of each other, they seemed to have a mutual sym pathy, as of two weary-grief-stricken souls that could each feel without knowing the other’s woes. For a few days John Renirew paid littie attention to his countryman. He had enough else to occupy his mind. He did not have far to look to see the end of his immediate resources, and beyond them his fi nancial future looked very black. When he fled from London he carried with him some private papers belonging to an estate, upon which he could have raised nothing from anybody but the heirs, or their legal guardians, and from them only as blackmail. These he was now trying to negotiate, through a lawyer in Berlin who did much business in such delicate matters for the criminal classes. But the negotiations dragged along slowly, while his needs galloped and he was growing desperate. At this juncture, something that his daughter said innocently one day to him gave his thoughts a new direction. “I cannot help feeling,” she said, "an infinite deal of pity for that unhappy Mr. Litchwell. His fate seems to me to have been even harder than ours. We have been very unfortunate, it is true, but the consciousness of rectitude in our own hearts, and the knowledge that our calamities have sprung solely from business reverses that fell, as the rain falls, upon all within a certain radius, and not from base betrayal by those whom we loved aud Crusted, has given us strength to endure and kept to us the saving grace of faith in dur fellow-creatures. Foor Mr. Litchwell has little, if any, of such faith. Friends whom he trusted robbed him; the wife he loved betrayed him; the brother, upon whom he had lavished affection, sought to kill him. to inherit his wealth. Now, he trusts nobody and nothing. J do believe that he carries about with him "ALL HIS WEALTH, •* and that there is not one soul alive that he claims or admits relat onship with or interest in. What a sad and lonely life his must be I ’ From that hour Mr. Renfrew began to take a deeper interest in his neighbor. Without forcing his acquaintanceship he demonstrated so much kindly and friendly feeling that it inevitably drew some reciprocation, from that shy, suspicious old man. Adela was pleased to see it, for it showed the goodness of her father’s heart. It was not long before John Renfrew had made himself thoroughly conversant with every minute detail of Mr. Litchwell’s life so lar as it was possi ble for anybody to penetrate it. He bad even satis fied himself, not however from the old man's confi dences.but by observation, that Adela’s supposition as to his carrying his wealth with him was proba bly correct. He had even located it, through no ticing a slight nervous movement of the trembling hands toward the breast, that seemed involuntary with the old man, when money was spoken of, Suddenly Mr. Renfrew was called away to Berlin “on business,” and before taking his departure, he formally asked Mr. Litchwell to look after Adela while he was gone, an indication of confidence that seemed to gratify the lonely man. In a few days Mr. Renfrew returned and the rela tions between the father aud daughter and their neighbor seemed more pleasantly intimate than before. For four nights after his return John Renfrew watched with impatience the slow waning of the moon. On the fifth night there was no moon visi ble. All the heavens seemed black. In the streets of Kesselbrunner the widely scattered lamps did nothing, almost, to dispel tbe general gloom. A delightfully cool wind, probably presaging a thun derstorm, blew up from the valley. It was a night that, coming as it did after a long hot day, tempt ed every one to sound sleep. John Renfrew how ever was wide awake, and at midnight was busy preparing for the execution of A TERRIBLE DEED that he had deliberately planned and bided his time for. Having carefully closed his windows so that no light from them should be noticed without, he drew from a traveling valise a suit of black, skin tight underclothing, a long, silken ladder, a keen pointed knife and a small vial. Removing all bis clothing, he donned the black suit of tights. One end of his long silk ladder he fastened to his bed stead, which stood with its head against the wall beside the window. The knife and vial he put up on a stand by the window. Then be extinguished his light, drew the blind back and opened tbe win dow noiselessly. All without was pitchy darkness and uot a sound was to bo heard but the sighing ot the wind and the rustling of foliage. From the window he dropped the free end of his ladder. Thrusting the vial in the breast of his black shirt aud taking the knife between his teeth he glided out of the window and slowly descended the lad der. Even had there been