With feverish blood the scheming villain sat by the window and watched the fleeting landscape by the light of the moon. The score of miles that intervened between the station seemed like a hundred to the anxious man who sat and glared at the trees and hills without.

He was in extreme doubt as to his ability to cope with the cunning hag who had ventured so many miles to thwart him, and indulge her own morbid desire for revenge.

At length the whistle sounded announcing the station.

As the train bolted beside another train, bound in the opposite direction, Ruggles glanced into the car not ten feet distant, to make a startling discovery.

He looked squarely into the face of Dyke Darrel, the railroad detective!

Turning his head, the Professor sat quiet. The other train was moving, and Ruggles felt paralyzed at his discovery. Perhaps the detective had not noticed him. He could not understand how the detective had escaped death from the beating he had received in the basement of that building of sin on Clark street.

His own train was moving now, and if he would get off he must be quick about it.

Springing from his seat, he hastened down the aisle.

At the open door he met Dyke Darrel face to face! The recognition was mutual.

The train was moving rapidly out of the station. Soon it would be going at full speed.

Professor Ruggles had two incentives for leaving the train now—one to escape the detective, the other to find Nell and Madge Scarlet.

At first he thought of dashing upon Dyke Darrel and risking all in a swift rush. Second thought, induced by the gleam of a six-shooter in the hand of his enemy, concluded the Professor to seek another course. Turning, he dashed down the length of the car, with Darrel in hot pursuit.

"Halt, or I fire!"

But the detective's cry had no effect.

The half-sleeping passengers were roused by the wonderful movements of the two men.

"Madmen!"

"What IS the trouble?"

Such were the exclamations, as doors slammed, and the two men swept into the next car. From coach to coach sped the pursued and the pursuer. It was a flight for life, on the part of Professor Ruggles.

His plug hat flew off in the chase, and a brakeman who confronted him in the aisle was knocked flat with terrific force.

"Murder!"

And then both men disappeared from the rear platform.

Dyke Darrel believed he had his man in a corner, when he saw him dash through the door at the rear of the long train.

Not so, however.

The desperate Ruggles was ready to do anything rather than come in contact with his relentless foe. He bounded clear of the train, landing in a soft bit of sand, sinking almost to his knees, without harming him in the least.

The detective did not hesitate to follow, but he made a miscalculation, owing to his bodily weakness, and instead of landing on his feet, he came down with stunning force across one of the rails.

Dyke Darrel lay insensible, like one dead.

Had his enemy come upon him then he might have finished the career of the daring man-hunter, without the least danger to himself. For once, Professor Ruggles missed it woefully.

As the detective was ten yards behind the Professor, and the car was going at good speed, there was quite twenty rods difference between the two men when they landed. Dyke Darrel was completely hidden from the sight of Ruggles by a clump of trees.

Ruggles gazed up the track, but saw nothing of his pursuer. He surmised that Dyke Darrel did not leap from the train, but it was likely he would ring the bell and stop the cars at once, so that it would not do to for him to remain in the vicinity unless he wished to collide with the detective.

Another supposition also came to the brain of the villain, preventing his search along the track. If Dyke Darrel had leaped after him, what more natural than his hiding in the clump of timber for the purpose of pouncing upon him when he came up the road.

"I'll not risk it," muttered Ruggles. "I've other fish to fry just now than looking after detectives. I must find that hag, Madge Scarlet, and get my hands once more on Nell Darrel."

Then Mr. Ruggles turned his steps in the direction of the station. Already daylight was dawning, and Professor Ruggles was almost beside himself with anxiety. He cursed the woman who had made it necessary for him to leave the train so many miles outside of Gotham. Such a change in the programme might result fatally to himself. Dyke Darrel was hot on the trail now, and it would require the best efforts of a desperate man to throw him off the scent.

The man with the sunset hair was desperate enough. With hurried steps he made his way to the depot. The agent was just shutting up.

"No train, save a way-freight, will be along till night," he said, in answer to a question from the gentleman with the red locks. Ruggles had taken the precaution to provide himself with a cap from his satchel before presenting himself to the man on duty at the depot.

"One question," said Ruggles, as the man was about to walk away.

"Well?"

"Did any passengers get off here some hours since from the New York train east?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"None came into the depot, at any rate," said the man.

"Any passengers get on?"

"Several."

"Among them an old woman?"

"I saw no woman."

"You are sure?"

"Of course I am."

Ruggles was disappointed. Could it be possible that he had been led on a fool's errand after all, and that Madge Scarlet, with her prize, had been concealed on the train, and continued on to New York? The thought was intolerable.

In the meantime, how fared it with Dyke Darrel, who lay stunned and bleeding across the railroad track.

It was almost sun-up before he opened his eyes and groaned. His bed was a hard one, and it seemed as though every bone in his body was broken. The fact was, he was yet sore from his serious fall through the trap into the basement on Clark street, consequently it is little wonder he was badly demoralized, both in mind and body, at his last mishap.

Presently a strange rumbling jar filled his ears. A bend in the road to the west hid the track, but the dazed brain of Dyke Darrel took in the situation nevertheless—a train was thundering down upon him.

A minute more and he would be doomed!

He tried to move—to roll from the track. He could not. His limbs seemed paralyzed. Another second and the train would be upon him!



CHAPTER XXV.

SAVED!

Professor Ruggles had not been remiss in his judgment. It was Madge Scarlet who stole his victim from his arms almost in the hour of his devilish triumph. She did not get on the train from the little way station, however. She was on the train when it drew out of the great city by the lake, but the scheming Ruggles knew it not.

She, too, wore a veil, and was otherwise disguised, and managed not to show herself to the man she had once called friend. Immediately on her release from jail she began to watch Ruggles, who kept himself out of the way, or walked the streets only in disguise.

She haunted the depots of the city, and was lucky enough to see him when he took passage. Quietly boarding the same train, she bided her time, intent on gaining possession of the detective's sister for purposes of her own.

The fires of insanity were already burning in the brain of the convict's wife.

Revenge for past wrongs seemed the sole object of her life now, and this was the incentive that placed her on the track of a fleeing villain and his intended victim.

Madge saw Ruggles when he left the car. She watched her opportunity, and lifting the partially insensible girl, bore her swiftly to the outside, as the train halted for a minute.

She gave vent to a chuckle as the train went thundering on its course.

She had passed from the cars on the opposite side from the depot, and consequently was able to elude the gaze of the depot agent.

Along the track she went, pausing at times to rest, until she was fully a mile from the station. In the shadow of a clump of trees the hag came to a halt and deposited her burden on the ground.

A moan from the drugged and helpless Nell reached her ears.

And then Mrs. Scarlet chuckled the louder.

"Good; she's coming out of her bad spell. I want her to realize her fate, else there wouldn't be the least bit of pleasure in my revenge."

Removing veil and light cloak, Mrs. Scarlet gazed down into the pallid face of poor Nell, with only hatred gleaming from her sunken, beady eyes.

"Ho! I've outwitted the master devil himself, and now I will have you all to myself, to deal with in a way that will cut to the quick when Dyke Darrel hears of it."

Nell had on only a light summer robe under the shawl. She looked very innocent and beautiful as she lay there under the gaze of that human hyena.

"Pretty's a picture," hissed the wicked Madge. "I'll all the more delight in seeing you suffer. Ah! she is coming out of her stupor. How do you feel, dear?"

Nell had opened her eyes and gazed at the wicked face above her, in a dazed semi-consciousness.

No answer was vouchsafed.

Then, in looking about, the gleam of steel lines under the moon's rays seemed to attract the notice of Mrs. Scarlet for the first time—the straight lines that marked the course of the Erie road.

Their glitter seemed to offer a diabolical suggestion to Madge Scarlet.

"Ha! I have it."

Springing to her feet, she laid her arms about the slender form of the helpless girl, and, lifting her, walked swiftly to the railway track. In the centre, between the rails, she deposited her burden.

"Revenge! sweet revenge!" cackled the hag in a blood-curdling voice.

Again the girl moved and moaned; yet she seemed unable to change her position.

"Rest yourself comfortably, my girl; you won't be in trouble long," muttered the demon woman, with a grin that was absolutely sickening.

Poor Nell! She lay quite still after that, between the fatal rails, only giving sign of life by a faint moan occasionally.

Mrs. Scarlet retired to her leafy covert to wait the outcome. She could see far beyond the track a farm-house, and near her a heap of ties, and a rude fence—the moonlight revealed everything plainly. Chuckling with hideous satisfaction, the she demon waited the coming of the express that could not be far distant. Morning was already brightening the East.

Far away was the sound of a moving train. The sullen, distant roar sent a thrill to the heart of the demon woman, who crouched in the bushes to await the completion of her unhallowed revenge.

The sullen jar seemed to act like a shock of electricity on the nerves of Nell Darrel. She felt a strange and awful numbness. With a mighty effort the girl roused herself to a consciousness of her awful position.

Louder and louder roared the train. It was but a mile distant now, and the road was straight.

Nell raised her head, and resting on her hands gazed down the track where, in the distance, gleamed the light of the locomotive.

"God help me!" moaned the poor girl. Then she tried to throw herself from the track, but she could not. Her limbs were numb, and refused to obey her will.

A wild laugh rang out on the moonlit air.

Madge Scarlet sprang up and glared through the bushes at her victim with maniacal delight.

"Ha' ha! You cannot escape! Them pretty limbs'll be crushed and torn asunder! the white flesh cut and gashed, and that delicate body made a horrid mass of blood and mangled fragments! THEN I will present them to you, Dyke Darrel. Ho! ho!"

Her voice was raised to a high pitch now, and even reached the ears of the startled Nell.

No help, no hope!

On thundered the iron monster.

On and on till the eye of the engineer catches sight of something on the track—SOMETHING!

Quickly the engine is reversed and the air brakes come into play.

Too late!

A moan of agonized terror falls from the lips of the half dead girl, and then she sank helplessly to the ground. At the same instant help came from an unexpected source.

