"Yes; go on."

"Then everything is confused: I seemed to fall asleep—a long restful sleep, that was broken by my taking a long journey."

"Yes, but that was dreaming, dear."

"Maybe," he said, "and then I was swimming—swimming for life—and then toiling on and on, a long weary journey under a hot sun to get my diamonds."

"Yes, dear, fever," said Janet, with the tears streaming down her cheeks. "Oh, Mark, what you have suffered! Rich, love, do you hear?"

"Yes—yes," cried Rich, who seemed to be roused from a strange dream, in which she was fighting to recall another of which she had a misty recollection—a dream that troubled her on the night she took the chloral, when half mad with pain.

"You have seen and borne so much, dear," said Janet piteously. "Was not all this about the bag of diamonds and those people a feverish dream?"

"Jenny, do you want to drive me mad?"

"My own dear old darling brother, no," she whispered caressingly; and once more that strange half-jealous feeling swept like a hot breath of wind across Rich, making her pale face flush. "I only want to make you see things rightly, and not fret about a fancy."

"I tell you it was no fancy," he said angrily; and then, as the nurse held up a warning hand. "All right," he added, "I'll be calm."

"Say something to him, Rich," said Janet piteously.

Rich started, and then took Mark's hand. "You say that you went to the house of a friend?" she whispered.

"Ye-es," he replied hesitatingly.

"And that you partook of some medicine that was to make you sleep?"

He bowed his head slowly.

"And that your next clear recollection is of lying here, where you were brought after being found delirious by the police?"

"Yes, yes," he said impatiently.

"Robbed?"

"Stripped of everything," he said bitterly.

"It could not have been a friend, then, with whom you took refuge," said Rich.

Mark was silent.

"Must it not have been a dream?" said Janet in a whisper to her companion.

"No," said Rich aloud. "I think that all Mark recollects before he took this medicine must be true, and that this friend must have drugged him."

Mark drew a long, catching breath between his teeth.

"And robbed him while he slept."

Mark's breast rose and fell as if he were suffering some great emotion, and he stared at Rich wildly, his hand twitching and his lip quivering as he waited for her next speech, which seemed to crush him, as she asked in a clear firm voice.

"Who was the friend to whose house you went?"

He looked at her wildly, with the thoughts of the consequences of telling her that which he believed to be the truth—that Dr Chartley— her father—the father of the woman he passionately loved—had drugged him—taken the treasure for which he had fought so hard, and then cast him forth feverish and delirious into the river to die. For he realised it now: he had been swimming; he could even recall the very plunge; he had been cast into the river to drown, and somehow he must have struggled out.

"Who was the friend, Mark?" she said again, in her calm firm way.

"Yes, who was it?" cried Janet, with her little lips compressed. "You are right, Rich. Some one did do this dreadful thing. Who was it, Mark?"

The sick man turned from her with a shudder, while she, all excitement now, pressed his hard hand.

"Tell us, Mark dear, that he may be punished, and made to restore what he has stolen."

"No, no!" he said excitedly; "I cannot tell you—I do not know."

"Try and recollect, Mark," said Rich gently; and she looked in his face with an appealing smile.

"No, no!" he gasped, as he shuddered again; "it is impossible. I—I do not know. And Heaven forgive me for my lie!" he muttered, as he sharply withdrew his hands, sank back upon his pillow, and covered his face.

"He must be left now," said the nurse firmly, "He is very weak, and your visit is proving painful. Say good-night to him. You can come to-morrow. He will be stronger after a night's rest."

"But—there is no danger?" whispered Rich, as she caught the sister's hand.

"No; the danger is past, but he must be kept quiet. Say good-night."

Janet bent down and kissed her brother lovingly; and as she drew back from his pallid drawn face, Rich took her place and held out her hand.

Mark caught it in both his, and there was an agonised look in his eyes.

"Rich," he whispered passionately, "I have come back to you a beggar, after fighting so hard. Heaven knows how hard, and what I am suffering for your sake. I cannot tell you more. I only say, believe in me and trust in me. Kiss me, my love—my love."