a little light it would have been almost impossible for a passer-by to have seen him; but there was no light, there wero no passers-by—for Kesselbrunner harbored no keopers of late hours—and he felt secure. At the window beneath his own he baited, held his breath and listened. A soft, regular breathing near the open window could be heard. A very small night-light burning in the room enabled him to see dimly, but with sufficient clearness, the fig ure of the sleeper within an arm’s length of him. Equally without hesitation and without haste John Renfrew drew from his breast tbe small vial, un cofked it, steadied himself by his right hand, ex tended his left hand, holding the vial over the face of the sleeping man and poured a few drops of some liquid between the parted lips of the unconscious sleeper. The soft breathing ceased at once. Robert Litchwell was dead. A faint perfume, as of bitter almonds floated upon the air. John Renfrew climbed into the room, and for an instant stood hesitating by the bedside RELUCTANT TO TOUCH THE CORPSE that was his work. Then he overcame the mo mentary weakness and thrust his hand among the clothing over the dead man’s breast. It came in contact with something bulky, in a carefully but toned pocket of an under-shirt. Quickly drawing forth what he had found and carrying it close to the little night-light, he saw that he held a thick wallet stuffed with bank-bills, all of large amounts. What they were, ho did not stop to investigate. Re arranging tbe clothing that he had disturbed, hav ing previously stuffed tbe wallet, along vial in his own breast, the assassin again swung himself out on the ladder, and climbed up noise lessly to his room. As his eyes reached the level of his window he was startled at seeing a light inside his apartment. It came from a candle in the hand of his daughter Adela. She had been awakened from sleep by an oppressing sense of horror, aud fancied that her father had called her. Quickly lighting her candle she tapped at the connecting door between his appartment and hers; receiving no answer was more and more alarmed; turned the key, which was on her side, and passed through. The room was empty. While she looked around her in dazed surprise, she became conscious of her father's eyes glaring into hers, from outside the window, just above its sill. Then she knew no more. When she recovered consciousness she was in bed, in her own room, in the broad light of day. When she put her hand, that was strangely weak, up to her head, she found that all her long silky hair had been clipped off' short, and they told her that she had been sick for days with a brain lever, through which her father had nursed her with the tenderest assiduity. And during that time their neighbor, poor Mr. Litch well, had been ionnd dead in his bed in the room below, and had been buried. When, she asked her self, had her brain fever commenced ? Had she really seen her father’s face, with a knife between his teeth. Or had she only dreamed it ? There came a time, long after, when he confessed to her that it was not a dream. That was when, in the New World, when he was again a rich and prosperous man. she had ventured —impelled by the memory of a never-forgotten love—to urge him to go back to England, pay off his old debts and re-take the sta tion in life they once had. Then, to silence her forever, he told her. with cruel clearness, that worse than debt stood between them and the John Blake slee that once had been; told her what he h id done to give John Renfrew a start in the world again, and, by the horror that his avowals awoke, sealed her lips, at least while he lived. FOUND DROWNED. The Dread Mystery of the Cha teau Leontine. Who Murdered the Beautiful Marquise Heloise ? A French Detective’s Skill Utterly Baffled. The Startling Story Told to the Bereaved Husband. A WOMAN’S MAD REVENGE. In the outskirts of the town of Besancon, France, embowered in stately trees and reached by neatly graveled paths and carriageways, stands the Cha teau Leontine. It is deserted now. The windows and doors are closed. The harsh cry of the lonely peacocks fall discordantly upon the ear, and were it not that the butterflys skim so wearily over the waters of the artificial pond, that can be seen in the distance, and that the grass is kept trimmed and paths neatly tended, the whole aspect would be that of a dreary and lonely place. Ten years ago the Marquis Gregoire Leontine left the chateau, saying he would never return, but also left behind him strict orders that the grounds should never be allowed to go to ruin. The cause of this resolve was a tragedy which, for a long while, baffled the skill of the most astute Parisian detectives, and was only