A man dashed swiftly through the moonlight and flung a heavy oak tie in front of the slackened engine.

A rumble and a jar, and then the train came to a dead stop, within three feet of the prostrate girl!

It was a narrow escape.

The man who had come so unexpectedly out of the shadows dragged Nell from her dangerous position. The engineer and fireman came down and congratulated the young man on his presence.

"The brakes couldn't quite do it," said the engineer. "That tie saved the girl, with no damage to the train."

"It seems to be a lucky accident all round," said the young man, who had laid Nell on a safe spot, and now turned his attention to assisting in removing the obstruction from the rails.

"Yes. Who is she?"

"I can't say."

"Well, I must be on the way," uttered the engineer, "we are behind time now."

By this time the conductor was on the ground, but the train was running again, and he received a full explanation from the engineer afterward.

When the young man made a closer inspection of the girl he had rescued, a cry of surprise fell from his lips.

"As I live, it is Nell Darrel!"

But she could not speak to thank him for his act, since she had fainted.

Lifting her tenderly the young man turned his steps in the direction of the farm-house, where he had been stopping during the past two days.

"Curse you! curse you!" were the venomous words flung after the man by Madge Scarlet.

But she dared not interfere to prevent the rescue.

When Nell Darrel again opened her eyes, it was to find herself calmly resting on a couch in a little room, whose cozy appearance was like home indeed. And the face that bent over her was not that of a stranger. Could it be that she was dreaming?

"Thank Heaven!" murmured a manly voice, and then a mustached lip bent and pressed a clinging kiss to the cheek of poor Nell.

"Harry, dear Harry!"

Thus had the lovers met after many long months of separation.

A smile rested on the face of the fair girl as she held Harry's hand while he talked of the past.

She explained as best she could the strangeness of her situation; but everything was so much like a dream, it was a hard matter to reconcile some of the events of the past few weeks.

"The end draws nigh," assured young Bernard, after a time. "If the notorious man calling himself Ruggles was on the train, he will, on discovering his loss, turn back, and then I will capture him."



CHAPTER XXVI.

THE MYSTERIOUS WART.

We left Dyke Darrel, the detective, in a critical position on the railroad track, with the roar of a freight engine in his ears. The rays of the rising sun touched the glittering rails as the long train swept around the bend upon doomed Dyke Darrel.

One more tremendous effort on the part of the detective, and he succeeded in throwing his body squarely across one of the rails. In this position he hung a helpless weight, with the hoarse roar of the engine making anything but sweet music to his fainting soul.

Ha! Look! A hand is outstretched to save at the last moment, and Dyke Darrel is jerked from under the smoking wheels, even as their breath fans his fevered cheek.

The train swept on.

A cheer greeted the man who had come opportunely to the rescue as the engine swept on its course.

And a little later a man, young, yet whose boyish face bore marks of dissipation, stood beside the detective and gazed into his face now for the first time.

"Great Caesar!"

The young man started as though cut by a knife, and bent low over the fallen detective, who was now struggling to a sitting posture.

When he looked into the face of his rescuer he uttered a great cry.

"My soul! how came you here, Martin Skidway?"

"I am a fugitive," answered the young convict. "It wasn't through your good will that I got out of prison, I can tell you that. Had I known who it was on the track, I might not have put out my hand to save."

The detective regarded the speaker in no little amazement. This was the second time he had escaped from the Missouri prison, which argued well for the man's keenness and capability, or else ill for the official management of the prison.

"It was from the St. Louis prison that I escaped," explained Martin Skidway a little later. "I never got inside the State institution a second time. I've had a sweet time of it thus far."

"Tell me how you made your escape," said Dyke Darrel, who sat with his back against a tree, and regarded the young counterfeiter in wonder.

"There isn't much to tell," returned Skidway. "I had no assistance, but it seems that a pair of burglars had broken out by filing off the grating to one of the corridor windows, and the opening had not been repaired when I was taken to the jail. I was left in the corridor a minute while the jailor was attending some other prisoners, and that minute gave me the opportunity. I mounted a chair, climbed through the window, and made my escape by the light of the moon. Of course there was a big search, but I remained hidden in an old cellar under a deserted house in a grove within the city limits, for several days, and finally made good my escape from the State."

"And now?"

"I am going to put the ocean between me and the beaks of American law."

Dyke Darrel regarded the speaker with mingled emotions. He saw in this daring young fellow much talent, that had it been rightly directed, might have made an honorable place in the world for Martin Skidway.

"I am helpless to arrest your steps just at present," groaned the detective. "Would you do it after what has happened, if you were in a condition to do so?" demanded the convict, bending over the man on the ground, regarding him with a menacing look.

"Duty often calls one to do that which is disagreeable," answered Dyke Darrel. A deep frown mantled the brows of the convict.

"I see that my mercy was misdirected," he said. "It seems that I have saved your life only to give you a chance to dog me to doom. Think you I am fool enough to permit this?"

There was a menace in the man's voice that Dyke Darrel did not like.

"I am at present helpless," he said. "I don't imagine you will harm a man who is in no condition to injure you if he would."

"But you can talk. The first man who comes along will hear from you that an escaped convict is in the rural districts of New York, and a telegram will set ten thousand officers on the lookout for me. Without such information I would not be recognized in this community. I am a desperate man, Dyke Darrel, and do not propose to sacrifice myself for your benefit."

"What will you do?"

"One of two things."

"Well?"

"You must solemnly swear that you will never reveal to another that I am in this region, and swear also to make no effort to capture me under a month, or else I shall have a painful duty to perform."

"Go on!"

"Will you take the required oath?'

"Certainly not."

"Then the other alternative is alone left me, Dyke Darrel."

"And that?"

"DEATH TO YOU!"

Straightening to his full height after uttering the three terrible words, Martin Skidway snatched a heavy iron bolt from the ground, that had lain long beside the track, and raised it above the head of helpless Dyke Darrel.

"Martin Skidway, hold!"

The words of the detective came forth in a thrilling cry.

An instant the would be assassin stayed his hand.

"You agree to my terms?"

"No; but—"

"Then you must die. It will be considered an accident, and no one will suspect my hand in the affair."

Again the young convict poised his weapon for deadly work. On the instant the rumble of wheels met the ears of Martin Skidway.

A wagon containing two men was in sight, moving down a road that ran parallel with the railway at this point. It was evident that the occupants of the vehicle had seen Skidway, and to strike now would but add to the vengeance of pursuit and punishment. With a curse, he dropped the iron bolt and turned to flee.

"Dyke Darrel, if you inform on me, I will kill you at another time!" hissed the convict.

Then he rushed from the spot and disappeared.

As the wagon came opposite it halted, and the cries of Dyke Darrel brought both men to his side.

"Hello! is this you?" cried a cheery voice, and the next instant Dyke Darrel was lifted to his feet by the strong hand of Harry Bernard.

It was a happy and unexpected meeting. Harry had good news to tell, and when Dyke Darrel, assisted by his friend, reached the farmhouse where Nell had found safety and shelter, the detective was strong enough to stand, and assist himself in no small degree.

Mutual explanations were entered into, and, as may be supposed, the meeting between brother and sister was a happy one indeed. Harry was the hero of the hour.

When Dyke Darrel spoke of Martin Skidway, and the part he had acted in saving his life, a word of admiration fell from the lips of Nell.

But when Dyke proceeded to the conclusion, the girl's face blanched, and she had no word of commendation left for the miserable convict, who, after all, possessed but little honor.

"So Aunt Scarlet is in the neighborhood; and also your abductor," mused the detective. "The trail is becoming hot, indeed."

"It is, for a fact," admitted Harry. "I believe, if the truth was known, this man Ruggles will prove to be the man we want. Have you that handkerchief with you, Dyke, that we found in the coat of the rascal who attempted your murder in St. Louis?"

This was several hours after the events of the morning, and Nell was now resting in a large wooden rocker, very weak, yet feeling remarkably well, considering the siege she had passed through during the past two weeks and more. Dyke Darrel and Harry were the only occupants of the room, the farmer being at his work in the field, and his good wife attending preparations for supper in the kitchen.

"I have kept the tell-tale handkerchief through it all," answered the detective, at the same time producing the article from a receptacle beneath, his shirt.

"It's a wonder this was not discovered when you were in the hands of the thugs of Chicago."

"I wasn't closely searched, I suppose. You and the boys were too close after them."

"You give me too much credit, Dyke," returned Harry Bernard, modestly. "I've a question to ask."

"Ask as many as you like."

"Was it the fact of my hand fitting this bloody imprint that so startled you in the St. Louis hotel?"

"Did I not so claim at the time?"

"Perhaps; but wasn't there another coincidence that gave you reason to suspect me?

"There might have been."

"I thought so. It was the imprint of a large wart, such as this on the handkerchief, that made you look with suspicion upon me. Is it not so?"

Harry held up his hand, so that a wart on the little finger was plainly revealed, and which, when he placed his hand against the tell-tale handkerchief, fitted the marks perfectly.

"Forgive me, Harry," cried the detective, quickly. "I know now that it was only a remarkable duplicate; the wart belonged to another hand than yours. The print of the wart was also on the bosom of Arnold Nicholson's white shirt bosom, where a bloody hand had fallen. I made this discovery when I examined the body of my dead friend. Circumstantial evidence pointed to you, and yet I doubted—"

"I understand," interrupted Harry. "My hand is indeed a duplicate of the assassin's. It is a wonder that I have not been arrested ere this by some of the detectives who are engaged in working up this case."

"Why so?"

"Because you are not the only one who made the discovery of the wart that adorned the hand of the assassin. A reporter got hold of the story and published it. Don't you remember?"

"I haven't read the papers closely since the murder."

"But I have, and so has the man who killed Nicholson."

"Indeed?"

"He soon learned that officers of the law were all looking for a man with a large wart on the second joint of the little finger of the right hand. This fact made him nervous, and one night he severed the wart, and flung it from him, since which time he has breathed easier."