Richmond Chartley's pale face deepened, but she did not hesitate. There were patients here and there who lay witnessing the scene, and there were others present; but at that moment the world seemed very small, and they two the only living creatures it contained, as she bent down, passed her arm beneath his neck, and for the first time her lips met his.

"Rich—poor—what does it matter, Mark?" she whispered, with her warm breath seeming to caress his cheek. "You have come back to me, as it were, from the dead."

She drew down her veil as she rose from the parting, and the nurse's quick experienced eyes noted the restful happy look that had come over her patient's face.

"Good-bye," she said to the two visitors. "May I?"

Rich leaned forward, and the two women kissed.

"I had some one once whom I dearly loved. It pleased God that he should die—for his country—trying to save a brother officer's life. Good-bye, dear. You are the best physician for him now. Come back soon."

Janet impulsively threw her arms about the sister's neck and kissed her.

"And I never thanked you for your care of my poor brother," she said. "But tell me, he is still a little wandering, is he not?"

"I could not help hearing all that passed," was the reply. "It was my duty to be present. I have, of course, had some experience of such cases, and I fear that he must have been drinking heavily in riotous company, and these ideas have become impressed upon his brain."

"And they are fancies?"

"I think so, but as he grows stronger these ideas will weaken, and you, his sister—and you—Ah, men are sometimes very weak, but to whom should they come for forgiveness when weak and repentant, if not to us?"

"But I won't believe my Mark has been going on as she hinted," said Janet, through her tears, as she walked away, weeping bitterly, and clinging tightly to Rich's arm.

"No; it is impossible," replied Rich; and with the feeling upon her that it was her duty to suffer for all in turn, and be calm and patient, she fought down her own longing to burst into a passionate fit of weeping, and walked on to resume her watch by her father's side, where he lay still insensible, as if in a sleep which must end in death.

"Rich dear, if it is true, and poor Mark was drugged and robbed, the wretch who did it shall be brought to justice, shall he not?"

"Yes," said Rich, as she clasped the weeping girl to her breast.

And as she sat there in the silent chamber, through the dark watches of the night, at times a feeling of exultation and joy filled her breast, while at others a hot pang of rage shot through her, and she felt that she could slay the wretch who had raised a hand against him who had returned to her as from the dead.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

JANET IS HAUNTED.

A fortnight passed, and Mark was able to join his sister at her lodging, from which she was out all day.

It was very hard work, that lesson-giving at different houses, but little Janet trudged on from place to place, rarely ever travelling by omnibus unless absolutely obliged, so that she might economise and make her earnings help out her income of twenty-one pounds per annum.

Rather a small sum in London, but it was safe. Seven hundred pounds' worth of stock in the Three per Cents., and bringing in ten pounds ten shillings every half-year.

One evening, as she was returning on foot, walking very rapidly, so as to get back as soon as possible to Mark, her heart sank, and she felt faint in spirit as she thought of her future and its prospects. To go on teach, teach, teach, and try to make stupid girls achieve something approaching skill in handling their brushes, so that parents might be satisfied. For, poor girl, she found what most teachers do, that when a child does not progress, it is always the instructor's fault, not that of the disciple.

"I shall be better when I've had some tea," she said to herself, as the tears gathered in her eyes. "Why do I murmur so? Rich never complains, and her troubles are as great as mine. I ought to be glad and rejoice that poor Mark has come back safely, and—there he is again."

Janet's little heart beat wildly with fear as a tall muffled-up figure appeared from a doorway in the sombre-looking square into which she had turned from the street where she gave lessons three afternoons a week, and followed her at a short distance behind. For two months past, evening after evening, that figure had been there, making her heart palpitate as she thought of what a weak, helpless little creature she was, and how unprotected in this busy world.

It was hard work to keep steadily on without looking round, without starting off at a run. Her breast seemed filled with that wild scream which she longed to utter, but dared not, telling herself that to seem afraid or to notice the figure was to invite assault.

"Oh, if Mark would only get well," she thought, "or if Rich could come and meet me!"

Then she called herself a coward, and stepped daintily on along the muddy street, wondering whether it would be possible to go by some other way, and so avoid this shadow which dogged her steps.