discovered by a confes sion. Three years before that time the Marquis Leontine had brought to the castle his newly wed ded bride, Heloise. She was an Alsatian, a blonde of blondes, with long, sunny hair that rippled in tumultuous waves over her fair white shoulders and bust. Her lips were full and ruddy, her nose aquiline and her great lustrous blue eyes had in them an alternate expression of laughing merriment and languishing eroticism that at once captured the susceptible young Marquis Leontine, and, although she was comparatively poor, he laid hot siege to her heart and won it after an ardent court ship. The wedding took place in Alsace, and, alter a brief wedding tour, tbe young couple came to the chateau at Besancon. There were grand times at that home-coming, and for a month or more the happy bride and groom were the centre of attrac tion. Each day claimed their attendance at some fete of the happy bride and groom, and the stately beauty of Heloise was the talk of all tbe country roundabout. THE MARQUIS WAS THE HAPPIEST OF MEN, and his wife the most contented of women—for a woman is always contented when she is tbe centre of admiration. Her devotion to her husband was marked on all occasions, and one mark of it was, that at all times she wore around her neck one of the choicest of the gifts he had bestowed upon her before their mar riage. This was a large gold locket, set with costly stones, in the centre of which was her monogram set in diamonds and surmounted by a coronet of opals. It was held by a massive gold chain, and as it rested upon her heaving bosom, the gems flashed and sparkled with each palpitation. More precious to her, however, was the medallion portrait of the marquis, which was under the cover of one side of the locket and a lock of his black hair under the other. A year had passed, and there came to visit at the chateau Henri Merville, a cousin of Heloise, and his wife, Beatrice. Henri, although not a handsome man—for his red hair and gray eyes prevented all idea of good looks—possessed many charms of man ner, and proved an agreeable acquisition to the so ciety at the chateau. His wife was somewhat of a nonentity. She was pretty, after a fashion, devoted to her husband, and very jealous of him. Henri and Heloise had known each other from childhood, and she would hardly have been expect ed to be jealous of her, but sometimes there came a baleful look into her dark eyes as she saw the two walking together in the shrubbery and watched how friendly and confidential, even tender, their intercourse seemed to be. Six mouths had passed and the Mervilles were yet visitors at the chateau. One day the marquis had important business to transact in Paris, and asked Merville to accompany him. adding that they would dine at the club, return to Besancon by a late train, and have tbe carriage meet them at the de pot. The programme was carried out, and shortly alter eleven o’clock at night the two men drove up to the door of the chateau iu excellent spirits. Mme. Merville stood in the open doorway await ing them. HER FACE WAS ASHEN PALE, her manner nervous and excited. She advanced hastily to Leontine and asked huskily: “ Have you seen Heloise?” “ Seen Heloise 1” exclaimed the marquis, in sur prise. “ Why, Henri and I have just come up from Paris. How in the name of gooduess could I see her?” “Be calm, Gregoire—you will require all your courage. Heloise has gone.” •• Gone 1 Gone where ? This is some joke, I sup pose. Perhaps she has gone to visit some of the neighbors.” “ Perhaps so; but listen. She and I took a stroll in the shrubbery this morning. I left her at noon lo return to the chateau. Since then nothing has been seen or her.” *• My God I” cried the marquis, now thoroughly alarmed and agitated—“ what does this mean ? ’ Then, without uttering another word, he seized a caudle from the hand of one of the attendants and rushed to his wile’s boudoir. Everything was quiet; nothing had been disturbed. There was no letter, not a scrap of p iper, not a word to him to tell him of her flight—if such it had been. Hastily descending the stairs, he immediately summoned all the servants. Had madame left any message ? No. She had been seen walking in the shrubbery with Mme. Merville in thefmorning, but since then nothing had been seen or heard of her. Had in quiries been made iu the neighborhood? No; Mme. Merville had thought perhaps Madame the Mar quise had taken a train to Paris to surprise mon sieur agreeably. “FoolsI” shouted the marquis, in a voice hoarse with anxiety and agitation. “ Order out every horee in the stable; mount, all of you. Come, Merville, you must help me in this search. I can not understand this matter at all. Something must be