A low exclamation from the lips of Nell startled both men.



CHAPTER XXVII.

THE STORY OF A WART.

"Nell, what is it?" questioned the surprised detective.

Harry regarded the girl with a queer smile. Perhaps he knew what had brought the exclamation to the lips of Miss Darrel.

"I know a man who has lost a wart," she said, slowly, a deepening pallor coming to her cheeks.

"His name?" questioned Dyke Darrel, eagerly.

But the girl did not immediately answer. It seemed that something moved her deeply.

"Was it Professor Ruggles?" questioned Harry, in order to help the young girl out.

"No," she said.

"Who then?"

"Harper Elliston!"

A grave look chased the smile from the face of Harry Bernard.

The girl's announcement seemed to prove a revelation to him, even as it did to Dyke Darrel.

"I did not know the man who severed the wart from his hand," said Harry Bernard, after a brief silence, "but suspected that it was Darlington Ruggles. It seems now that I was correct."

"How is that?"

"Have you not guessed the truth," queried Harry Bernard. "I made the discovery some time since that the red-haired man and Harper Elliston were one and the same."

This came as a revelation to both the detective and his sister.

"I have had suspicions," said Dyke Darrel, "but never anything definite regarding the villainy of this man Elliston. He has played his cards well, but I became undeceived not long after this great railroad crime. That he was not my friend I discovered, and then I resolved to watch him. I have reason to believe that it was to him I owe my arrest in Burlington, Iowa. I now see the truth, that under the assumed name of Hubert Vander, Elliston ruined a young girl of Burlington, and, it may be, murdered her father, wealthy Captain Osborne. It would be strange indeed, should the trail that ends with the capture of the express robber also bring to punishment the assassin of the Burlington Captain."

"It seems likely to end in that way," returned Harry.

"Let us hear what Nell has to say with regard to the wart," said the detective, turning to his sister.

"It will require but a few words to do that," said Nell Darrel. "I always noticed a peculiarly shaped wart on the finger of Mr. Elliston's shapely right hand, and once he remarked upon it to me, saying that it was a disfigurement, and that he meant to have it removed sometime. I think it was the first time I met Mr. Elliston after the terrible news of the mid night express tragedy that I noticed the absence of the wart, and a bit of surgeon's plaster covering the spot. I laughed over his having undergone such a severe surgical operation, and he seemed to take it in good part, assuring me that HE was the surgeon who amputated the excrescence with a razor. Of course I thought nothing strange of it at the time."

"You said the wart had a peculiar shape? How is that?" questioned Harry Bernard.

"It was large, and was composed of two crowns. I think, perhaps two warts had grown together at the roots."

"Exactly. Would you know the wart if you should see it again?"

"I think I should."

"So would I," cried the detective.

Then Harry Bernard drew a small vial from his pocket and held it up to view. A small object, submerged in alcohol, was visible. When placed in the hand of Nell, the girl at once exclaimed:

"That is certainly the wart that once disfigured the hand of Harper Elliston!"

"Where did you get it?" questioned Dyke Darrel, now deeply interested at the links that were being rapidly forged in the chain of evidence.

"Dyke, you know that when I left Woodburg some months ago, I went from among you under a cloud?"

"I will not dispute you—"

"No explanation is necessary on your part, Dyke. I imagine I was as much to blame as anybody. Nell and I quarreled, and I imagined that the handsome, elderly New Yorker had stepped into my shoes, so far as she was concerned. I did not like the man, and so I resolved to investigate for myself, and if I found that he was not worthy of Nell, whom I loved and should always love while life lasted, I determined to expose him, and save your sister. During the past few months I have been making this investigation, to find that the supposed immaculate Harper Elliston is known in Gotham in certain circles as a gambler and villain of the deepest dye. He has committed some crimes that are worse than murder. Now, as to the wart: It was soon after I had heard of the murder on the express train, that while riding in the smoking car of an emigrant train in Iowa, I saw an old man deliberately slice a huge wart from his little finger with a keen-edged knife. The wart fell under the seat and rolled at my feet. The old man made no effort to recover it, but wrapped his bleeding hand in a handkerchief and muttered: 'THAT witness will never come up to trouble me.' There was something in the man's voice that sounded familiar, and the strange whiteness of his hands aroused my suspicions, for in dress and appearance the man was a laborer of the lower class. Curiosity, if nothing stronger, prompted me to take possession of the severed wart that had rolled at my feet. Soon after that I read the notice in a newspaper, to the effect that the assassin of the express train had left the imprint of a wart on the bosom of the dead man's shirt. Since that time I have regarded hands with no little interest, and have looked for the old man of the emigrant car in vain."

"An interesting recital," said the detective, when Harry Bernard came to a pause. "Knowing all this, you kept it from me at St. Louis."

"My reason for that was, that I did not care to arouse any foolish theories. Of course, the reporter's story might have been false. The wart on my own hand, somewhat similar to this, led me to keep my own council as a matter of personal safety. Although I suspected Elliston, I had no proof, since I had forgotten the fact of his ever having a wart on the little finger of his right hand. My principal hope has been in finding the old man of the emigrant train."

"You have not found him?"

"Not unless Elliston is the man."

"Did you suspect this before now?"

"I did; now I am convinced."

Just then Harry Bernard chanced to raise his eyes and gaze out of the open window.

He came suddenly to his feet with a startled exclamation.

Dyke Darrel glanced out of the window to notice a bent old man, with white hair and beard, moving away from the vicinity of the house. Evidently he had been looking into the room, if not listening to the conversation of the trio.

"Saints of Rome! there is the old man of the emigrant train now!"

Dyke Darrel staggered to the window, while Harry Bernard rushed swiftly from the farm-house.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE REVELATIONS OF A SATCHEL.

"Hello, old man!"

"Eh?"

The man stopped, stared at Harry Bernard as if puzzled, and then began to grin.

"I want to speak with you, sir."

"Sortin, sortin you can."

"Who are you?"

"Sam Wiggs o' Yonkers. Wat can I do for ye, mister?"

The old fellow seemed honest enough, and as Harry glanced at the dirty hands, he saw nothing to excite his suspicions.

"Are you a relative of Mr.—-?" naming the farmer who owned the place on which they stood.

"Wal, not as I knows on," drawled the old fellow, laughing until his old head seemed ready to topple from his shoulders. "No blood relation, any how, sir. You see, my wife's cousin's aunt's husband's brother Jerry was a cousin to Nicodemus Dunce, who, if I don't disremember, was related in some way to Isacker Pete's wife's sister, and she was this ere man's niece, or somethin' o' that sort, but we ain't blood related nohow."

"I should think not," answered Harry, and then he returned to the house, while the old man Wiggs proceeded unmolested on his way.

"At a first glance, he DID resemble the man of the emigrant train strongly," muttered Bernard, "but I see now that I was mistaken."

"Well, how did you make out, Harry?"

"This was from Dyke Darrel, who had been watching proceedings from the window.

"A case of mistaken identity," answered the young man, with a laugh. "I was sure I had found the right man when I saw that old chap crossing the yard, but it seems that I was mistaken."

"Are you sure of it?"

"I suppose I am."

Dyke Darrel watched the retreating form of the old man with no little curiosity, however, until his bent form was lost to view down the winding road. Naturally suspicious, the detective more than half believed that the seemingly aged man had not come to the farm-house for any good purpose.

"I can't help thinking that Wiggs, as he called himself, is destined to give us trouble, Harry," the detective said, at length.

"An inoffensive old man," asserted Bernard. At the same time, however, he was not fully content to let the matter rest as it was.

"It might be well enough to watch the old fellow, at any rate," said Dyke Barrel, rising and walking twice across the room, peering nervously out of the window in the direction in which old Wiggs had gone.

"Keep quiet, Dyke," said Bernard. "I will shadow the old fellow, and see if he is other than he seems."

Bernard was on the point of leaving the room, when a youth appeared, walking swiftly toward the farm-house from the direction of the station. One glance sufficed to show both men the genial face of the boy Paul Ender.

"So you have Paul with you, Harry?" said the detective with a pleased smile.

"He is my shadow, and I have found him true and brave," answered Harry, at the same time glancing toward Nell, who had told him of the lad's defense of her against the villain Elliston.

"I can testify to his bravery," said the girl. "Paul and I are great friends."

A minute later, young Ender entered the presence of the trio, and deposited a black satchel in the middle of the floor.

"I have committed a theft," said the boy, with a queer look on his face, "and am here to throw myself on the mercy of the court."

"You speak in riddles," said Bernard. "I've been on a bully lay, as the peelers say, and I believe have made a discovery, although it may amount to nothing after all."

"Go on."

"I've seen the man with the red hair and beard."

"When?"

"Where?"

"Over by the depot. I saw him go into an old out-house with this satchel in his hand."

"Indeed!"

"Go on."

"I was on the watch, and when he came out I saw, not Brother Ruggles, but a lean old man, with white locks and beard, who seemed to walk with great difficulty."

"Ah!"

"Indeed!"

"He hobbled away, and failed to take the satchel with him. At first I could not believe that the sorrel gent and the old chap were the same. I learned this by investigation. When, after waiting a spell, and no sunset-haired gent came forth, I proceeded to investigate, and found this satchel, which, under the law of military necessity, I proceeded to confiscate, that the ends of justice might be furthered. If I have done wrong, I am ready to throw myself on the mercy of the court, and be forgiven."

"You have done right," cried Dyke Barrel. "Have you opened the satchel?"

"No. It is locked, and I haven't a key that will fit."

Harry Bernard produced several keys, none of which fitted the lock to the satchel.

"What are we to do?" cried Bernard. "The satchel is securely locked, and its owner has the key."

"This is no time for ceremony or undue squeamishness!" uttered Dyke Darrel. "We are on the eve of an important discovery, and I propose to make no delays."

Then, drawing a knife from his pocket, the detective bent over the satchel and slit the sides at one stroke.