There was one way to get over it—to mention if to Rich, and ask her to bid Hendon wait for her and see her home. But that, she said, she would sooner die than do; so she had tried four different ways of reaching home, and always with the figure following her to the door of the house where she lodged, and where Mark sat waiting for her to come.

It was always the same: the muffled-up figure followed her closely, and kept on the same side of the way till he reached her door, when it crossed over, and waited till she went in, breathless and trembling.

Over and over again the little frightened girl tried to devise some plan, but all in vain; till this night of the foggy winter she was crossing the street, rejoicing that he was so near home, when there was a shout, a horse's hot breath was upon her cheek, and she was sent staggering sideways, and would have fallen had not the muffled-up figure been at hand, caught her in his arms, and borne her to the pavement, while the cab disappeared in the yellow mist.

"My own darling! Are you hurt?" he cried passionately.

"Hendon! You!" she panted.

"Yes, I," he said. "You are hurt!"

"No, no," she cried; "only frightened. The horse struck my shoulder. But—but was it you who followed every night all the way home?"

"Yes," he said, coldly now, "you knew it was."

"I did not," she retorted angrily; and then in half hysterical terms, "how dare you go on frightening me night after night like this? It has been horrible. You have made me ill."

"Made you ill?" he said. "How could I let you go about all alone these dark evenings? I was forbidden to talk to you as I wished, but there was no reason why I should not watch over you. How's Mark?"

"Getting better," said Janet, drawing a breath of relief at her companion's sudden change in the conversation; for she felt that had he continued in that same sad reproachful strain she must have hung upon his arm, and sobbed and thanked him for his chivalrous conduct. There was something, too, so sweet in the feeling that he must love her very dearly in spite of all the rebuffs he had received; and somehow as they walked on, a gleam of sunny yellow came through the misty greys and dingy drabs with which from her mental colour-box she had been tingeing her future life. There was even a dash of ultramarine, too—a brighter blue than her eyes—and her heart began to beat quite another tune.

"May I come and walk home with you every night?" said Hendon at last, as, after repeated assurances that she was not hurt, they stopped at last at the street door.

"No," she said decidedly; and her little lips were tightly compressed, so that they should not give vent to a sob.

"How cruel you are, Janet!"

"For trying to do what is right," she said firmly. "What would your sister say if, after all that has passed, I were to be so weak?"

"May I follow you at a distance, as I have done all this time?" he pleaded.

"No. You have only frightened me almost to death," she replied. "Will you come up and see poor Mark?"

"Not to-night," he said bitterly; "I couldn't bear it now. Janet, if I go to the bad, it won't be all my fault. I know I'm a weak fellow, but with something to act as ballast, I should be all right. What have I done that you should be so cold?"

For answer, Janet held out her hand.

"Good-night, Mr Chartley," she said quietly; but he did not take the hand, only turned away, walking rapidly along the street, while, fighting hard to keep from bursting into a violent fit of sobbing, Janet hurried up to her room, to find her brother looking haggard and wild as he slowly paced the floor.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

MARK HEATH IN THE DARK.

"No—no—no!" Always the same determined answer to the declarations of Janet that some steps should be taken to investigate the affairs of the night on which her brother had first reached London.

"No," he said; "I will have nothing done. Let me get well, and away from here. I've escaped with my life."

"And what will you do, Mark?" asked Janet, as she sat by his side.

"Try again," he said. "But I must first get well."

He had heard that the doctor was ill, but everything else had been kept from him, till one evening, as he was seated by the fire at Janet's neat little lodgings, and his sister was called down to see a visitor.

She had a suspicion of who it was, and found Richmond waiting.

"Come up and see him."

Richmond hesitated.

"I must not stay long," she said. "My father frets for me if I am away."

"And I am situated almost the same. Mark does not like to be left. Come up, dear, and help me to persuade him that he ought to employ the police."

"No, no! don't talk of them," said Richmond, with a shudder. "I want the horror at our house forgotten, and they keep reminding me that the law does not sleep."

"Why, Rich, how strangely you talk!"

"Strangely, dear! No. Only it comes back like a nightmare ever since that terrible affair, so soon as it is mentioned. I seem to be wandering about the house in misery, fever, and pain, trying to see through a mist that I cannot penetrate. I don't know how it is or what it means, but I have this horrible thought troubling me, that I came down that night to go to the surgery, and that I saw something."

