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v (HMi i IWI WTWiT 3 Y (c v r ~' |, ~f/o gsM r w^ itffi & --aMQg^tefagfegfey PUBUSffI BI A. J. WILUAMWB SONS. VOL7'xLII.--Sd; “17.’ Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., as Second Class Matter. THE KEW YoRkTdISPATCH, PUBLISHED AT NO. 11 FRANKFORT STREET. The 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 .$2 50 a year TWO SUBSCRIBERS 400 “ FIVE SUBSCRIBERS 900 “ ALL MAIL SUBSCRIPTIONS MUST BE PAID IN AD VANCE. POSTAGE PAID EVERYWHERE BY THE DISPATCH OFFICE. Address KEW YORK DISPATCH, Post Office Box No. 1775. PLAYS AnTpLAYERS. THE YANKEE OF DEN THOMPSON. The Undying Stage Yank-What He Was bjt<l What He Is —Josh Silsbee— Dan Marble-“ Yankee” Hill-Thomp g«;n’s Sketch—'l he Growth of Josh Whitcomb—The Picture that is Never Finished, Etc., Etc. BY JOHN CARBOY. The “Yankee ” comedian is not dead yet. There is a large amount of surplus vitality in him. For a little while there existed a general impression that he bad closed up his horn-handled jack-knife, thrown away his half whittled shingle and that his nasal twang and his whistling of Yankee Doodle would be heard no more in the glare of the foot lights. And, in fact, that the patriotic whistler had whis tled himself off into the realm ot the forgotten. But he hadn t. On the stage as in politics, the universal Yankee will hold his place until his race Beases to exist. Like the everlasting Uncle Tom, the Solon Shingle in one form or another will, from time to time, some to the front and never lack hJ.« ehare of wel -some. Put the Yankee out of a farce a2?d on he comes in a drama. Eradicate him from the 501 id old drama and 10, here he is again in a comedy. The Fashion of the time, may say to him—" Got thee gone”—but although he may vanish for a sea son or two, he doesn't get-bim-gone altogether. VoH may be sure he is somewhere in hiding at the wings watching bis chanco to reappear in one dis guise or another. Your stage Yankee is not to be snuffed out. He is a light of another sort than your ordinary penny twinkier. In the course of my life I have noted the en hances and exits Of this peculiar individual—and I have never lost sight of him so long that fols a ' b . scnce aroused the belief thjkt I would an( j fcear him no more forever. As well might r exp&bt tragedy to throw .away its stilts; op era abandon its yawp and opera come to us without its choristal legs, to fancy that either in drama, comedy, farce or Durlesque the undying Yankee would not from time to time come to the surface as a chief ingredient; as the very head and front of the cast. Years ago—it seems almost a century of years ago —the Yankee—his representative had a great deal of the American stage in his possession. And on one or two occasions he made a vigorous but in effectual ATTEMPT TO GET A FOOTHOLD UPON THE LONDON STAGE. Dan Marble, I remember, tried to give a down- East twist to the tragic tail of the British lion, at the Strand Theatre, in 1845. His “Deuteronomy Dutiful ” charmed tha cock neys of the pit no more than the low comedy of Toole a few seasons ago beguiled the patrons of XVallack's. Josh Silsbee tried the same twist—and succeeded no better. So did Yankee Hill—and one or two ethers whose names I have forgotten. There is extant a grave suspicion that John Bull has not had an overwhelming regard for the Yankee, either in politics, literature, commerce,. art or the theatrical business, since the little ruction of 1776. Probably the old-time Yankee of the period of Hackett, Hill, Marble and Silsbee, with his long tailed calico coat, his short vest, and brief legged pants, long straps, thick boots, tow hair, with his refrain of •• Du tell—why I want tu know,” may never again obtain p'ace as a character on the stage. But we have him in other forms, all the same. Wo have had him in a somewhat different condi tion in the Solon Shingle of John Owens. I remem ber him, too, as the Solon Shingle of Charley Burke; and I have not forgotten how this same old owner of the “bar’l of apple sass ” was so mangled and tortured out of all semblance of anything of Yan kee origin by a fellow by the name of Leffler whom I saw try to play the part in a Western theatre. He •was billed as “LEFFLER, THE YANKEE COMEDIAN.” In the daytime he peddled recipes for making vin egar and ink. He is net the only fellow who has tried to double up the vocation for which nature fitted him for that of an actor. It is so easy to act. All the counter jumper, the cobbler or the carpenter has lo do is to learn his lines, go on for rehearsal and with a dab of paint on hie face and a wig ou his precious head—presto ! he is an artist. At least he thinks he is, the opinions of the critics and the public to the contrary, notwithstanding. I have asserted that the Yankee still liveth and fiourisheth upon the stage. In his latest form he is with us now; not with the old-time twang and ejaculatory “jumping Je ru-sa-lem,” the stick-whittling and yarn-spinning ; but the Yankee, the Down Easter as ho is, and as we know him to-Jay, and divested off all the flavor Of burlesque. If you doubt it, witness Den Thompson’s method of getting out of himself into Josh Whitcomb. Or rather his method of making you believe that Whitcomb is merely the twin brother of Deu Thompson, and that one is simply the under-study of the other, and it doesn’t matter which of them it is. This is the live Yankee of to-day. He is the Ver mont farmer, the genuine, dear, old, lovable hayseed jay of Down East. There is nothing of extravagance; you forget that you are in the theatre looking over the glare of the footlights from the centre of the darkened orches tra—you only see and feel that you are looking at and listening to THE YANKEE FARMER, royal in his honesty, democratic in his humanity, and with nothing of guile in his nature. Shrewd, yes; but In that degree and to that extent only which means honest thrift. There is much in the personal appearance, the quiet force, the naturalness. If I may so term it, of Den Thompson’s stagework which reminds me of George H. Hill, otherwise known as “Yankee Hill ” as he was described by his critics and biographers. If they were correct, Hiil was in many respects the ante-type of Thompson. I trust the later and latest representative of New England character may not repeat in his career the dismal life, socially, of Hiil. So far as his professional history was con «orusd, his was SOMETHING OF A ROMANCE, beginning with disappointment, then glowing in the brilliant light of success, and at last ending in gloom and despair, and when, on September 7-th, 1849, at Saratoga Springs, he died in comparative poverty, the world had forgotten him and the pleasure his work had given it. In his latter days he had abandoned the stage, and, broken in spirit and in health and wrecked in fortune, he began the practice of dentistry, in which, however, he met with indifferent success. Once, toward the close, he essayed to again come before the public. The effort was the last flash of the expiring light. When at the bight of. his success, John A. Stone, the author of “Meta mora, ’’ wrote for him a play—“ The Golden Fleece; or. The Yankee in Italy”—which did not meet with the favor anticipated for it by either author or actor. For that play Stone received s2so—half the amount which was paid him by Edwin Forrest lor “Metamora.” Den Thompson began his career as a delineator of the peculiarities of Yankee