"That will open it if a key won't," he remarked, with grim satisfaction.

The contents of the satchel were a revelation.

Red wigs and a complete suit of clothes, besides paints and powders.

Harry uttered an exclamation.

"Just as I suspected," uttered Dyke Darrel. "You made no, mistake when you suspected that old man who just now left this vicinity. Doubtless he forgot his satchel, or else thought it safe until his return. Paul, my boy, you have done a good thing, and shall be promoted. We must now make it a point to intercept old Wiggs."

"Doubtless he has gone to the depot."

"How far is that from here?"

"Two miles."

"When does the train pass?" questioned Dyke Darrel.

"I cannot say."

"Nor I."

"Ask the farmer's wife."

Paul sped from the room.

"The New York express goes in ten minutes," said the boy, on his return.

"In ten minutes? Then we have no time to lose," cried Dyke, turning to the door.

"Dyke, what would you do?" demanded Nell at this moment.

"Capture your enemy and mine—-"

"But you are not strong enough to take the trail. Stay with me."

He interrupted her with:

"Nell, I never felt stronger in my life. I mean to put the bracelets on the villain's wrists with my own hands."

"Dyke, leave it to me," urged Harry Bernard.

But the detective's blood was up, and he would listen to no one. He was determined to be in at the death, and for the time his old strength seemed coursing in his veins. He hastened from the house, and ascertaining that a horse was in the barn, he at once sprang to the animal's back.

"You are unarmed?" said Bernard. "Yes, but—"

"Take this; I will quickly follow," and the young man thrust a revolver into the hand of Dyke Darrel. "Do nothing rash until help arrives, Dyke. Our game is desperate, and will fight hard if cornered."

"I am aware of that, but I do not fear him. Ha! what is that?"

"The roar of the train."

"Then time is short."

The horse and rider shot away down the country road like an arrow, or a bird. On and on, with the speed of the wind, and yet the lightning express made even greater speed than did the detective's horse.

With a roar and a rush the train swept past.

Too late!

Dyke Darrel drew rein at the depot just as the train swept madly away on its course to the great city, and on the rear platform stood the old man who had peered into the farm-house window but a short time before.

It was an aggravating situation.

"You can use the telegraph," suggested the depot agent, when Darrel unbosomed himself to him.

"Quick! Send word to the next station, and have the man detained."

The ticket agent went to his instrument and ticked off the desired information.

A little later came the reply:

"No such person on the train."

A malediction fell from the detective's lips. Was his enemy to thus outwit him always?



CHAPTER XXIX.

RETRIBUTION.

A tall, handsome man of middle-age stood picking his teeth with a jaunty air beside the desk of a down-town boarding-house, when his occupation, if such we may call it, was interrupted by a touch on his arm.

Looking down, the gentleman saw a small, ragged urchin standing near.

"It is yourn—10 cents, please."

The boy held out a yellow envelope, on which was scrawled the name "Harper Elliston."

The gentleman dropped the required bit of silver into the boy's hand with the air of a king, and then tore open the envelope.

"MR. ELLISTON: Meet me at Room 14, Number 388 Blank street, at seven this evening, SHARP. Business of importance.

"B."

The contents of the envelope puzzled Mr. Elliston, who had been but ten days in New York since his return from the West. He had several acquaintances whose names might with appropriateness be signed B. "I don't think there'll be any harm in meeting Mr. B. at the place mentioned. It may be of importance, as he says. If it should be a trap set by Dyke Darrel—but, pshaw! that man is dead. I had it from the lips of Martin Skidway, and he knew whereof he spoke. I will call at 388, let the consequences be what they may." Thus decided a cunning villain, and in so doing went to his own doom.

Ten days had Dyke Darrel and his friend Bernard searched the city of New York ere they found their prey. Once found, the detective resolved upon a novel manner of procedure for his capture. The sending of the letter was part of the scheme. Had this failed, then a bolder move would have been made.

But it did not fail.

When Mr. Elliston rapped at room 14, number 388 Blank street, the door was opened, admitting the visitor to a small room containing a bed, a few necessary articles of furniture, and a curtained alcove.

The door was suddenly closed and locked behind Elliston, light was turned on fully, and then the visitor found himself confronted by Harry Bernard, whom he had met once or twice in Woodburg, many months before.

"Eh!" ejaculated Elliston. "So you are the man who wrote that note requesting an interview? Well, I am glad to see you, Mr. Bernard," and Elliston held out his hand, with a smile wreathing his thin lips.

"I imagined you would be," returned the youth. "I am glad to see you so well. Fact is, you are badly wanted out in Illinois at the present time."

"I am sorry that I cannot accommodate my friends out there," returned Elliston, with a frown; "but it is wholly out of the question. I think I will bid you good evening, Mr. Bernard. I cannot waste precious time here."

He turned and grasped the door-knob. It did not yield to his touch.

"Not just yet, Mr. Elliston," said Harry. "I wish to ask you a few questions."

"Well?"

"What do you know of the murder of Arnold Nicholson on the midnight express, south of Chicago, some weeks ago?"

"I read of it, of course."

Mr. Elliston pulled nervously at his glove as he answered.

"What do you know of the disappearance of Captain Osborne and the death of his daughter?" persisted Bernard.

"Do you suppose I have nothing to do but answer such nonsensical questions?" demanded Elliston, angrily. "Open this door and let me pass out."

"Not yet. I wish to tell you a little story, Mr. Elliston."

"I haven't time to listen."

"Nevertheless, you must take the time," said Harry Bernard, sternly. "Don't attempt to make trouble, sir; you will get the worst of it if you do."

There was a glitter in the eyes of the speaker that was not pleasant to see.

Mr. Elliston sank to a chair, and with an air of resignation said:

"Well, well, this is impudent, but I will listen if it will gratify you."

"It certainly will. I wish to start out with the assertion that you DO know something about the crime on the midnight express, and I will try and convince you that I know what part you acted in the murder of one of the best men in the service of the express company. Don't lose your temper, sir, but listen?"

"I am listening."

There was a sullen echo in the man's voice that boded an outburst soon.

"A gentleman of your build and complexion boarded the train at a station just south of Chicago one night in April. At another station two companions joined this man, according to previous agreement. One was almost a boy in years, an escaped convict; and these three men during the night entered the express car, murdered the agent, and went through the safe. Just before reaching Black Hollow the three men left the car. One of the three was tall and had red hair and beard. This man, after the slaughter, left a trace behind that has led to his identity. He left the imprint of a bloody hand on a white handkerchief that he took from the pocket of his victim. That handkerchief was afterward found, and the bloody mark compared with the hand of the assassin."

"That could hardly be possible. Hands are many of them alike," articulated Mr. Elliston, nervously.

"True, but in this case a wart, of peculiar shape, gave the man away. The mark of his bloody hand, leaving the wart's impress, was not only on the handkerchief, but left against the white shirt-front of the murdered man as well. The man who committed the murder read of the clew in a Chicago paper, and, to obliterate the tell-tale evidence, he cut the wart from his hand and dropped it under the seat while journeying through Iowa in disguise, on an emigrant train."

The face of Elliston had become white as death, and he trembled from head to foot. If Bernard had doubted before, he doubted now no longer.

"A nice story," finally sneered Bernard's visitor. "When did you learn so much?"

"Weeks ago—"

"And you have permitted this villain to run at large so long!"

"Well, I propose to see that he does not flaunt his crimes in the face of the world longer."

Then, with a quick movement, the youth drew a vial from his pocket and held it up to view, exhibiting to the dilating eyes of the New Yorker a large wart with a double top.

"Just remove the glove from your right hand, Mr. Elliston. I think we will find a scar there that this wart will fit—"

"Furies! this is too much," cried Elliston, coming to his feet, white with rage and fear.

"Stop. Keep your temper," warned Bernard. "I wish to bring a witness; one that has been your companion in crime."

The curtain over the alcove was brushed aside, and a man stepped forth, a man with red whiskers and hair, the latter surmounted with a glossy plug hat.

Elliston stared like one bereft of sense and life.

"Allow me to introduce Professor Darlington Ruggles, Mr. Elliston," uttered Harry Bernard in a mocking voice.

"Hades! what does this mean?" and the trapped villain staggered, clutching the back of a chair for support.

"It means that your race of crime and diabolism is run, Harper Elliston!"

Red hair and beard were suddenly swept aside, a revolver was thrust into the startled countenance of Elliston; he looked, and could only utter:

"DYKE DARREL, THE DETECTIVE!"

"Do you deny your guilt, scoundrel?"

But Harper Elliston sank to a seat, and bowed his head, while drops of cold sweat covered his forehead.

The touch of cold steel and click of closing bracelets roused him.

He was helpless now, for his wrists were encircled by handcuffs. Black despair confronted the villain.

Dyke Darrel went through the pockets of his prisoner and found a revolver, an ugly looking clasp knife, and other articles of a nature that served to show that the owner was not pursuing an honest calling.

"Do you remember that night on the dock beside the river, Elliston?" questioned Bernard, bending suddenly over the prisoner.

But no answer came from the bloodless lips of the cornered villain.

"It was I who tore your mask of red hair from your head that night. I had mistrusted you for a villain, and I meant to unmask you to save Nell Darrel, whom I loved, from your wiles. You struck me with a knife and pushed me into the river. I, however, was not harmed. The point of your knife glanced on a small book that I carried in an inner pocket. I escaped from the river, and resolved to follow you to your doom. I overheard your plans of abducting Nell Darrel, when you fired at my masked face that night as I peered into Mother Scarlet's room. I then knew you to be a villain of the deepest dye. Since, I learned that you were the man in disguise on the emigrant train in Iowa, and this wart will, with other evidence, condemn you before an honest jury of your peers."

A groan alone answered the denouement made by Harry Bernard.

Dyke Darrel removed the glove from his prisoner's right hand, and exposed a scarcely-healed scar near the joint of the little finger. The chain of evidence was complete. The red hair in the clutches of the murdered Nicholson had evidently been torn from the false beard of the disguised assassin.