wrong. But what—my God what ?” and the now frantic husband dragged his wife’s cousin to the stable. In a moment they were mounted on two of the fleetest steeds and ten of the most relia ble servants were mounted almost equally well. The country for miles around was scoured, but without avail. NO ONE HAD SEEN THE BEAUTIFUL MARQUISE LEONTINE during either the day or night. The dull gray of early morning had settled over the landscape when the men returned from their weary search. Fagged almost to death, Gregoire flung himself into a chair in the library and ate his heart out trying to con ceive or imagine some cause for this disappear ance. Surely, he had done nothing to make her false to him. He had studied her every wish, grati fied every desire. No, it could not be that; there must be some treachery. Suddenly he looked up at Merville, who sat opposite to him, the picture of absolute despair. Rising, he walked across the room to his companion and said sternly: " Merville, you have been a guest under my roof. I have noticed your close attention to my wife, but have passed it over because I believed her too pure to do anything that would injure my honor. Answer me, as man to man, can you give any reason for, any clew to this terrible mystery ?” For a moment, Merville seemed to cower under his fierce gaze, but then, recovering himself, an swered bravely enough: “ Marquis Leontine, I answer you as a man, no ! I confess that I loved Heloise dearly—as a cousin. We had been together since childhood. But, if you would insinuate that there was anything wrong between us I answer you no, no, no 1” “ Pardon me, Merville, I w r as mad to think it,” and with a groan the marquis sunk back into his chair. As soon as the sun had risen, a rigid search of the grounds was made, NOT A TRACE OF THE MISSING HELOISE could be found, until on the shore of the little artificial lake, at a point where the water was deepest, one of the maids found a book, the one that madame had been reading that morning, a volume of the poems of de Thurset. Gregoire seized it and covered it with kisses. It seemed to him some part of the personality of his beloved. But still no trace of the missing lady. By noon time every inch of ground had been explored, but without success. At last Merville suggested that a detective should be sent for. At first the marquis was loth to do this, as he was unwilling to make public what he feared would prove his shame. Merville reasoned, argued with him and, finally, he consented. OFFICE, NO. 11 FRANKFORT BT. A telegram was dispatched to tbe Prefect of Police at Paris, who chanced to be a friend of the marquis, and at nightfall a quiet, businesslike-looking man presented himself at the chateau. He bore a letter from the Prefect, recommending him as one of his shrewdest officers, worthy of all confidence. Per haps it would be well to let the detective tell his story in the report submitted by him a week subse quently : THE DETECTIVE’S STORY. ” M. le Prefect: In the matter of the disappear ance of Mme. Heloise. Marquise Leontine. I would report that immediately upon my arrival at the chateau I proceeded to question the marquis, who appeared to be prostrated with grief. He told me that be and madame had lived upon the most friendly terms, and he could assign no reason for her departure. He informed me that the grounds had been searched, and tbe only trace was a book which madame had been known to have been read ing on the morning of her disappearance. This book had been found on the shore of an artificial lake on the grounds of the chateau. Of course, lat once concluded that this lake contained the clew to the mystery, but kept my suspicions to myself. By this time it had grown late into tbe night, and I postponed my investigations until the morning. Before the rest of the household had arisen, I awak ened the gardener and told him to procure me some strong fish-hooks and lines. He did so, won deringly, and then I bade him lead me to the arti ficial lake, to the spot where madame’s book had been found. Reaching there, I examined the ground closely, and noticed slight evidences of a struggle. A boat was moored near by, and getting into this, with the gardener, we rowed to a position opposite the spot I had examined. The water at this point was nearly ten feet deep. Together we threw over our lines rnd rowed about. We had been doing this for some fifteen minutes when I felt my hook catch in something at the bottom of the lake. I in structed the gardener to throw his line over by the side of mine. He obeyed. His hook also caught. Slowly we pulled, and in a few moments brought to the surface the body of a beautiful woman. The gardener threw up his hands and cried : •• •My