"Saw something! Saw what?"

"Ah! that is what I cannot tell," said Rich with a shudder. "I was better this morning, and more hopeful. My poor father seemed a little clearer in his mind, but the past is all a blank to him."

"He knew me, dear, when I came yesterday."

"Oh, yes! and he knows me well enough. He talks sensibly about what is going on around him. But that night when he was struck down, the blows seemed to break away the connection between the present and the past. The physician, who has seen him, says very little, but I can see that he considers the case hopeless."

"Oh, don't say that, dear! We must all hope. I hope to be something better some day than a poor teacher. Come up now, and help me to persuade Mark to have in the police."

"No, no!" cried Rich hastily.

"Why not, dear? Think what it means if it is true about the diamonds, and we could get them back."

"But it cannot be true, Janet; and as to the police, they make me shudder. They were at our house this morning to see Hendon, and with him my father, to try whether they could revive his memory, and get hold of a clue to those men who came to our house that night, and they have found out nothing. They say they are straining every nerve now to find that poor boy. They think he must hold the clue."

"I think I could find it all out if I tried," said Janet. "Had your father any enemies?"

Richmond shook her head.

"Any one to whom he owed money?"

Richmond started, and her thoughts reverted to Poynter.

"No, no, no—impossible! Let it rest, dear. I have thought over it, till it nearly drives me mad!" she cried excitedly.

"It is very strange;" continued Janet musingly. "I don't like to let it rest, and there is our trouble, too. Rich dear, has it ever occurred to you that it must have been the same night when poor Mark was found wandering about?"

"Yes, dear. I have calculated it out from what the hospital sister told me. It was the same night."

Rich looked at her wonderingly.

"It was, dear," continued Janet. "While you had that horror at home, I was sleeping here comfortably, and poor Mark was wandering about the cruel streets half wild."

Rich made a gesture to her friend to be silent, and Janet passed her arm about her waist, to lead her up-stairs, but with the full determination to try and make some investigation. For though there were times when the thought of her brother having brought home a bag of diamonds seemed mythical, and the birth of his diseased imagination—especially as he never named them now—at other times visions of comparative wealth had come to her, in the midst of which she seemed to see herself with Hendon, and her old companion and her brother happily looking on.

Mark was seated gazing moodily at the fire as Richmond entered with his sister, and he rose to take her hands, and lead her to a chair.

But somehow both seemed constrained and troubled by thoughts which they kept from each other.

"I know," said Janet to herself, "it's that dreadful money which is keeping them apart, and if I don't do something, Mark will be going off again to seek his fortune, and it is like condemning poor Rich and himself to a life of misery and waiting."

She sat working, but furtively watching the others all the while.

"This poverty is killing us all," she said to herself at last, "and I will speak. It may be true, and he shall do something to find out."

"Mark dear," she said aloud, "I have something to say."

"Indeed! Well, what is it?"

"I've come to the conclusion that, now you are better, you ought to speak out like a man, and—"

"Stop!" he said hoarsely.

"No, Mark, I shall not stop," cried Janet decidedly. "You say that you went to a friend's house that night with all your money and—and treasure."

"Girl! will you be silent?" he cried savagely.

"No," said Janet, laughing. "I want you to see this matter as I do. Whoever this man is, he ought to be forced to give up what he must have stolen from you. If you will not stir, I shall."

"You will?"

"Yes, I shall take counsel with Hendon again."

"Again?" almost yelled Mark.

"Yes, sir, again. We have spoken over the matter together, and he agrees that the police ought to be seen, and that you must make this friend give up what he has taken."

"You'll drive me mad, Janet. Hendon thinks this?"

"Yes; and we are going to do it at once, for the sake of you and Rich."

"You shall not stir!" cried Mark fiercely.

"Why not?" interposed Rich, taking his hand. "I think with my brother and Janet now, much as I dislike these investigations."

"You think so—you?" cried Mark wildly.

"Yes. Why not?" said Rich. "Mark dear, why should you flinch from speaking out? You have no unworthy motive."