The New Yorker was removed from the house and taken at once to prison. From thence, on the following morning, Dyke Darrel set out on his return to the Garden City with Elliston in charge.

Harry Bernard remained over at the farm-house in New York State to see Nell, who had been left in the care of Paul Ender. Nell had almost entirely recovered from the shock of her recent treatment, and was overjoyed at the outcome of her friends' visit to New York.

"Elliston will be convicted and hanged," was Bernard's verdict.

On the very day of Harry's arrival at the farm-house, he, with the old farmer, was summoned to visit one who had met with a fatal accident and was about to die.

It proved to be Martin Skidway, who lay on a barn floor with his head in his mother's lap, gasping his life away, an ugly wound in his side.

He had accidentally shot himself and was rapidly sinking. A fugitive in hiding for weeks, his life had been an intolerable one. Now that he was dying, he made a full confession, admitting his own hand in the awful railroad crime, and implicating two others, Elliston and Nick Brower. Sam Swart had been one of them, but he was known to be dead.

"Without HIS urging I would never have stained my hands; in fact, it was Elliston who struck the blow that killed the express messenger."

Without this confession, there was evidence enough to convict the New Yorker; with it, both Brower and the principal were found guilty of murder in the first degree and sentenced to the gallows. Nick Brower was the only one of the four who expiated his crime on the gallows. Harper Elliston died in prison by his own hand.

He left a note admitting the express crime, and also confessing to the murder of Captain Osborne and the ruin of his daughter Sibyl. His was a fitting end to a career of unparalleled crime.

* * * * *

We now draw a veil over the scene.

Harry Bernard and Nell Darrel were, soon after the arrest and death of Elliston, happily married.

Dyke Darrel considers the events leading up to the capture and punishment of those engaged in the crime of the midnight express as among the most thrilling and wonderful of his detective experience. To Harry Bernard and Paul Ender he gives a large share of the credit, and with them shared the reward. Bernard has of late worked in conjunction with Dyke Darrel on other cases, and is fast winning a reputation second only to that of the great railroad detective himself.

THE END.



WON BY CRIME

CHAPTER I

A young girl, about eighteen, with a slender, elegant form, beautiful straight features, and eyes of softest darkness, sitting before a large table covered with maps and drawings, which she was trying vainly to study.

"It is no use!" she cried, at last, pushing back the mass of thick black hair falling over her white brow; "I shall never be able to get India by heart, unless I can see the places. I wish papa would let us go reconnoitering amongst the ruined temples and other mysterious buildings; it is so annoying staying here day after day, never seeing anything outside the palace."

"My dear Lianor," said her companion, a young man scarcely older than herself, and wonderfully like her, "what new idea, have you got now?"

"An idea of seeing more of the curious places I have read so much about. Fancy living a lifetime in a country and never going beyond one town! If I do not get some excitement, I shall die of ennui, so I warn you."

"I quite agree with you, and if uncle would only let us, it would be delightful, seeking out the temples so long deserted. But you know he would not," shrugging his shoulders.

"I'm not so sure of that. Papa never refuses me anything, and when he sees it is necessary to my happiness I should go, he will consent. Anyhow, I will try," jumping eagerly to her feet. "Come, Leone."

Her cousin rose, and took the white, outstretched hand; then like two children they crossed the beautiful marble hall, until, arriving before a door draped with rich curtains, Lianor paused and softly knocked.

"Come in!" rather impatiently.

With a smile Lianor opened the door, and entered, followed by Pantaleone.

In the room, handsomely fitted up as a study, sat a fine-looking, middle-aged man, busily wilting; his dark face wore an expression of severity as he glanced toward the intruders.

It quickly faded, however, on seeing the pretty figure standing there; instead, a gentle smile wreathed his lips.

"Well, Lianor, dearest, what is it?"

"Papa," and the girl stole noiselessly behind his chair, winding her arms around his neck. "I am so miserable, I have nothing to amuse me, and unless you do something to make me happier, I shall go melancholy mad!"

"My dearest child, what is the matter? Are you ill?" anxiously turning to peer into the lovely face.

"No, papa; but I am so tired of this life."

"That is not like my little girl. And I have tried hard to make you happy. Nothing in reason have I refused you—jewels, such as a queen might envy; priceless stuffs to deck your pretty form, and other things which no girl of your age ever possessed," reproachfully.

Lianor bent down, and kissed his brow, lovingly—repentingly.

"You have been a great deal too good to me. But there is something more I wish to ask; it will make me happy if you will grant my request."

"We shall see. Tell me first what it is."

Lianor briefly related her wish to visit the old temple which lay beyond Goa, to search with Panteleone the curious old ruins she had so often read of in her studies.

Don Gracia looked grave; evidently this project did not find much favor in his eyes.

A Portuguese by birth, but sent to Goa as Viceroy, Don Garcia de Sa had lived there long enough to know the treacherous natures of the Brahmins who dwelt near, and feared to let his child run the risk of being found and captured.

But as Lianor had truly remarked, he loved his daughter so passionately that he very rarely refused her anything, even though he doubted the wisdom of complying with her wishes.

"Papa"—the sweet voice was very coaxing, and the red lips close to his cheek—"say yes, darling; it will make me so happy."

"But suppose any danger should threaten you?"

"I should be there to defend my cousin with my life!" Leone cried, fervently.

Don Gracia smiled.

"You speak bravely, my boy; but as yet you are very young. However, as Lianor has set her heart upon this expedition, I suppose I must say yes. In case of danger, I will send some soldiers to escort you."

"Oh, thank you, papa! I am so glad! Come, Leone, we will make haste, so as to set off ere the day gets more advanced."

And warmly embracing her father, the girl sped swiftly away, followed by her cousin.

In half an hour the cortege was ready, and, after some little hesitation on Don Garcia's part, they started.

Lianor, with her two favorite maids, Lalli and Tolla, were cosily seated in a palanquin carried by four strong men. Before, clearing her path from all difficulties, went a body of twenty-five soldiers. Beside her, Panteleone kept up a cheerful conversation, pointing out the beauties of the palaces through which they passed. Some twenty natives, armed with poignards, brought up the rear.

Toki, a native who had grown old in the Viceroy's palace, led the way toward one of the ruined temples—that erected to Siva, the God of Destruction.

Lianor gazed with awed eyes at the magnificent palace, still bearing traces of former beauty.

"How wonderful! I must stay here, Leone, and sketch those old statues. We need go no farther."

The day was beginning to get intensely hot, so the men were nothing loth to seek shelter in the cool temple, to sleep away the sunny hours.

Sketch-book in hand, the girl chose a shady retreat outside, and was soon lost in her work.

Presently the dreamy silence was broken; faint cries from afar reached her; and looking hastily up, Lianor saw a sight which made her stand rooted to the spot in speechless horror.

In the distance, pouring from out the mountains, were a multitude of Indians clad in divers costumes, carrying in their hands fantastic idols, and followed by a train of Brahmins, singing a low, monotonous chant, which had warned the girl of their approach.

Recovering her self-possession, and calling to the startled servants, Lianor entered the temple, where Panteleone and the men were quietly dozing.

"Leone, awake! The Indians are coming!"

The youth sprang to his feet, and, flinging one arm round his cousin, he drew a sharp poignard from his sash, and clutched it firmly.

"Do not be afraid, Lianor. I will guard you with my life!" he said bravely.

"But is there no way to escape?" Lianor asked wildly, frightened at the peril into which her folly had brought them all.

"We might have gone; but it is too late. They are here," Toki said gravely. "The only thing we can do is to hide amongst these broken statues, and perhaps we may be safe from their view."

Scarcely had this been done than the procession arrived, stopped before the temple, and the men commenced building a huge square pile of wood; on this they placed a bier, on which lay the corpse of an old man, decked with silks and costly jewels.

Lianor and Panteleone, watching from their hiding-place the strange preparations, now saw a girl, very young and beautiful, but weeping bitterly, being dragged toward the pile by a tall, hard-looking woman.

"Come!" she cried, in loud, ringing tones, "now is the time to uphold the honor of your family, and show your courage!"

With a shudder the girl drew back, and clasping her hands piteously together, said:

"Why should I thus sacrifice my young life to the cruelty of your customs? I cannot endure the thought of being burnt alive—it is too horrible!"

"It is your duty! A widow must follow her husband in death," coldly.

The youthful widow burst into passionate weeping, and gave an agonized glance around at the vindictive faces; not one among that multitude, she thought, felt pity for the girl who was condemned to so horrible a fate.

She was mistaken, and a second gaze revealed a young boy, not more than fifteen, who was quietly sobbing, an expression of deep anguish on his face.

"Satzavan, my poor brother, you also have come to witness my painful end!"

The boy went toward her, and wound his arms around her slim waist, drawing the dark head onto his shoulder.

"I would that I could help you," he whispered. "But what can I do among all these fiends?"

"It is hard to die thus—so hard."

"Savitre, I am more compassionate than you think, and I have here a draught which will send you into a deep sleep. The pain of death will thus be saved you," Konmia broke in severely, holding a vessel toward the girl.

"No, no!" Savitre shrieked, pushing the potent drink away. "I cannot! Think how awful to awaken with the cruel flames wreathing round my body, and my cries for help useless, deadened by the yells of those people. I cannot—I will not die!"

Satzavan, deathly white, and with quivering features, drew her shuddering frame closer to him, and led her into the temple.

"Leave us for a moment, I implore you," he said, turning to his aunt. "She loves me, and I may perhaps reconcile her to her fate."

"You are the head of your family; I trust to you to bring her to reason—to save the honor of a name until now without blemish," Konmia replied, and placing the poisonous flask in Satzavan's hand, she left them alone in the temple.

"Quick, Savitre; we will drink this draught together, and when they seek you, they will find us both cold in death."

"You also, my brother, speak of death! I must escape—I cannot sacrifice my life!"