character in a little sketch, appearing in it on the variety stage. This sketch formed the basis of the drama of “Josh Whitcomb,” which he has made familiar to play goers throughout the country. He no more dreamed in the early days of his stage life what this roughlv-devised sketch would lead to than Hill imagined his Yankee recitations, given between acts in the old Warren Theatre in Boston, would open his way to fame and fortune. Gradually this sketch grew to something of dra matic significance. There was not much in it save the brightness given it by Thompson; it was popu lar; it brought to him an understanding of the talent no posifesßcd, end the sketch expanded into a drama—and JOSHUA WHITCOMB AND DEN THOMPSON became famous—and have held their place in the affections of tha play-going public. I do not mean to s&y that out of this special and limited range of character portraiture Den Thomp son would bo acceptable. Really, Ido not think he could, tried he ever so hard, play anything else than Josh Whitcomb. This character has become his alter ego— his other self. He looks, walks and suggests Whitcomb rather than himself when off the stage. The hearty, wholesome atmosphere, with its odors of the farm-yard, surrounds him. When you moot him in social life—after having seen him on the stage—there comes to you tho im pression of rural existence, in his gesture, the pecu liar twinkle of the eye, the hard-lined, honest old face, the gestures of the naan, and the very method of his speech—almost tempt you to button-hole him into a corner in order that you may privately advise him in his walks about town to beware of the watchful Bunco steerer; the wiles of the strange Woman, and other evils that lie in wait for the un sophisticated countryman. Dan Marble could drop his nasal voiced Solomon Swop and take up with a lively and appreciative sense of its nature, tho performance of William in “ Black-Eyed Susan.” He could give proper em phasis to an impersonation of Damon and wind up witti t be “Wool Dealer,” and even Josh Silsbee could, up°D occasion, vary the monotony of bis eternal prying Yankee by a dash into the realms of mo?? serious dramatic work. But this sort of a transmigration of his person ality is not, I fancy, within ti»& compass of Den Thompson's ability. Wisely enough he has never, so far as I know, attempted it. In “The Old Homestead ” he has merely added another chapter to ths autobiography of the same o!4 Josh Whit- W.ab. ana in this obanUr >... ; deeper study of the character ot tho old farmer. The portrait is made the truer, the outlines tho bolder and the lights and shadows tho more pro nounced—and the surroundings of the picture the more effective. THE DEAD PAST has buried its dead—but if it could itself be galvan ised into a “pernicious activity ” and so resurrect its defunct integrals—and we could have once again in their habit as they lived and acted the Yankees of Marble and Silsbee, and their corteraporaries—l think they would have but a sorry showing, beside this Joab Whitcomb. They, with theirgrotesgue extravagance of action, and of costume—their broad and not infrequently vulgar jests—their violations of all the canons of dramatic art, and in distorting the characteristics of the Connecticut and down East Yankee into the condition of comic almanac caricatures, how would they compare with Thompson’s fine drawn, clearly defined transcript of the homely simple nature of the Vermont farmer? A critic not Jong since made the remark that “Den Thompson is all well enough—but he can’t do anything else than this Whitcomb. It isn’t in him.” Well, who wants him to do anything else ? He has struck the keynote of success, and why should he desire to swim in strange waters and flounder out beyond his depth and sink from sight ? It is better to be the one and only frog in a pud dle than it is to be merely an indistinguishable mackerel in a school of a million just like it. “ It isn’t in ” Edwin Booth to play Virgiuius, but I do not see why this fact should detract from the greatness of his Hamlet or the beauty of hisJHche lieu. There is no special complaint on the part of the public or the critical because Mr. Lawrence Barrett, having been successful as Lanciotto in Bo ker’s tragedy, does not extend the sphere of his theatric usefulness and prove that it is “in him ’’ to make a fool of himself as Toodles. When an actor drifts into a role which in almost every respect is fitted for his ability, and in which the opportunities are apt for the display of all his mental and artistic resources—and the playing of it brings him the sunshine of popular favor he is little less than an ass if he abandons it. Den Thompson drifted into the role of Josh Whit comb—it closed in and about him—it was “in him.” He will live in tho theatric history of his time only as Josh Whitcomb. There was NO ONE YANKEE CHARACTER in which Silsbee, Marble, Hill, or later on, John Owens made himself memorable. The Yankees of their dramas and farces were all of the same mold —each one a duplicate in coat, hat breeches and boots of the other; there was only the difference in the name of the character and of the drama in which he was the central figure, to distinguish them apart. It was with these types a distinction without a difference. From Jonathan Slick to Deuteronomy Dutiful, the entire repertoire was the same. The same jack knife, the whittled stick, the long hair, the wink of the eye, the leer and absurd laugh and the regula tion country dance, were the inevitable and un changed stock in trade for every one of these stage- Yanks. Precisely as the stuffed stick, “The Low-backed Car,” “Theßould Soldier Boy,” “Whist ’and “Be the Piper that Played Before Moses,” were the only necessities of a regulation Irish comedian. I admire Den Thompson for the persistency with which he has held on to what w “in him.” Josh Whitcomb is his; it is his own creation; he has made it, not as a thing of fancy, but as a transcript, a duplicate of an existent and he has not as yet, true and faithful artist that he is in this sole and sufficient work of his life, sat him down, with folded hands, and complacently said: “It is fin ished; I can add nothing more toward making it perfect. ’ Like the painter at his easel—the picture he is painting is never finished to his own satisfac. tion; at every sitting he touches out a little newly discovered defect there and puts in a new touch of beauty here, and so he goes on from day to day. The study and development of a character, like the study and development of a painting, are never ended. Something to brighten and beautify it, to strengthen and glorify it, can always be done; is al ways suggesting itself. In Den Thompson’s Josh Whitcomb this careful study, this thoughtful and earnest touching and re touching is plainly visible. Aside from Jefferson’s Rip Van Winkle I know of no example of individual, ization iu the matter of art study as thorough and complete as this of Whitcomb; nor of none in which there are fewer blemishes, nor iu which there are so many, beauties. Let us be thankful, therefore, for this survival of tho Yankee upon our stage—the Yankee as he is and iu his truest and best condition. — ■ ♦— Sold at a Loss. —lsaac Levinsky sold a two dollar pair of pants on Sunday, and was fined $5 by th© Court for violating tho Sunday jaw NEW YORK?