God 1 It is madame 1’ ** With difficulty I pulled the body into the boat, and rowed toward the shore. I laid my burden upon the grass, and was stooping over it to discover if there were any marks of violence, when I heard a deep groan aud a heavy body fall at my side. It was the marquis, who had just arrived upon the scene. My examination revealed marks of fingers arouud the dead woman’s throat and a laceration at tbe back of tbe neck, as though a chain had been torn from it. Bearing the body to the chateau, lat once summoned a commissary, and stated to him all the facts I knew in the case—the evidence of a struggle on the shore, and the suspicious marks upon the throat and neck. When the marquis became calmer we questioned him as to whether his wife had been in the habit of wearing a chain or any other neck ornament. He started violently, and answered that his wife had invariably worn a valuable locket, enshrined in jewels, and containing a portrait of himself on one side and a lock of his hair on the other. Search was made throughout the house, but the locket could nowhere be found. Again I searched the spot by the lake shore, aud at the end of an hour found the locket in the grass some distance off. Only the front portion of it, however, remained—that con taining tbe portrait of the marquis—the back hav ing been wrenched from its hinges. I could find no traces of the lock of hair, I have pursued my in vestigations for a week, but can find no solution of the mystery. There is a Mr. Henri Merville here, a cousin of the deceased, with whom she was said to be very intimate, but as he was in Paris with the marquis on the day of the murder, if murder it was, no suspicion can be attached to him. His wife, a pleasant woman but somewhat common place, has been confined to her bed with illness since the finding of the body. The servants are aTI above suspicion, and I can ond no clew to the revelation of the mystery. Francois Lalages.” This was the detective’s report, and he returned to Paris, having accomplished virtually nothing. In the meantime Heloise had been buried with all the honors befitting her rank and station, aud tbe marquis was the victim of uncontrollable grief. The Mervilles still lingered at the chateau, as madame was so ill that she could not leave her couch. At the end of two weeks she was no better, and one day the marquis received this note from the sick room; "M. le Marquis: I have something important to communicate. Come to me instantly. “ Beatrice Merville.” Listlessly Marquis Leontine went to the sick chamber and entered. A terrible change had come over her. Her face had the pallor of death, aud there were black rings around her deeply sunken eyes. The marquis was inexpressibly shocked. She beckoned him to a seat near her couch, and, speaking in a weak, tremulous voice, scarcely above a whisper, said: A STARTLING CONFESSION. “ Gregoire, I have not half an hour to live. Be fore you entered this room I took poison.” Ho started as though to summon assistance. "Nay, do not stir,” she moaned, "before I have finished you will wish that I had died long ago. Gregoire, it was I who murdered Heloise !” The marquis started up with a look of horror on his face. "No, no; it is impossible. What had she ever done to you ? This is but the delirium of fever.” "It is God’s truth, from the lips of a dying woman I Listen. For mouths I had watched her and Henri together, I had overheard their inter change of views, I had seen him kiss her, and one day when you were away from home—Oh, God ! must I confess it?—l had witnessed their crimi nality. From that day I thought, dreamed only of revenge. The day that you and my dastard hus band went to Paris gave me the opportunity. I lured Heloise to the lake where I knew we would be free from observation. I taxed her with her guilt. She denied it. I dragged the locket from her neck. Tore it open. There, where you fondly thought your lock of hair rested was the portrait of Henri Merville. Your wife, my husbands paramour! Rage possessed me. I seized her by the throat— that white throat that had lured my husband from his wife-revenge gave me the power of a demon. With these two hands I strangled her until she ceased to breathe, and then 1 flung her false body Into the water. Would you have proof ? See here!” As she spoke, she drew from under her pillow the missing under-cover of the locket. There, painted with cunning delicacy was the portrait of Henri Merville ! The marquis gazed at it wildly, then, with a shriek of rage and anguish, fell quiver ing to the floor. When the servants entered they found Mme. Merville dead and the marquis in a dead swoon. “And what did the marquis do?” asked one of tbe loungers who bad been