"Nor shall you," a gentle voice broke in passionately, and Lianor, her face full of tender compassion, stood before the victim, Panteleone beside her.

"Follow me," the latter said briefly, drawing the girl's arm through his. "Trust us, and you will yet be saved."

With joyful hearts the two Indians accompanied their kind protectors, climbing among the broken gods, higher and higher, until they at last arrived without the temple, the other side from where the Indians were assembled.

There they were rejoined by the soldiers and attendants, and the little party commenced their homeward journey, hoping the wild group would not discover their presence.

But their hopes were not to be realized; ere they had gone many yards, the flight of the rajah's widow had been discovered, and with hideous cries they sought eagerly to find her.

It was not long ere they espied the small party, and full of triumph dashed toward them.

"Lianor, keep back—leave me to deal with these barbarians!" Panteleone said hurriedly, and in a minute a deadly fight began between the Indians and the soldiers.

But what was their strength against more than five hundred strong warriors? Ere long the brave party was captured, and while Konmia dragged the terrified girl towards the funereal-pile, the Indians shrieked aloud in triumphant gladness.

"To-morrow Siva will receive a sacrifice that will remain forever in the memory of those now living. To-day, our chief's widow; to-morrow, the Portuguese prisoners!"

* * * * *

After his daughter had gone, Don Garcia was filled with deep regret at having succumbed so readily to her wishes.

A presentiment of evil he could not control made him walk restlessly up and down the room.

A timid knock at the door roused him from his painful musings.

"Come in!" he cried quickly.

The door opened, and a tall, remarkably handsome man, dressed in the garb of a sea-captain, entered.

"What, Falcam, is it you, my boy?" the don cried gladly, wringing the young man's hand.

"Yes, senor. I have some papers from Tonza. There has been a slight rising at Diu, but, fortunately, we were able to suppress it in time," handing the don a sealed packet.

After casting his eyes rapidly over the contents, Don Garcia smiled and turned with a pleased look towards the captain.

"Manuel tells me of your bravery in saving Diu, and asks me to promote you. I will do all I can. I am proud to call you friend."

Luiz flushed, and a bashful light filled his eyes; but, ere he could answer, the don continued:

"However, you have come in time to be of service to me. My daughter, much against my wishes, has gone on an expedition to the Temple of Siva. From what I have since heard, I am afraid danger threatens my Lianor. Will you help me to rescue her?"

"Will I lay down my life to keep her from harm! Oh, senor, how can you ask? Let me start immediately, and ere long I will bring your child back in safety," fervently.

Don Garcia was surprised at the young man's eagerness, but refrained from speaking, only to thank him for his kind offer.

Five minutes later Luiz Falcam, accompanied by a troop of brave sailors, started off towards the Temple of Siva.

As he neared, sounds of strife, mingled with heartrending shrieks, broke upon his ears. Urging his trusty band, he dashed onward until he arrived at the scene of terror.

Startled by the sudden apparition, the Indians lost, for a time, their self-control, and the sailors found it easy to subdue them.

Luiz had flown at once to Lianor's side, clasping her frail form tightly in his arms, while Panteleone wrenched Savitre from her aunt, as she was about to fling her on the now burning pile.

Even at the same moment, Satzavan, a smile of revengeful triumph on his face, wound a thick scarf over Konmia's head, and threw her with remorseless force into the flames, leaving her to meet the fate destined for his sister.

Those Indians who had not been taken had fled; so the band was free to wend its way homeward, though nearly half had been killed in the strife.

Still holding Lianor, now weeping quietly, in his arms, Luiz led the way towards the road, where the palanquin stood, and placing the girl gently in, raised her white hands passionately to his lips.

"Lianor, Lianor, my own darling!" he murmured, gazing into her pallid face with lovelit eyes. "If I had been too late, and found you gone!"

Lianor smiled tremulously through her tears, and a blush mantled to her cheeks.

"You have saved my life. I can never repay you," earnestly.

Panteleone, still pale and anxious, now appeared leading the little widow, who seemed overjoyed at her release. She sank down gladly beside Lianor, and then the palanquin was borne away, guarded by Luiz and Panteleone, Satzavan walking behind.

Don Garcia's delight knew no bounds when he saw the procession entering the palace gates, and he ran eagerly to receive his daughter.

"My loved child! How unwise I was to let you go, to send you into danger," he cried, carrying her in his arms from the palanquin to the marble hall. "If it had not been for our young friend, Falcam, I should never have seen you again."

"But, papa, think! If we had not gone, this poor girl would have been burnt to death," Lianor said, shudderingly, drawing Savitre towards her.

"Ah, yes. Poor child!" stroking the young widow's glossy black hair. "Now tell me all about it." "Not yet, papa. Let us go and arrange our dresses; mine is torn completely to pieces," laughingly holding up a fragment of cashmere, which in the struggle had become torn.

Holding Savitre's hand in hers, Lianor went swiftly to her rooms, where they could bathe their weary limbs in cool water, and change their tattered robes.



CHAPTER II.

Don Garcia was sitting in his study, regarding with some anxiety Luiz Falcam, who, tall and handsome, stood before him.

"You wish to ask me something, is it not so? Well, speak out, and be sure if it is in my power I will grant it."

"I hardly like to ask. It is, I know, daring. I am but a captain, and you are one of the wealthiest men in India; yet I love your daughter, and that is what I wished to tell you," earnestly.

Don Garcia smiled indulgently, and he gazed kindly at the young fellow's flushed face.

"I told you I would give you what you wished, and I will not break my word. I could safely trust Lianor to you. No other man I know has won so large a place in my esteem. But I dare not speak until I know what my daughter thinks. She will answer for herself touching so delicate a subject. Tell Donna Lianor to come here," he said to Toki.

After what seemed an anxious age to poor Luiz, Lianor entered, leaning lightly on Savitre, somewhat astonished.

"Lianor, may I speak before Savitre?" the don asked gravely.

"Of course, papa. I have no secrets from her."

"My child," drawing her nearer to him, "Luiz Falcam has asked your hand in marriage; what answer shall I give him?"

Lianor blushed divinely, and her dark eyes shyly drooped before the eager glance from those loving blue ones fixed upon her.

"He saved my life, father. I will give it gladly to him," she murmured.

"You love him, child?"

"Dearly. I shall be proud and happy to become the wife of Luiz," gaining courage.

"You have my answer, Falcam. May you be content always. I give her to you with pleasure."

In spite of the don's presence and Savitre's, Luiz could not refrain from drawing the girl into his arms and pressing fervent kisses on her smooth brow, and soft cheeks.

"You shall never repent your choice, darling," he said tenderly. "I cannot give you wealth, but a true heart and a brave hand are solely yours, now and till death!"

"I know, Luiz dear, and to me that gift is more precious than the costliest jewels," the girl whispered fondly.

Their happiness was not without its clouds; Luiz was compelled to leave his betrothed to guard a fort some distance away.

"I will return soon, dearest," he said lovingly, holding the trembling girl in his strong arms, "and then your father has promised our marriage shall take place."

"And you will not run into danger, for my sake?" Lianor pleaded, winding her white arms round his neck. "Think how desolate I should be without you!"

Don Garcia, having a great liking for the young man, saw him go with some regret.

"Don't stay away longer than you can help," he said kindly. "God keep you, my boy."

So Luiz parted from his love, and returned to Diu, carrying in his heart a cherished memory of Lianor, and a tiny miniature of her in his breast-pocket.

When he arrived at the governor's palace, he went directly to Manuel Tonza, to inform him of his departure.

The governor, a tall, dark-looking man of more than thirty, bore on his fine features a look of haughty sternness, mingled with some cruelty.

He glanced coldly at the young captain, and listened in silence to his explanations; but, as Luiz drew from his breast a sealed packet, given him by Don Garcia, Lianor's miniature fell with a crash to the ground, the jeweled case flying open.

Manuel picked it up from the floor with sudden swiftness, and gazed admiringly at the pictured face.

"Who is this?" he asked abruptly.

"Lianor de Sa, Don Garcia's daughter.

"Lianor de Sa, and so beautiful as this!" the governor muttered inaudibly. "I forgot she had grown from a child to a woman; I must see her. How comes 'it, though, her miniature is in his hands? Surely they could not have betrothed her to a captain!"

With a gesture of disdain he flung the miniature on the table, and told Luiz his presence was no longer needed.

Once alone, and a singular smile crossed the governor's face.

"I must pay Don Garcia a visit. It is long since I saw him. I never dreamt his little daughter had grown up so lovely. Thank Heaven, I am rich! My jewels and wealth might tempt a queen! I need not fear refusal from a viceroy's daughter."

Full of complacent contentment, Tonza made hasty preparations for leaving Diu, and that same evening saw him a welcome guest of Don Garcia.

He was charmed with Lianor.

In spite of himself, a deep passionate love wakened in his heart for her, and he determined to win her for his wife.

First he wished to gain Don Garcia over to his side, so took an early opportunity of speaking to him on the subject.

The viceroy listened in grave silence, and a look of regret stole into his eyes.

"I am sorry," he said gently. "Why have you come too late? My child is already betrothed."

"To whom?" hoarsely.

"Luiz Falcam."

"But he is only a captain, and poor! Surely you would not sacrifice your child to him? Think what riches I could lay at her feet! As my wife, Lianor would be one of the most envied of women."

"I know, and I wish now I had not been so hasty; but Luiz saved her life, won my gratitude; then, as the price of his act, asked Lianor's hand. I was forced to consent, as I had said I would give him whatever he asked," with a sigh.

"A promise gained like that is not binding. It was taking an unfair advantage of your gratitude."

"I do not like to break my promise, but I will do what I can for you; I will ask Lianor, and if she cares for you more than for Luiz, she shall wed you."

"Thank you; and I will try hard to gain her love," Manuel answered hopefully.

When Lianor heard the subject of the conference between her father and Tonza, her indignation was unbounded.