^ 6, 1887. BROTHERSOFTHE MORGUE. The Little Affair That Was a Failure. MADAME CHALIFERT’S PLOT. The Marriage That Was Inter rupted. Another Glimpse at Crime in the French Capital. Madame Chalifert had been for years the propri etress of a resort for men about town on the Avenue de la Roquette, Paris. She had managed things well and had always been on good terms with the police. She had amassed wealth and was beginning to think of retiring She was a woman of about sixty, small and well made, and with a face that would of itself have almost won her canonization as a saint. Her gray curls were arranged with fastidious care at her temples and a modest old-time cap rested upon her head. Her brow was smooth and white, her eyes of a deep and softened blue, her cheeks plump and her complexion fresh and blooming. She was the last person in tho world any one Would have supposed to be engaged in such a business as she had carried on tor years. When she visited her friends and rel atives in Brittany, which she did at intervals, she was their idol and they considered her the embodi ment of all the virtues which in their rural sim plicity they admired. Consequently, it was thought a great thing for Marguerite, her neice, when she took her to Paris to live with her. The girl’s en lightenment soon came and she rapidly acquired all the art and skill necessary to make her an ac complished courtezan. For ten years she lived a wild life of folly and dissipation, her friends being all the time kept iu utter ignorance ot the fact. Once, when her father, a widower, visited her iu tha great city, he found her, as he supposed, the wife of a rich man, living in splendor and sur rounded with luxury; and went home with a won derful story of the loveliness and great good fortune of his only child. When he died. Marguerite was at his bedside, and found hersolt the possessor of 75,000 francs. A PROPOSITION. Marguerite returned to Paris and invested most of the money, along with some of the savings of her aunt, in the house on the Avenue de la Roquette, into which they moved. i'mm this time forth, money flowed into the exchequer. Though the old lady nominally owned everything and invested the savings, the niece was perfectly satisfied that when her aunt died all would bo hors. The time came, as already stated, when Madame Chalifert proposed that they should realize on all they had and retire to some pleasant town where they were not known and assume the role of re spectability. “You see,rby dear/* she said, “you ate still love ly. nay superb; but your attractions won’t last long in the city. In the country, we shall have repose and amusement of an innocent kind—to tell you the truth—l have no doubt that some agreeable and reputable gentleman will marry you. Then, as for me, why I shall devote myself to piety and good works and resume those religious duties with which the busy life of a city so greatly interferes.” This was a most agreeable proposition to tho niece, and she argued that they should at once take steps to getaway from all their former associates and endeavor to assume ft respectablQ sUtioa Yn'the world, / - AN OLD WOMAN'S FANCY. Though age had come upon Madamb Ohalifevt apace, she had always had some male friend of her own to whom she had shown marked partiality. The last was Pierre Dirinon, a young man of twen ty-five. He was of low origin and had small educa tion, but possessed a handsome face and splendid physique. Madame Chalifert had discovered him as a clerk in the office of Lawyer Delorme, who at tended to business matters for her, and she had ta ken a liking to the young man. She never suffered him to visit the house; first, because she was afraid her “boarders,” and even her niece, would make fun of her for selecting so young a lover; and, sec ondly, because sho feared that he might find some one there who would draw away his “affections ” from her. She furnished two handsome apartments , for him on the Rue des Amandiers, and made him occasional presents of money. On October 15. 1880, Madame Chalifert went to Diriuon's lodgings. “Pierre,” she said, “I and my niece are going to give up business. lam going to sell all the prop erty I possess, and of the proceeds I shall have to give Marguerite one-half. It is too bad, is it not ?” “ Indeed it is,” Dirinon replied; “how much do you expect to realize?” “About 400,000 francs,” she answered. “ And you must give your nieee 200,000 francs?” Dirinon said, in a half sulky tone. “Or she will go to law—just so,” Madame an swered. “ Let her go to law,” the young man said. “But the expense, my Pierre—think of that,” Madame Chalifert said. “You see, if I can leave Paris, with you,with 200,000 francs, and find a pleas ant spot in a nice town in one of the provinces, how comfortably we might live. You would pass us my son, you would marry—aye, marry— A LOVELY GIRL, VERY LIKELY AN HEIRESS, and then, when I am gone, all I have would be yours.” “ That is all very pretty,” was the reply, “ but it would be much prettier if it were twice tho amount —as it might be.” Madame Chalifert gave the necessary instructions to her lawyer. She notified her “ boarders” to find other quarters and began her arrangements for her and her niece to quit Paris. Alter a long and ap parently anxious consultation, they had come to the conclusion to pass as mother and daughter—Madame Saintonge and Mkdame Lezay, both widows. They had also decided to make Lamarche, in Lorraine, their temporary residence. In due time all the property was sold and Madame Chalifert got tho money into her possessiou. In two days’ time she was to give up possession of the house on the Avenue de la Roquette. On November 27th Madame Chalifert had along conversation with Pierre Dirinou. A NICE GANG. The same night Pierro went to No.—Rue Ste. Marguerite. He ascended to the top floor, knocked once, then five times and then twice in quick suc cession. The door was opened and he was admitted into a large room, poorly iurnished. Three men were seated at a table at cards. Bottles and glasses stood near by. The men were as villainous looking a.set as ever graced the felon's dock. The door was fastened behind Pierre and ho was wel comed with a nod and a word and the offer of a drink. “Now, my Brothers of the Morgue,” he said, “put away those cards and listen, for I have some business of importance to communicate. You re member that since I first had the pleasure of your acquaintance, when I worked up that alibi for Pepinster here, I have put several good things in your way. Here is another.” “That s the talk,” said one of them; “ we’re dy ing for work. Here we have to drink this cursed cognac and to eat—why, anything we can get. We want a change of diet, and, I think I may add, a change of apparel.” All laughed quietly, and, after some further talk, Pierre said: “At No. — Avenue de la Roquette, there is a lady with 200.000 francs in her possession. To-night, at eleven, sho will be alone in the back room opening on the garden, which can be reached easily from the Rue Richard Lenoir. The door leading into tho apartment cannot be mistaken. See, here is a dia gram of the premises !” PREPARING FOR A CRIME. With that he spread a sheet of paper before them and pointed out the house, the garden, the mode of entrance to it from the Rue Richard Lenoir and tho door into the house. “ One of you will ring the door-bell on the Avenue de la Roquette,” he said, " and the woman, who is alone in the house, will go to open the door. Then you will force the door into her room and be