"Unworthy motive? No," he said bitterly, "I give up everything to spare another."

"Then you shall not," said Janet firmly. "Your duty is to Richmond here; your promised wife."

"Yes," said Mark moodily; "my duty is to Rich here, my promised wife."

"And yet for the sake of some unworthy wretch, you make her suffer—yes, sir, and me too. Why, Rich, dear Rich, what is the matter?"

She flew to her friend's side, and caught her hands; for Rich had started from her chair, looking wildly from one to the other, as, struggling as it were from out of a confused mist, how revived she could not tell, there came back to her, memory by memory, the scenes of that terrible night. Yes: she remembered now, though it still seemed like a dream—a fragmentary, misty dream.

Yes, that was the clue! Janet had said it was upon that same night that Mark had returned—had been found senseless in the streets.

"Don't, don't speak to me for a minute!" she cried, as she fought hard to recall everything—the maddening pain that night, the visit to the surgery, the chloral she had obtained and taken, and then that strange wild sleep.

Yes; she recalled it now. She dreamed she had come down to fetch something else from the surgery to allay the agony she suffered, and that the door was locked, and that she had heard voices—her father's voice, Mark's voice—yes, it was Mark's voice; and she had stood there trembling till it died away; and that formed part of her dream.

But now the voice was here in this room, and he caught her hand with a wildly suspicious look in his eye.

"What are you thinking?" he said.

She turned upon him sharply.

"The name of your friend with whom you took refuge that night?" she said; and her eyes flashed as she gazed searchingly in his.

He dropped her hand, and turned away, with his lips compressed and face contracted.

"Mark," she cried, "why do you not speak? Where did you go that night when you returned?"

He looked at her for a moment, and then turned away again. "I do not know," he said hoarsely.

"It is not true," cried Rich. "You must speak now. It was to our house you came."

"What!"

"I remember now. I heard your voice. You were with my father—in the surgery."

"Rich," he said, almost savagely, as he caught her wrist, "think of what you are saying!"

"Rich dear, don't say that!" cried Janet piteously.

"I know what I am saying," she said excitedly; and though her face was calm, it was evident that she was suffering terribly.

"No, no," he cried; "no, dear, you are wrong."

"No, Mark, I am right: you told us you took refuge with a friend—that friend was my father."

"What! Rich, do you know what you are saying—do you know what this means if the police should hear?"

"Yes," she cried; "the clearing up of a terrible mystery; perhaps the restoration of all that you have lost."

"Janet, is she mad?" cried Mark. "Do you not see what all this means?"

Janet shook her head with a helpless look on her face.

"Then I will tell you," he thundered: "it means ruin—misery to us all. Girl, for pity's sake, be silent! Rich, dear Rich, I love you with a man's first strong love. Have I not slaved for you all these years, to win you for my own true wife? Don't—don't raise this up between us. What is poverty to such a shadow as this?"

"I do not understand you," she cried; "but it is true. You did come to my father's house that night."

He gazed at her in blank despair.

"Why do you look at me like that? Do you not see the light?"

"The light!" he cried, with a bitter laugh. "I see you—the woman I love—trying to force me into a position which I would sooner die than hold. Hush, for mercy's sake! No, no, no!" he muttered; and then aloud, "Call it a lie, or a desperate man's last cry for help. I did not come to your father's house that night."

Rich gazed at him in blank astonishment for the moment, and then she flung her arms about his neck, and with her eyes close to his, she cried.

"What are you thinking—that it was my father who drugged and robbed you, or my brother? Oh, Mark?"

She seemed to throw him off as she stepped back, her pale face flushing, and a look of indignant anger in her eyes.

"What does this mean?" cried Janet; but her words fell unheeded.

"Shame on you! You are silent. How could you think this thing?"

"Heaven help me!" groaned Mark. "And I fought so hard!"

By a sudden revulsion of feeling, Rich turned to him again, and with her sweet rich voice, fall of the agony of her heart, she caught his hands.

"How could you think it of him, Mark! My poor gentle-hearted father! Do you not see? Did you not tell us that you were hunted from place to place by those men?"