"How can you act so dishonorably, papa?" she cried angrily, "after betrothing me to Luiz; now, because Tonza is rich and wishes to marry me, you would break your word."

"But, my dear, think how different Manuel is to Falcam! He can give you a beautiful home, and jewels such as a queen might envy, while the captain can give you nothing."

"He can give me a brave, loving heart, which is worth all the world to me! No; while Luiz lives I will be true to him. No other shall steal my love from him," firmly.

"Is that the answer I am to give Tonza?"

"Yes. Thank him for the great honor he has done me; but, as I cannot marry two men, I choose the one I love—who first won my hand and saved my life."

When Manuel heard her answer he was filled with rage and hate.

"So—so," he muttered, a sinister look creeping over his face, "she will not wed me while Falcam lives. But should he die—what then?"

To Lianor he was always gentle, trying by soft words and many little attentions to win her regard; a very difficult task. Since her father's conversation, she shrank as much as possible from him, hoping he would understand her studied coldness.

"Savitre," she said one evening, as they were dressing for a ball, given in her honor, "that horrid man's attentions are becoming intolerable! He will not see how I detest him, and am bound by love and promise to another. I wish Luiz was here; he has been away so long. I am tired of Tonza's persistence and papa's reproaches."

"Never mind, dearest; all will be well when your brave lover returns. Perhaps he may be even now on the way. I am sure if he knew how terribly you were persecuted he would fly to you at once," Savitre whispered softly.

"I feel miserable—unhappy. Lalli, put away those robes and give me a plain black dress. During Luiz's absence I will put on mourning, so Tonza can read the sorrow I feel in my heart."

"But, dear, what will your father say?" Savitre asked anxiously.

"He will be angry, I know. But it is partly his fault I am obliged to act thus."

In a few minutes Lalli and Tolla had silently arrayed their young mistress in trailing black robes, which clung softly to her beautiful form.

No jewelry relieved the somberness of her dress; her dark hair, thick and long, fell like a veil over her shoulders, adding to the mournfulness of her garb by its dusky waves.

Below, in the handsome marble hall, stood Don Garcia and Tonza, both watching with suppressed impatience the richly-hung staircase leading to Lianor's apartments.

"It is late. I hope nothing has occurred," Manuel said anxiously, drawing the velvet curtain aside to gaze across the hall.

Even as he did so, Lianor, leaning lightly on Satzavan's shoulder, appeared, her graceful head held proudly erect, an expression of supreme indifference on her face.

Both men started with an exclamation of alarm—rage on Manuel's part.

"What! In mourning, and for a ball?" Manuel gasped with rising passion.

"Lianor, what does this farce mean? Why have you disguised yourself? How dare you disobey me when I said so particularly I wished you to appear at your best? I have been too weakly indulgent with you, and now you take advantage of my tenderness to disgrace me by showing my guests your foolish infatuation for a man to whom I now wish I had never promised your hand."

Lianor lifted her reproachful eyes to his, her pale face, even whiter in contrast with her somber dress, full of resolute rebellion.

"I am not ungrateful, papa, for your kindness, but I will never forget the promise I gave Luiz. My love is not to be bought for gold; I gave it willingly to the man to whom you betrothed me, and, father, none of our family have ever acted dishonorably; so I am sure you will not be the first to break your word."

"Do not be too sure of that, Lianor. I am more than half inclined to make you accept Tonza, and forget your vows were ever plighted to that pauper captain."

"You could not be so hard, knowing how my happiness is bound up in him. I will never, while Luiz lives, give my hand to another."

"Thank you, Lianor; nor will Falcam let you," a deep voice broke in suddenly, and Luiz, his face flushed with mingled pleasure and disgust, came toward her, followed by his bosom friend, Diniz Sampayo, a young and rich noble.

Lianor threw herself into his arms with a glad cry, while Don Garcia and Manuel, full of rage, stole away, leaving the lovers alone.

"My darling, then I heard truly when they said my own dear love was being forced to wed another. Thank Heaven, I left Diu at once, and came to you, as your father seems inclined to listen to Manuel's suit," Luiz said tenderly, bending to kiss the pale face.

"I am so glad you have come, Luiz! I felt so lonely without you near me, to give me hope and courage."

"My poor little love! But why these robes, Lianor? I thought it was a day of festival at the palace?"

"I know; but I was determined, during your absence, to keep Tonza from paying me his odious attentions by putting on mourning. He could not fail to see where my thoughts were. Now you have returned, I will throw them aside, and show them it is a time of rejoicing with me. Wait, Luiz."

With a tender smile the young lover unclasped her slender form and let her glide swiftly away.

But not long did he wait; soon the curtains were again lifted, and Lianor, radiant as a bright star, in trailing robes of white and gold, diamonds flashing on her bare arms and round her delicate throat, came towards him.

"My queen, my own dear love! what should I do if they took you from me?" passionately pressing her hands to his lips.

"They will never do that, Luiz. I am determined not to allow Tonza to win my father over to his way of thinking."

Manuel Tonza watched the happy lovers with bitterest hate gnawing at his heart, deadly schemes against his fortunate rival flitting through his subtle brain.

Late that night, when the weary guests were parting, Tonza stole noiselessly from the palace; and when he returned, in less than half an hour, his face wore an expression of fiendish triumph and delight.

He was even polite to Luiz, much to that young man's surprise, though he doubted the sincerity of Manuel's words.

Happy and content, after a tender adieu to Lianor, the captain left the viceroy's palace, to seek his own apartments.

Not far had he gone, however, when a shadow stole silently behind him, and the next moment he felt himself suddenly grasped by powerful hands and flung to the ground.

Almost stunned by the fall, he was yet able to see the dark face bending over him.

From the shadows came another form, one he recognized. A gleaming poignard was placed in the assassin's hand, which descended ere he could break from that strong hold, and was buried deep in his heart.

Guiltily two forms glided away in opposite directions, leaving Luiz, pale and cold, lying in a stream of blood—dead!

* * * * *

It was still early when Lianor awoke; but in spite of the drowsiness overpowering her, she hastily rose, and calling her maids, bade them quickly arrange her toilet.

"I am restless, and cannot stay longer indoors; I wish to be out in the fresh air," she explained to Savitre, who entered soon after.

Scarcely, however, had they arrived without the palace gates, than Diniz Sampayo, his face pale and haggard, eyes full of fear and anguish, came hastily to her side.

"Donna Lianor, return to your father's house; I have something to tell you which I dare not breathe here—it is too horrible! Prepare yourself for a great shock, my poor child! I wish some one else had brought the awful tidings," he cried hoarsely.

Lianor stood perfectly still, and her eyes grew wide and her face blanched with awakened fear. Clasping her hands piteously together, she said:

"Tell me now. I am brave—can bear anything! Is it Luiz? Is he ill—in danger? Oh, Diniz, for pity's sake tell me!"

Diniz took the trembling hands in his, and quietly bidding the others follow, led her silently through the town, until they arrived at the house where Luiz had taken rooms with his friend.

"Perhaps it is best you should see him. Poor Luiz! How can I break the awful truth to you? Your betrothed—the man you loved—is dead— murdered by a cowardly hand on his way home from your father's palace!"

Lianor grew deathly pale.

"Dead!" she repeated, clasping her hands despairingly to her throbbing brow. "It cannot be true! My darling dead—murdered!"

"My poor child, it is only too true! This morning he was found, and brought home, stabbed through the heart!"

"But who could have done it?" Savitre asked in a low, hushed whisper.

"I wish I knew. But, alas! that is a mystery!"

Lianor gazed helplessly from one to the other, then, breaking from her friend's gentle hold, staggered forward.

"Where are you going, Lianor?" Diniz asked, anxiously.

"To him. I must see for myself the terrible truth."

"Can you bear it?"

"Yes—oh, yes!"

Very tenderly Diniz took one of the trembling hands in his, and led her toward a darkened chamber, where, on the blue-draped bed, lay the still form of his young friend.

A convulsive shudder shook Lianor's slender frame as she gazed on those handsome features set in death's awful calm; the closed eyes, which would never look into her own again; the cold lips which would never breathe loving words into her ear, or press her brow in fond affection.

She could not weep, as Savitre wept; tears refused to ease the burning pain at her heart. Only a low moan broke from her as she threw herself suddenly over that loved body.

"My love—my darling! Why did I ever let you leave me? How can I live without you?"

"Hush, Lianor! Come, you can do nothing here. But one thing I promise you, I will avenge his death at any cost! The murderer will be found and punished—no matter who it is!" Diniz cried, earnestly.

"Thank you; and if I can aid, rely on my help," Lianor murmured, bravely.

Then, bending reverently to press a last kiss on the pallid brow, she allowed Diniz to lead her from the room to her own home.

In the hall they were met by Don Garcia, in a terrible state of anxiety for his daughter.

"Where have you been, Lianor? What is the matter? You look ill! And what is that?" pointing to a vivid red stain which marred the white purity of her dress.

A low, delirious laugh broke from the girl's pale lips, and, stretching out her arms, she waved Don Garcia back.

"Do not touch me!" she cried, hoarsely. "He—my love, my darling—is dead! See, his life-blood stains my hands—my robe! Oh, heavens, that I should have lived to know such agony!"

She stopped; the outstretched arms fell inertly down, the graceful head drooped, and without one cry or moan, Lianor fell heavily to the ground—unconscious.

"Explain, Savitre—Sampayo, what means this strange raving? Who is dead?" Don Garcia said, fearfully.

"It means that Luiz Falcam was found murdered this morning! Your daughter went to see him for the last time, and returns, overcome with grief and sorrow."

Without a word, but very white, the viceroy carried his child to her room, and left her in the care of Savitre and her two attendants, while he went to find the particulars of Falcam's tragic end.

For days and weeks Lianor kept to her rooms, seeing no one except her father and Sampayo, whom she looked upon as the avenger of Luiz.

Long and tenderly was her lover's memory sorrowed over, until the once beautiful girl was but a mere wraith.