ready when she returns. Throw a cloak, a rug, a sheet over her and stifle her cries. She keeps her money in a leather bag behind some largo volumes on a back shelf.” “ But how do you know all this, my fine Jack, daw ?” asked one of the men. “ How did I know the secret of the other little affairs? ’ Pieri* flaid; “you seem to forget that I am the confidential clerk of a famous lawyer.” This seemed to silence, tho gang and they entered with seriousness into the scheme. “ Now," said Pierre, “it is eight o’clock. Arrange the affair among yourselves. Eleven or half-past will be a good hour. Remember 1 I shall expect an equal share of the plunder.” THE FORTUNE IN A VALISE. That afternoon Madame Chalifert had had an interesting talk with her niece. About eight o'clock she prepared to go out. “ Now,” said she to Marguerite, “ here is the valise with all our fortune in it, take good care of it. I have locked it and have the key. lam going to see an old friend who has premised me a hand some sum of money. I shall be back as soon as possible. When I come, I will ring the bell, so you must let me in.” When Pierre reached his room that evening about nine o'clock, Madame Chalifert was there. “ Ah, my bird,” she said, “you have come. Have you arranged everything?” “Of course I have,” replied the young man; “do you take me for a fool ?” “ Well, now,” she said. ”1 have thought of some thing better. See, hero is the key of the front door. You know the way in. Why should not you go and get the money—tho 200,000 francs all to yourself? If your friends do tho job. yon will only get a small sharo of it, if you uo it, you will get it all.” Pierre stood with his eyes flxad upon her for fully n miauu’. art fnhprttnt “It is no small sum,” he said, “but then, if I did it myself, 1 should run the risk ot losing my head.” “ Bah 1” exclaimed Madame Chalifert; “ it 1b all easy and without risk. You go there; you enter the house; Marguerite is in the back room. You knock her on the head and take tbo money from behind the books on the shelf and there is an end of it.” M But the chance of discovery ?” “When are the others, your friends, to be'at the house ?” “Soon after eleven.” “You will have completed your work long before then, and can send a message to the police—’Bur. glare are to be at work at No avenue de la Ro- quette at eleven o’clock.’ The police will be on tbo lookout, and the—the—your friends, will be cap tured, and punished for the crime.” “ WHAT A WOMAN YOU ARE I” “My God 1” exclaimed Pierre, “what a woman you are 1” “You see, my son, I love you,” was the answer; “and I am always devising nice things for those whom I love.” “ Must I knock her in the head ?” asked Pierrs. “I see no other way.” was the answer. “But suppose I kill her?” “ All the better. She will tell no tales. And, then, you forget that your friends will have to an swer for that.” “ But they will give me away ?” ‘ No fear; if they do, you and 1 will be far enough away before daylight.” Pierre started on the business. He let himself into the house, and went on tip.tpe to the back room, extending on tho garden. The door was ajar, and he could see Marguerite seated inside, reading. He drew from bis pocket a sand-bag, pushed open the door, and stepped into the room, and struck the unsuspecting woman on the head as she turned toward him. She fell in a heap on the floor. Pierre never looked at her, but, going to the shelf, re. moved the books, seized the valise, and quitted the house with it. On the corner of the rue de Charoms, he waited until a licensed messenger came along. Ho handed him a note and bade him hurry with it to the near, eat police station at once. Thon Pierre started down toward his room on the jue Ste. Marguerite. THE DISGUISE. When Pierre left Madame Chalibert in his apart ments, she waited a short time and then took off her dress, put on a plain garb, a wig, a close-fitting cap, a pair of old thick shoes, and a check shawl. Then she washed her face and hands iu a dark colored liquid which she poured from a bottle, and examined herself in the glass. Next she tied her clothes in a coarse handkerchief, felt to seo that a leathern belt which was round her waist was all right, and started down the stairs. She walked briskly toward the Pont d'Austerlitz, over which she dropped her bungle-in- the Seine; then sho turned into th» orTSans railway station and bought a ticket. In fifteen minutes she was on her way from Paris. Pierre reached his apartments to find them de ociioj. He thought that Madame Chalifert had probably gone out for a few minutes, and would soon return. He waited an hour, and there was no sign of her. Ho wailed until one o’clock, and then he grew nervous and hot. Finaßy he broke open the lock of the valise. There was nothing inside but a few newspapers ’ In the meantime, “The Brothers of the Morgue” had been captured. The police, duly notified by Pierre’s letter, had lain in wait. They saw the man ring the bell, and then they captured him. They heard a noise in the house, broke in, and found a woman lying apparently dead in tljs rear rgojn 1 the light from which shone through the open door into the hall. They found a door leading to the garden broken in. I'hoy rushed into the garden and cap tured two men in the act of escaping over the iron railing into the Rue Richard Lenoir. The three men denied that they had assaulted the woman, who, after some days, recovered conscious ness. They vrere, nevertheless, convicted and sen tenced to tho galleys for life, MaDAME BORLATB. In the lovely town of Gaunat, in the mountains of L : .nague, not far from Clermont, lived Madame Borlais. Bhe had come there as an invalid, and had rented a pretty villa. She was a saintly-looking wo man, and all the people loved her for her goodness and charity. This lady was Madame Chalifert.- One day a miserable tramp went to the villa to beg, and was never seen more. The next day Mad ame Borlais went into Clermont, and returned with a huge package of gentlemen’s apparel, and the fol lowing day a gentleman appeared at the villa whom Madame Borlais addressed as her son. This tramp and this newly-found son was Pierre Dirinon. He had found the old wretch, as he called her to her face, at last, and meant to cling to her. She showed him round and boasted of his virtues, and in six months’ time he was engaged to be married to Maidemoselle Mignan, the daughter of one of the richest landowners in those parts. MARGUERITE. When Marguerite realized the fact that her aunt had concocted a sebeme for her robbery and mur der, she was filled with vengeance. But what was she to do ? There was no doubt in her mind that her aunt had robbed her and endeavored to compass her death. She was left penniless and without a friend. In this dilemma she met with a former acquaintance, whom a decent mechanic had mar ried and made an honest woman of. She took Mar guerite in and cared for her. By a lucky discovery the mechanic hit upon a method by which water could be supplied to boilers by a simple, self-acting process, and thus he became rich. He was a native of Garmot, and went down there and bought an estate. Hera he went to live, and Marguerite ac companied him and his family. THE MARRIAGE. The marriage of Madame Borlais's son was a great event, and Marguerite went to the church to wit ness tho ceremony. When she saw the bridegroom approach the altar she was seized with a dreadful chill which seemed to stop the flow of her