listening to the story in a little haunt in the French quarter near South Fifth avenue, as it was told by an old, gray-haired Frenchman. *■ Killed Merville in a duel that afternoon and then left the country.” “But bow did you come to know all this ?” " Well, you see, I am Francois Lalages, and my stupidity in this case caused me to be dismissed from the force. SAM LOVELL AGAIN. IS HE OR IS HE NOT IN A VERY BAD BOX? Sam J. Lovell, the private detective, has again brought himself within the law’s meshes, but with his usual good luck he may avoid doing the State a second term in State Prison. The charge is now conspiring by getting up false evidence to prevent a divorce being obtained by Charles A.Sear, of Buf falo, who instituted a suit for divorce against his wife. Lovell obtained Mary Thatcher, one of his " girls,” to swear she roomed with Mr. Sear in a hotel, and thus they would have offset Mr. Sear’s suit, if the affidavit had been true. In this case Mr. Sear implicates a lawyer named Charles W. Bolles, and the woman Mary Thatcher. The court has held the conspirators in the very light bail of $1,500 to answer. But it is not necessary to try Lovell, the detect ive, on this case. There is an old indictment against him in the District Attorney’s office for a very ag gravated offence of felonious assault on a woman. At that time he was “ carver” at the table of a house of refinement. A gentleman came to see his “lady friend.” They brought in Jersey cider and charged him champagne prices for every bottle opened. They ran up a wine bill on cider for about a hundred dollars, and the girl thinking it was going too far on her " gentleman friend,” took him from the table to her room. With the madam of the house he pounded the woman in to a pitiable condition and for weeks she couldn’t appear in the street. When the case was called for trial it was very warm weather, and it was post poned on the ground that it being a bail case, it had better go over and clear the city prison of the un fortunates that were sweltering there. The case went over. Nothing has been heard of it since. Ns sympathy should be extended to this "private detective” Lovell. He sent once for a reporter, and when he got him in his room he put the pistol to his head and threatened to shoot. The reporter put his hands in his pockets and told him to fire. The coward knew that if he shot it would easily be demonstrated on a trial to be deliberate murder, and put his pistol up. Whether the District Attorney will promptly fol low up this case, or shelve it, as in the other case, remains to be seen. What’s In a, Name? GO ASK EDWARD AUGUSTUS SCHLIESPERGELL. No wonder Mr. Joseph E. Schliespergell wanted to withdraw the complaint. Tbe name was enough to frighten any one from attempting to write it He was awfully anxious that the "boys’’ should not report bis case, and they wouldn’t have touched it but for tbe remarkably outlandish name. He wanted to withdraw the charge he had made against Charles Schneider. The young man’s mother had promised to make good his loss. The case was allowed to be withdrawn. PRICE FIVE CENTS- A HAPPY AWAKENING, What if, while I Bit here alone, A voice I have not heard for years Should greet me in the low, sweet tone That once was music to my ears. And I should start from memory’s sway. And, turning, find you sitting there Unchanged as though ’twere yesterday Your feet went tripping down the stair. Or if, upon some Summer day, 'Mid song of birds and hum of bees, I should go down the woodland way To our old tryst beneath the trees; And, starting back in glad surprise, I should behold you waiting there. The old light shining in your eyes— The sunlight tangled in your hair. In vain I shall not see the glow Of wine-brown eyes or catch the smile Of ruby lips; but yet I know That you are near me all the while. For I so loved you in that range Of sunny years that my poor heart Would bleed afresh and count it strange To think God held us far apart. And so, when evening shadows creep And night falls softly o’er the lea, You touch my eyelids and I sleep, And, sleeping, dream of heaven and thee. And when some Summer morn shall break That finds me chilled by death’s cold dew, You need but kiss me—l shall wake. And, waking, be in heaven with you. BORIS'S mTI NE. A Story of London Society. CHAPTER 11. "I LOVE HIM BETTER EVEBY DAY.” Nine weeks had passed since Doris Edg combe listened to the reproaches and warnings of the young actress, Hilda Warren, and sha had now settled down to matrimony in her own riverside house, Fairleigh, on the banks of the Thames. The honeymoon was nearly over, and her husband was away from her for the first tims since their marriage. Old Mrs. Edgcombe, to whom