A few weeks later Don Garcia himself was taken ill, and one day, feeling slightly better, he sent for his daughter, to whom he wished to speak on important business.

He was not kept long waiting. Lianor soon appeared, looking like a crushed flower in her somber robes.

"You wished to see me, papa?"

"Yes, Lianor; but you can almost guess for what. You know how much I desire to see you wedded to my friend; a man who loves you and will make you happy. I shall not live long, of that I feel sure. Manuel Tonza has waited patiently, and I think it is only right you give him hope. To-day you will accept his hand, and in another week, with my consent, you will become his wife."

Lianor reeled against the bed, and held firmly to the silken curtains to prevent herself falling.

"Do you mean this, father? His wife—when he murdered Luiz?"

"What nonsense are you saying, child? Do not let me hear you speak like this again. What motive could a wealthy man like Tonza have in getting rid of one of his own employes? Grief has turned your brain. Cast aside those weird garments, and in three hours be ready to receive your future husband."

A low, gasping cry fell on his ears as he finished speaking, and he turned in time to see the slight figure sway to and fro, then fall heavily to the ground.

But what use was her feeble strength against the powerful wills of two determined men?

Ere the day was over, Lianor, with a heart full of bitter, despairing grief for Luiz, was bound by a sacred promise to a man whom she knew to be both bad and selfish—whom she hated!



CHAPTER III.

In one of the many straggling streets, almost hidden behind a few large shops of curious build, stood a small boutique full of ancient relics and jeweled bric-a-brac.

Inside, seated by the counter, writing in a large ledger, was an old man, whose hooked nose and piercing eyes proclaimed him at once to be from the tribe of Israel.

This Jew, Phenee, was not alone. Flitting about the shop, arranging the antique curiosities, was a young and very beautiful girl, with delicate features and lustrous, black eyes.

"Can I help you, grandfather?" the girl asked, suddenly stopping before the desk, and leaning both dimpled arms on the dusty book.

"No, no, Miriam; I have almost finished. Leave me for a few moments' quiet."

Miriam sank gently on a high chair, and drooping her head pensively on her hand, sat for some time in unbroken silence, gazing out through the open door at the motley crowds passing by.

Suddenly a dusky form, clad in the garb of a fisherman, entered, and drawing near Phenee, glanced nervously around.

"I wish to sell that. How much will you give me for it?" laying a jeweled poignard, with a golden chain attached, on the desk.

Phenee took it up and examined it attentively, then looked searchingly at the man.

Satisfied at his scrutiny, the Jew named a very low price, one which his customer had some hesitation in accepting; but at last, seeing Phenee was obdurate, he took the offered money, and glided off like a spectre.

"What a curious poignard, and how pretty!" Miriam said, lifting it from the scales, where Phenee had placed it. "I am surprised he took so little for it."

"I'm not. One can't offer too little for stolen goods."

"Do you think this is stolen?"

"I am sure it is. That man never came honestly by it."

Scarcely had the poignard been put on one side, when two young men, handsomely dressed, entered the shop, and asked for some emeralds.

"While you are choosing, I will have a look round at all these curiosities, Miguel," the youngest of the men remarked.

"As you like; I shan't be long, Diniz."

Sampayo nodded, and commenced his search, turning over every object that took his fancy, aided by Miriam.

"I will show you something very curious—a poignard strangely fashioned," the girl said, drawing the weapon her grandfather had just bought from its hiding place.

Diniz took it up and examined it attentively, then a low cry broke from his lips, and his face grew pale.

"Where did you get this?"

"I have just bought it. It is a very pretty toy for a gentleman," Phenee broke in persuasively.

With almost eager haste Diniz bargained for the poignard, and at last managed to bring the Jew down to ten times the sum he had given the fisherman.

After his friend, Miguel Reale, had chosen the jewels he wanted, Diniz hurried him away.

Not many hours later, as the young Jewess sat alone, her grandfather having gone some distance off on business, she was startled by Sampayo suddenly reappearing, a look of intense anxiety on his face.

"Senora," he said politely, drawing from his breast the poignard, "can you tell me from whom your father bought this?"

"I do not know his name, but I believe he is a fisherman and lives in yonder village," Miriam answered simply.

"Should you know him again? Pardon my asking, but it is very important I should discover the owner of this weapon. By doing so I may be able to bring a murderer to meet his doom, and avenge the death of my best friend!"

Miriam gazed at him compassionately, a serious light in her dark eyes.

"I will help you," she said suddenly, moved as it were by a strange impulse; "I have long wished for occupation—some useful work, though I should have liked something less terrible than helping to trace a murderer; still, I will aid you if I can."

"Thank you. But if he never came here again?"

"I shall not wait for that. To-morrow I will visit those huts in which the fishermen dwell; I may then find the man who sold the poignard, or at least a clew to the mystery."

Diniz took one of the small hands in his, and pressed it reverently to his lips.

"You will not go alone; I will be your companion. Together we shall work better. But your father will he consent to your accompanying me?"

"My grandfather loves me too dearly, and trusts me too fully, to refuse me anything. He need not know the errand upon which I am bent," a faint blush rising to her cheeks.

After making all necessary arrangements for the next day, Sampayo left the Jewess, to wait impatiently until the hour arrived for him to start on his melancholy errand.

It was still early when he left the crowed streets, to walk quickly in the direction of a small fishing village, some distance off.

Half way he saw the tall, graceful figure of a young girl, whose long veil of soft silky gauze hid her face from passers-by. He recognized her at once—it was the beautiful Jewess. So, hastening his steps, he soon stood before her.

"Senora," he said gently.

The girl started, turned, then smiled through the screening folds of gray.

"It is you? I was afraid you would not come," in a relieved tone.

"I am too anxious to find that man, to lose the chance you have so kindly given me. I only hope I am not putting you to any inconvenience," Diniz said, gallantly.

"Not at all. I am only too happy to be of some use," earnestly.

For many hours they wandered about from house to house, Miriam having armed herself with a large sum of money, hoping by acts of charity to gain access into the poor dwellings.

They were almost despairing of finding a clew to the whereabouts of the fisherman, when three little children, poor and hungry-looking, playing outside a tiny hut, attracted Miriam's attention.

Stooping, she spoke gently to the little things, and won from them the tale of their excessive poverty, which she promised to relieve if they would take her to their mother.

This they willingly did, and Miriam found a pale, delicate-looking woman, who, notwithstanding the raggedness of her dress, still bore traces of having been at one time different to a poor fisherman's wife.

Encouraged by the soft tones of her mysterious visitor, the woman gradually unburdened her troubled heart by telling her the history of her wretched life; how she had been doomed to follow her husband, an Indian chief, to death; but, loving life better, she escaped with her little children, but would have died of hunger on the seashore if Jarima, her second husband, had not rescued her and offered her his name and home.

"He is very good to me and my children; the past seems but a dream now. If only we had money, all would be well."

Miriam, with a few gentle, consoling words, slipped a few bright coins into the tiny brown hands of the astonished babies; then, with a sigh, she bade the grateful mother adieu and went out to where Diniz was waiting.

He read by her face that she had no better tidings, and, drawing her hand through his arm, he turned away.

"Will it never come—the proof I want?" he said, half bitterly.

Scarcely had the words left his lips when a glad cry of "Father!" rent the air, and three small forms bounded over the white shingle towards a tall man, dressed in white linen.

Almost convulsively Miriam pressed Sampayo's arm to arrest his hasty steps.

"We need go no farther," she whispered. "That is the man you want; and if he is that woman's husband, his name is Jarima."

"Thank Heaven! To-morrow he will be arrested and the truth discovered," Diniz muttered.

Silently they watched the man walk towards his humble home, the children clinging lovingly to his hands. The woman came forward with a bright smile, holding up her face to receive his caress.

"There can be no doubt. It is Jarima, and the man who sold the poignard."

"Luiz's murderer," Diniz added between his set teeth.

Almost feverishly Sampayo hurried Miriam away. He was anxious to tell Lianor of his success, and bring the assassin to justice.

Some distance from the Jew's shop he bade Miriam adieu, promising to call and let her know the result.

On reaching Don Garcia's palace Diniz was surprised at the sounds of bright music, mingled with happy voices, that floated on the air.

Satzavan was the first to meet him, and he went forward with a welcoming smile.

"Where is Lianor?" Diniz asked anxiously, glancing round the deserted halls.

"In the grounds. Don Garcia has his home full of guests in honor of his daughter's betrothal with Manuel Tonza."

"Lianor betrothed, and to him!" in consternation.

"Yes," sadly; "her father has commanded her to accept him, and, since she lost poor Falcam, she is indifferent whom she weds."

"But Tonza above all other men!" bitterly.

With a dark shadow on his brow, Diniz followed the young Indian into the spacious grounds, where Lianor, surrounded by many richly-dressed ladies, was sitting.

"I cannot speak to her before all those people. Go, Satzavan, and bring her to me."

The youth darted off obediently, and presently returned to the tree where Diniz stood almost hidden by its shady branches, leading Lianor, whose face wore a look of some wonder.

"Diniz, is it really you? Have you brought me any news?" she asked eagerly.

Sampayo took her outstretched hand and kissed it reverently.

"Yes," he said softly; "good news."

"What is it? Tell me!"

"I have discovered the man who, I think, struck the blow by instigation of the real murderer. Until he is taken I can do nothing further."

"But who is he? How did you find him?"

"He is a poor fisherman, named Jarima, and it was through a young Jewess, Phenee's grandchild, to whom the poignard was sold, I found him."

"That was very good of her to help you."

"It was, indeed. The whole morning she has searched with me for the man, and at last our labor was rewarded. To-morrow Jarima will be under arrest."

As the words left his lips, a sudden movement amongst the trees startled them.

"I am sure that was some one," Lianor cried, turning pale, and clasping Diniz's arm.

Satzavan glided noiselessly away, but soon returned to say no one had passed by.

Possibly the noise was occasioned by the wind rustling through the leaves.