blood. “Great God she exclaimed, “ there is the man who attempted to murder me 1“ The spectators were startled. Marguerite had arisen, and in her magnificent bight and with out stretched arm, attracted the attention of all. “ That is tho man !” she cried; “and,” she added, “there is my aunt, Madame Chalifert 1” By this time consternation had seized on the bridal party. The bridegroom grew deadly pale; Madame Borlais fell in a fainting fit. Marguerite, recovering herself, stepped out and strode to the altar. “ This is the man,” she said, laying her hand upon the arm of the supposed Madame Borlais. Then she narrated, in a brief but incoherent way, the story, as already known to the reader. The bridegroom attempted to treat tfie charge as the utterance of a mad woman, but Marguerite said : •• I know you ! I saw you—l had a short but per fect view of you as you raised your hand to strike the blow; and here—will you tell me that this self condemned woman here is not my aunt, Madame Chalifert ? NEMESIS. Marguerite made good her accusation and her words, and so this miserable old hypocrite, Madame Chalifert, or Borlais, and Pierre Dironon, were ar rested for a crime for which others—guilty in a sense, no doubt—were suffering punishment. All Paris was stirred for a. brief space over the sensation, but the excitement soon died out; and when Pierre Dironon and Madame Chalifert were sent to the galleys, the offense for which they suf fered was almost forgotten. Dironon made a full confession, and then Madamo Chalifert professed penitence and corroborated his statement. The three men who had been led into crime by Pierre, through the influence of Madame Chalifert. were released, but only on condition that they quitted France and did not return for ten years. Zdghts and Shadows. THE TWO JOES AND JOSEPHINE. Joseph Horan was defendant, Joseph Matlech was complainant. Both Joes had enlargement of the head by reason of coming in contact with a chair. Joe the complainant, who lives at No. 27 Henry street, said Joe the defendant assaulted him. “ What with ?” asked the Court. “ Can’t say,” was the reply. •• In the Police Court you said he struck you with a chair?” said Justice Kilbreth. “ Well, he had a chair, but I don’t know that he struck ms with it.” Counsel for the accused then took the complain ant up. ••Joe’s wife was in your room ?” Joe on the stand said “ yes,” with a nod of the bead. “ And when he asked her to oome home with him, you lifted a chair and gave him a welt on the head ?” “ That isn’t true,” said tho complainant. Joe, the prisoner, got up in the witness chair and told his story. He said he was a olgarmaker and lived at No. 420 East Tenth street. He said his wife went to the other Joe's house, and when he went after her and tried to coax her to come back, Joe told her not to do it. come and live with him and he would pay three dollars a week for the child to be boarded out and they could live hunky-dory. This riled the husband (Joe) and he expressed himself in classic Italian, and Joe, the lover, raised a chair and hit him. He showed a mark on his classic fore head. He got possession of the chair and laid his rival (Jee) low. Both sides then called the wife (Josephine) to give a true verflion of this domestic brawl. She said her husband was the first hit with the chair and bled very much. He did no more than try to get away from the man who was assaulting him. Her hus band got away, and. getting out of the door, Joe the complainant) helped to make Joe (her husband) hop, skip and jump out of the door, with his foot. Joe (the husband) was acquitted and Josephine took his arm and marched out of court with him. She could not be induced to part from her first Joe. The toboggan is only an elaboration of the banana skin principle.— Philadelphia Star. IIUNTINGAGIIOST The Supposed Elaunted ZEouse. MEN WHO PLAYED GHOSTS. The Gang of Thieves That Was Captured. Gruesome Adventures of Two Young Men. Not far from the town of Goderich, Canada, and a few miles back of a little railroad station called Aisla Craig, stands a large, rambling, unpainted frame house. The country is wild and sparsely settled. The house is in a lonely spot on a de serted road. It has not been occupied for years, and its dilapidated and forlorn appearance would secure for it the reputation of being haunted with out any of the strange occurrences I am about to relate, and which are absolutely true. The house was built many years ago by a queer old Englishman, who lived there with bls servant in complete seclusion, and was understood to have a great deal of money. The settlers knew very lit tle about him, except that be liked to hunt and fish, until one time, when he wasn't seen for a long time, and when the settlers finally gathered to see what was the matter, they found the old man sit ting bolt upright in his bed, murdered, with HIS HEAD CUT OFF and held between his two hands, while the house was rifled and the servant gone. This was the story the settlers told me the first time I heard about the haunted house of Aisla Craig. They said that the old Englishman's headless ghost had haunted the place ever since, and at the middle of the month—that was the time when he was mur dered, they thought—gathered other ghosts and made blood-curdling sounds and sights. I never had any patience with ghost stories and I always promised myself that if I over found a haunted house I would live in it, if necessary, until I found the secret of its ghost. This was the chance I had been looking for. As sooa as I heard the story of the haunted house of Aisla Craig, I set out to find it. It was not hard to discover. As I stood and looked at it there was something about it that sent the chills down my back, scoff at ghosts as 1 would. It stood remote from the old road, half hidden in a dark and gloomy clump of pines. The blinds were all closed. The pathways were overgrown with weeds. The ancient porch was rotting away and the roof falling in and grass was starting up be tween the shingles. I climbed oVer the CMinibiing rail fence and crept through the underbrush to the old front door. The porch creaked and rattled dismally as I stepped on it, A hideous echo sounded inside as I turned the handle. The locked, but the rusty iron gave fray and the door swung open. I looked inside. There was nothing but A HALLWAY WITH STAIRS at one side and open doors to the rest of the house. A horrible chill came out of the vault-like place as I entered. There were two front rooms connected by folding doors. Everything had been loft exactly as when the old Englishman died, and a rotten carpet, worm-eaten books and fallen pictures covered the floor. From the second of these rooms a door led to some region behind. It was locked, but after much labor I battered it open. The room it opened into was the old dining-room. Thero WA? DO furni ture except a table aud some benches. In one cor ner was a pH§ of Old bottles and in the centre b trap door with fastenings so rusty that I couldn’t budge it. This room was in the extension, parallel with the road, and it was from its windows that the ghostly sight had most frequently been seen. There was no glass in the windows and the strong shutters were fastened by heavy chains. Behind this room a hill rose abruptly, covered with a thick forest, that ex tended thence for miles into the wilderness. Upstairs wove a few furnished rooms, all in good order except one. That was THE ONE IN