she had written two days before, an. nouncing that she would bo alone on this day, had taken the opportunity to come down and! find out how the young couple were getting on, ready with sage advice to her grandaughter aa to the proper management of a husband, with keenly critical eyes for shortcomings in tha newly-established household. Doris had driven her pretty ponies in her own little carriage ta to meet her grandmother, and the latter notei at once that the young wife looked well, hand some, and happy. A drive ot only a few min utes brought them to Fairleigh. It was a two-story white house, jutting on, here and there with rooms added wherever they were wanted, until the original scheme o| architecture had been entirely lost sight of, and presenting plenty of variety in the way of roof, slates and tiles ot different shapes covering the outbuildings, which were of various bights and overgrown, some with ivy, some with fruit less fruit-trees; while the front and left side of the house, which had been left as originally built, were sweet with thickly-growing small red roses and with heavy clusters of clematis and graceful trails of jasmine. The two ladies passed under the portico,' where Doris’s pug received them with the lan guidly condescending recognition of well-fed, petted old age, through the low, wide, carpeted hall, and between heavy curtains to the draw ing-room, a square cool room where the July afternoon sun never penetrated. Doris had indulged in no freaks of originality here; it was a pleasant room, furnished in tha modern manner, without bright colors or gild ing, with plenty of books and papers lying about, and a faint smell of tobacco telling a tala of easy-going good-nature on the part of tha mistress of the house, which was to the elder lady as the distant sound of battle is supposed! to be to the charger. “ Why, my dear Doris ’’—with a gentle in credulous little sniff—“ surely you do not al low your husband to smoke in the drawing room ?” “ Oh, yes, David smokes everywhere, grand mamma 1 Men do now, you know. And, even if they did not, I should have to relax all rules in favor of cigars; he is never happy unless ha is smoking.” Nothing less than the discovery that her grandson-in- law had another wile or two in tha background could have lowered him in her eyes as this admission did; she pursed up her lips, but said no more, like a wise lady, and, without more comment, allowed Doris to lead her to a seat by the door which opened on to the lawn. She had come armed with words of warning, with a little comfort and counsel too, should they be needed by this wife whose hus band had left her for three whole days befora the end of the honeymoon. But Doris was aa smiling as the morn, was passing her tempora ry widowhood in perfect peace, and was look ing lovely and radiant as she had never looked in her girlhood. The elder lady’s doubts and feaas were for the moment set at rest; and, when tea was brought in, and the young wife had brought her fruit gathered by her own hands, and was sit ting on a footstool at her feet in a caressing at titude not usual with Doris, Mrs. Edgcomba said kindly: “You seem very happy, my dear.” “ 1 am as happy as the day is long, just aa they say in children’s story-books, grand mmama. I have nothing to wish for.” “ What takes David away from you ?” “Oh, an old friend of his, whom he hasn’t seen for years, is in Paris for a few days, just before starting for America 1 David said he wished he could see him, and I asked him why he didn’t go. So he went. He will be back to morrow.” “ It seems a very trifling cause to take a hus band away from his newly-married wife.” “Do you think so—to see a friend he may not have another chance of meeting for years ? It was I who suggested his going.” “ Then, why didn’t he take you with him ?” “ I never offered to go. It is too hot for traveling, and I hate Paris in July.” “ But surely your husband’s society is an at traction great enough to compensate even for a little heat?” “ Yes, of course it would be if I couldn’t sea him at any other time. But, as it was, I thought I should like better the piquancy of a parting and the delight of welcoming him back. And, for a short stay and a rapid journey like that, I think it must be pleasanter for a man to h» alone ; a woman is only in the way.” “ Your husband told you you would be in hit way ?” cried Mrs. Edgcombe, in horr r. " No, no, grandmmama, of course he didn’t laughed Dorie. “ And he never will have to tell me anything of that sort, even when we are old married people and have got tired ot each other, because I think I shall always have the sense to find it out for myself. We have begun our married life on common-sense principles.