WHICH THE OLD ENGLISHMAN WAS MURDERED. There was the bed in which he was found, and I started when I saw on the turned back bed clothes the dark stains of his blood. With a sight of that room my search ended. The settlers had told me that the ghosts only ap peared at the middle of the month. That would be two nights off. I determined to wait and see the promised manifestations. I got a dark-lantern, a piece ol rope with a noose and loaded a revolver and was ready for ghostly business. The night, when it finally came, was hideously dark, cloudy and threatening rain, with an unpleas ant South wind blowing through the trees. I waited on, hour after hour, scarcely daring to take my eyes off the house lest something should escape me. It was past midnight, as I could see by my watch whenever I held it before my cigar, and I was think ing of becoming reasonable again and going to bed, when I saw something in the house that made me jump aud shout. There it was, as plain as anything I ever saw in my life—a light shining through the broken shut ters of the dining-room. It was just suctya light as the farmers had described, too—taint and flickering, and sometimes going out altogether. It might be a phosphorescent light, like the will o’-the-wisp, I said to myself; or it might be mis chievous boys. Anyway, a mere light was no proef of ghosts, and I would not believe there were any such things until I had seen one with my eyes, and had tried to lay hold upon it with my rope noose. I lighted my dark lantern, felt for my revolver, and started for the house. As I drew near, I stop ped a moment to listen. There were UNMISTAKABLE SOUNDS coming from the house. I could hear wild laugh ter and whispers and groans, and sounds like the clattering of chains across the floor. They wero not sounds to encourage a man who had no ereat stomach to be around there anyway; but I pushed on. As I did so, the sound eeased. I felt my way to the front door, and with a sud den push sent it open. I stood for a moment in the doorway, with one hand on my revolver, and, turning on the lantern so that it cast a broad road of light before me, entered the house. As I turned into the front room, I saw. with a start, that the door into the dining-room, which I had left open, had been closed, and under it I could see the ghostly light shining, and behind it I could hear light foot steps, and now and then a groan. My heart was pounding out a fearful tune upon my ribs and my knees shook not a little, but I kept on. I reached the door that led into ths room of the ghostly secrets, and with a final effort, laid my hand upon it. The same instant the light under the door went out, the door flew open, something large and soft flew over me, putting out my light and knocking mo down. With a wild yell I scram bled to my feet and fled, and I never stopped run ning until safe within my tent, I turned to give battle to any pursuing ghost. The next day I got out of that country as fast as my legs could carry me. and two days after, was back in Toronto, with decidedly enlarged ideas of, the possibilities of ghosts. I never mentioned that adventure to a soul until one night, three years alter, being something the worse for wine at a club, I told the whole story, ex pecting to be well laughed at. A wager grew up whether I dared to go back there, and finally my old friend, Will Scotten, doubled the wager that he would go with me and we would BRING BACK THE GHOST, dead or alive. My blood was up again then, and I would have gone to settle the mystery if I had to go alone. It was again the Fall of the year when Will and I reached Aisla Craig, but later in the season than when I bad been there on the memorable occasion of my defeat. The night on which we arrived was the very night on which the ghost was due, and as it was al ready dusk no time was to be lost. We hurriedly packed up our necessaries, including a bottle of good old rye, and approached the house. Not a thing had been changed since I left there. The rails which I had broken when I climbed into the yard, were rotting on the ground. The crumb ling porch still showed the marks of my presence. The door which in my wild haste I had loft open, had been blown partly to by the wind,but still stood ajar. Wo looked over the house carefully, though I did not consider it necessary to point out the blood stains on the old Englishman’s sheets. There are some details that are not always essential to any proceeding. We made ourselves comfortable in the dining room, got out our cigars and prepared to watch. Midnight found us sitting bolt upright, not daring to take full breaths, and listening intently to ticks and the crickets. Suddenly there was a sound of voices behind the bouse. Then the blind was shaken vigorously. Then we heard whispers ap parently close at hand aud then the blind was shaken onco more. I looked at Will. He was very pale, but very de termined, and giving the signal agreed upon, I rushed to the window, unfastened the chain that held it and both sprang out. We stood together by the window and flashed ?ut light in every direc tion, but there was nothing to be seen. We returned to the room and sat down to await further manifestations, but we waited in vain. Not another sound did we bear, but the rain on the roof and the wind in the old pines. With daylight we returned to camp with only a very little more knowledge, but a great deal more curiosity. It seemed evident that it was useless to hunt for ghosts with lanterns and candles. Plainly thny had declined to come last night because they disliked our illumination. The idea of waiting in that creaky old house for hours in the dark was not par ticularly pleasant; but there seemed nothing else to do, for to go back to Toronto, knowing as little as we knew, was out of the question. OFFICE, NO. II MKPORT ST. The next nigbt, then, we again crept into tbe old ruin, just as it grew dark. After casting about for a good hiding-place, whence we could securely ob serve the ghostly antics, we decided upon the closet in the dining-room and lay down in such a position that we could see through the wide chink, under tbe door, whatever might transpire in the room. It was dreary work, lying there and trying to get enough satisfaction out of our desultory conversa. tion to ease the pain of our uncomfortable position, and help tbe time to creep away. I had fallen asleep, and was dreaming I was waltzing at the Light Guard assembly, when suddenly Will began kicking me very hard on the shins. 1 was wide awake in an instant and listening intently. There were low voices, at first far off, then suddenly close at hand. Then there was a few moments' silence, and then the window shutter was shaken violently. Groans followed, just as they had the night before. Then there was A CREAKING OF RUSTY IRON, the slamming of a door, a noise as of the sliding of a heavy body across the floor, and moro groans. Then a light began to glimmer through tbe crack under the door. It grew into a dim and flickering blaze. Then there was a sound of whispers and then more chain rattling, and getting my eyes closer to the crack I saw tbe blind slowly open, and presently appear, not a ghost, but the head and shoulders of a man. We lay there in breathless astonishment, while another and then another appeared, until five had crept in at the window. They were not agreeable men to look at. Most of them looked like fit candi dates for the penitentiary. Some were armed and wore spurs, aud others were well dressed, and were apparently not riders like the rest. They came in one by one, and the signal which each gave was a rattling of the blind and then two groans, answered from within by one groan and a short and mirthless laugh. As they came in they talked in hoarse whispers and sat around tbe table on the rough benches. Their talk was as little reassuring as their faces. It only needed a few words to show in what business the ghosts of the old Englishman's bouse were en gaged. They were BURGLARS, HIGHWAYMEN AND ASSASSINS. At that time that part of Canada was overrun by a gang as desperate in every way as that of Sam Bass and Jesse James were in later days. I had heard a great deal of their exploits and the fruitless efforts made to catch them, and there was nothing in the reputation they had that made me desire a closer acquaintance. Pretty soon there was another groan and more rattling at the blind, and in scrambled a man whom I recognized at once as a well-known figure in To ronto. I had seen him almost daily on the streets, and I knew something about his business. He was a jewelry broker for a New York firm, and had a gorgeously furnished office in St. James street. I had heard once that he had been suspected of smug gling, but I knew nothing further against his repu tation. The object of the meeting was very quickly dis closed. The members of the gang, ono after an other, pulled out the proceeds of their robberies— jewelry, gems and plate—from places of conceal ment in their clothes. The jewelry broker exam ined each, told what it would bring, gave a sort of receipt to each thief for the amount he had con tributed and put the whole into a satchel which he carried. Then he took from his pocket a bag of money and apparently cashed the chocks he had given on a preyigus occasion. The talk then turned to the night before and tbe strange presence of outsiders in the haunted house, and the curious and painful manners of death that they would like to visit upon tbe stupid intruders, and other things of a nature calculated to make us in the closet feel particularly cheerful. Then they debated whether the two Intrusions—my own, three years ago, and our adventure of the night before— didn't mean tbat.tlie place was getting too notor ious for them, and it was agreed that they should meet there three months from that time, and after that somewhere else. Then I began to breathe more easily, for some of them got up and were preparing to go. One of them had opened the blind, in fact, and was just stepping out. And then of a gqdden J felt a convulsive move ment beside me, and Will sneezed. I don’t know what possessed me just at that mo ment, but I must have had a flood of sense let in upon me that amounted almost to genius. I never understood it myself. On the instant I whispered to Will, "Lie still,’’ and before THE STARTLED GANG had recovered from their astonishment, I had sprung out, slammed the door behind me, and dashed out of the window before their eyes, knock, ingone man end over end, and getting fairly out side before any one could draw a revolver. There was a wild scramble and a fusilado of shots, aud I could hear footsteps coming after me, but I was young and a fleet runner, and I felt sure that none of them could catch me. I never halted until breathless and covered with mud aud perspiration, I burst into the station at Aisla Craig and made the frightened keeper understand something of my story. Together we roused tbe scattered people of the little settlement, and in twenty minutes had a squad of men and boys, armed with guns, pitch forks aud crow-bars, marching up the road. A few rods from the old house we met Will, crouching along the road, and half paralyzed with fear. He told me, when I had laughed him into some sense, that after I left, the gang had pursued me for some distance, and when they camo back had disap peared. As soon as he had dared he had crept out of the house and run for bis life. He had narrowly escaped one of tbe gang who had been left as a sentinel in case I should return, and had been fired at a number of times, but had got away unhurt. Will and I did not waste any time In packing up our camp. We ran to the station, took the first train for Toronto, and before the next night wo had poured tho whole story into the ear of the chief de tective and he had detailed his best men to work up the case. We were retained to assist them. The first thing was to lay for the jewolry broker, who was known in Toronto as Sherwood. Nothing could bo done until he should go to another ren dezvous. After the occurrences at the haunted house, the robbers wouldn’t meet there again. When the three months were up, THE DETECTIVES REDOUBLED THEIR VIGI LANCE. We saw Sherwood leave his store ono night aud followed him to the dopot. He got on a train with out buying a ticket, and we followed him. It was arranged that we should get off whenever ho did, and the rest as soon after as they could. The lot fell toj Matt Sumner, one of the best detectives I ever know. We followed the broker alt that night and the next day. He led us a wild goose chase away up into the peninsula of Canala. Sumner dropped from the train just after him when he got off, and wo followed him shortly after. Sumner followed tho broker and we followed Sumner until tho broker led us to a Jog-hut in ths middle of a pine forest. We made a midnight raid and captured the whole gang except two. They were tried at Toronto. One of them turned Queen’s evidence, and revealed all the operations of the gang. Sher wood got twenty years in the Central Prison, but afterward escaped and reorganized the gang. That was Sam Arkdale, the outlaw. Years afterward he operated in Manitoba and Montana heading des perate gangs, and making his name a terror every where. He was captured several times, but always escaped until one time about ten years ago, when he was caught in an attempt to rob a coach near Port Arthur. He was consigned to the Central Prison, and died there last week. A Fiendish Crime. A WOMAN’S TERRIBLE FATE. A horrible murder was committed at Colton, San Bernardino county, Cal., recently, the mystery of which has been laid bare by San Francisco de tectives, revealing ono of the worst Crimea in tho annals of the coast. William Pierce registered at the hotel in Colton on Tuesday morning. January 25th, with his wife, giv ing Sau Jose aa his residence. They were not no. ticed after that, but on Wednesday morning their room was entered by tho chambermaid, who dis covered the dead body of the woman lying on the bed. Her skull was crushed by a heavy blow, and there wero gashes in her throat mado by some blunt instrument. Papers soaked with kerosene wore found smoldering on the floor and a portion of the woman's under-clothing had been charred by the flames. In the room was found the short-handled hammer with which the fatal blow had been struck, and two photographs of the dead woman, which the assas sin had evidently left behind In his eagerness to escape. A full description of the criminal was sent to Ban Francisco, from which tho detectives worked out the following facts ef the luring of an honest young woman to her death by a worthless gambler: Two years ago Katie Handeroff, a hard-working, saving and good-looking German girl, was serving aa housemaid in the South Park Hotel, Ban Fran cisco; Ono of the boarders was a young fellow named William Springer, who had come from Ari zona, where he had been a cow-herder. He was so poor when he arrived that he had to be trusted for his board, but this did not prevent him frorq paying court to Katie, who was reported to have laid by a snug sum. Suddenly, Springer grew rich, and when settling with tbe landlord, he told him that he had inherited a legacy of $6,000 from his father in Germany. The legacy was really only S6OO, and with this Springer opened a saloon at Lodi. Miss Handeroff went to Liveimore to work, but on December 7th last she came to San Francisco, met Springer at a hotel, and was married to him on the following day. The couple started on their honeymoon to southern California, a wedding journey which ended in tbe lady’s murder. She was known to have S4OO in a city bank, some jewelry, and a note for S2OO, which she had loaned Springer. The police theory is that Springer induced her to take the southern trip by promising to show her a homestead which he owned near Colton, and that being out of coin and near his old Arizona sporting field, he deliberately murdered his bride lor her money and then tried to cover the traces of the crime by burning the body in the hotel. Springer, was well known in Tombstone, where he bore a’ hard reputation. The murdered woman has rela tives in the Livermore Valley, across tbe bay from San Francisco, who opposed the marriage. She al ways bore a good reputation, and her little savings wero tho result of years of labor. PRICE " FIVE "CENTS? —•_ 7 WE ARE CHANGED! We feel our love has long grown cold, And yot we dare not own That, day by day, a silent change Has o’er our spirits grown. We see it, though our eyes the while Are blinded by our tears; With words of former tenderness We strive to mock our fears. But we are changed. We are not one, As we were once of old. Oh 1 would to God that we had died Before our love grew cold 1 We’ve struggled hard against our fatty Our hearts still warm to keep. As wayworn men strive with the cold That numbs them into sleep. We have not let one unkind word The bitter truth reveal— The world knows not, must never kno* What both of us now feel, That we are changed. We are not one. As we were of old. Oh 1 would to God that we had died *. Before our love grew cold ! Bound, like the felon bound of yore. Unto the lifeless clay, Linked to a love long dead, that shows Each moment more decay. In secret we must hug our bonds, Till death will set us free. I weep, my wife, to think that I Have forged these chains for thee;: For we are changed. We arc not ono, As we were once of old. Oh ! would to God that we had died before our iove grew cold. HITtIH iom, BY A NEW AUTHOR. CHAPTER V. . " THE ONE GIRL IN THE "WORLD FOR MB?* - "Well? Are you going to stand looking at yourself all night, Seymour, or are you going to bed?” It was a quarter of an hour after the Latimers had left, and papa Melford, having betaken himself to the smoking-room for tbe glass of hot gin and water which now wound rip every evening of his liie, the brother and sister were alone. Diana had stretched herself out upon th* couch and lay languidly surveying Seymour, who stood leaning upon the mantel-shelf, his dark eyes fixed upon his reflection in tbe glass. He started, and with a swift turn of his head looked at her. “ I am not looking at myself, Diana,” he said. “ No, I do not see my own face there,” and he pointed hie thin tapering finger at the glass, “ not myself, but the future. It lies all spread out before me there as plainly as if it were * map. The future, Diana, which I shall make— or mar.” "Never mind the future,” she said with a yawn. “What about to-night? Were you satis fied with me ?” “With you? Yea,” he answered. "I am always satisfied with you. You acted admira bly, admirably. Your dress was a masterpiece, and your manner all that I could wish it—per haps a little, a leetle too cold.” She smiled indolently, but her eyes flashed. “You are wrong, Seymour. My manner matched my dress, and I meant it to! Do yon think I do not understand how to treat this young viscount 1 Oh, I know well! He came expecting to see a fine example of the vulgar parvenu family. Ho thought I should be dressed like a May-day sweep, with at least a couple of thousand pounds’ worth of jewelry about me, he dreaded that I was going to toady him and ‘ make up’ to him on the spot! I saw it in the look of surprise with which he glanced at me when he came in. He thought I should be entirely different to the grand ladies of his own set, and he was astonished to find that I was not. That was enough for ono evening. I did not exchange a dozen sentences with him, scarcely looked at him, bnt I saw all that was passing through his lordship’s mind I Ah I” she drew a long breath that almost hissed as it passed her white, even teeth. “ How I hate them all ! I wish I had lived in Paris at tho time of tho revolution. I should have stood beside the guillotine and seen their heads faH without a shudder I I would have cried • Death to tho aristocrats I’ till my threat dried up;” and the milk-white, hand that held the fan closed upon it with a soft, cat-like ferocity. The brother loaned his head upon his hand and watched her. “I would have joined yon,” he said, with a low laugh and a cruel curl of the thin, Greek lip. “ And I have more cause to hate them than you ! You do not mix with them in tho outside world—l do ! I have felt their cold in solence, have winced under the sneer of their lips and the scorn in their eyes. Hate them 1” Ho laughed. “If by a shako of this finger I could lay them all ruined and destroyed at my feet, I’d do it I This insolent yonng fool to night lookedat me as if I were the dirt under his feet, as if he wondered how I dared enter the same room with himself. To that gawky Latimer boy he was all smiles and affability. It was ‘Jack, old man 1’ with him; but when he spoke to me, it was ‘ Mr. Melford I’ ” Ho raised his hand aud looked at it; it was quivering. “ The father, the old earl, was hard to bear, with his cold, fishy stare when I spoke, bnt his son, ‘ my Lord Kendalels,’ easy, lounging insolence, made my blood boil, till at times I could have seized a knife from tho table and stabbed him where he sat 1” and the white hand made a swift downward movement, aa if it were thrusting with a knife. Diana looked at him from under her half lowered lids. “ Take care, Seymour ; that temper of your* is rather—dangerous I” He passed his hand over his forehead as if to efface tbe signs of passion upon it, and laughed softly. “ That is wbat I felt, Diana !” he said. “What I did, was to make myself as pleasant as possi ble to onr guest. I thought, even as I longed to strike him, ‘ I’ve a better game to play with you, my lord. Tbe man you look as if ho wore dirt under your feet, shall be your dearly be loved brother-in-law, and then—— ’ ”he paused and smiled. Diana fanned herself. “ It is all very well to say it,” she said ; " but how are you going to bring it to pass ?” “We will see,” he said, concisely. There was silence for a moment, then he walked to the ta ble, and with his back to her said, " Why did not Dolores come to-night?” Diana turned her bead, and a keen look came into her half-closed eyes. “I don’t know. What does it matter?” “Nothing, nothing,” he assented carelessly— too carelessly. “lam rather surprised she did not,” resumed Diana, slowly; “ for she knew Lord Keudaio was coming; I told them in my note,"