"Rich, my darling," groaned Mark, as he strained her to his breast, "do you not see that you are digging a gulf between us, and that you will soon be standing on the other side, shrinking from me in abhorrence as the man who has brought this charge against your father? And God knows how I have striven to bear all in silence!"

"But, Mark—"

"Rich, it is your doing, not mine!" he cried wildly. "What are the diamonds to the loss of you?"

"But, Mark," she cried impetuously, "this is madness. You suspect him. You shall speak now—you shall. You have thought my father did this thing?"

"You drag it from me," he groaned. "I do."

"Oh, shame!" cried Richmond, shrinking from him; "to suspect the poor old man, who nearly died in your defence."

"What!" cried Mark.

"Whom we found struck down bleeding, and whom I am neglecting now, when he is hovering almost between life and death—neglecting that I might come to him whom I thought the soul of chivalry and faith."

"Stop!" cried Mark, in a harsh voice, as he released Rich, who straggled from him, and stood with his hands pressed to his eyes. "Janet, I have been off my head. I seem to think wildly now and then. Do I hear her aright, or am I still confused? What does she say?"

"I—I don't quite know myself," faltered Janet, bursting into tears.

"And yet I seem to understand," cried Mark excitedly. "Rich dearest, speak to me again. Your father found—struck down—in my defence?"

"Yes, that is what I said," replied Rich coldly.

"Struck down in my defence. I did not know of this."

"You—you knew he was very ill," sobbed Janet.

"Yes; but I knew no more."

"How could we tell you when you were nearly dead?" sobbed Janet; "and the doctor said you were not to be troubled in any way."

Mark Heath stood as if dazed for a few minutes, striving to think coherently, and master the delusion, under which he had been suffering.

"Rich," he cried at last, "for God's sake, tell me all!"



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

A PHYSICIAN UNHEALED.

James Poynter sat polishing his hat with his handkerchief, and staring at Hendon with a contraction, half smile, half grin, upon his face.

"I tell you I can't pay you. You forced the money upon me."

"I forced it on you! Come, that's a good one! Now, are you going to pay?"

"You know I can't, Poynter. You must wait."

"Not likely. Well, I must have my money, and what your father owes me too."

"I have only your word that he does owe you money, James Poynter."

"All right, Mr Hendon; go on. Insult me. The more patient I am the more advantage you take. Ask him if he don't."

"Ask him?" said the young man bitterly; "you know his mind is as good as gone."

"Is it as bad as that?" said Poynter, with assumed pity, but his eyes twinkling with eagerness, as he wound the handkerchief round and round.

"Bad? Yes. Millington, our best man, saw him yesterday, and he says nothing but an operation and raising the bone pressing on the brain will relieve him; and at his age he would not be responsible for the result."

Poynter drew a breath fall of satisfaction, and smiled at his polished hat.

"Well, I think the operation ought to be performed, so as to bring him to his senses again. Poor old boy! He does seem queer. I asked him—"

"What, you spoke to that poor old man about your cursed debt!" cried Hendon furiously.

"Of course I did. Cursed debt, indeed! Why, I've behaved as well as a man could behave. Lookye here, do you want me to sell you up?"

Hendon uttered an ejaculation, and, writhing under his impotence, he began pacing the old dining-room, while with a show of proprietorship James Poynter set down his hat, put his handkerchief therein, took out his case, and selected a cigar.

"Have a weed?" he said, nipping the end of the one he was about to smoke.

"Damn you, and your cigars too!" cried the young man furiously.

"Thank ye, cub!" said Poynter, lighting up. "There, you won't make me waxy. I'm a true friend in disguise. Ah, this is one of a noo lot I bought. Have one, old man."

Hendon made a fierce gesticulation, and scowled in the grinning face.

"How long are you going to stop here?" he said.

"Long as I like. P'raps I shall have the house done up, and come and live here."

"What?"

"Ah! what indeed! Suppose I bought the lease of the governor? What have you got to say to that?"

Hendon glared at him wildly.

"How's the little angel—Janet?"

Hendon's hands clenched, and he ground his teeth, while Poynter laughed at him.

"So the big brother's out of the hospital; got over his D.T., and lodging with his sister, eh?"

Hendon made no reply.

"Come, old chap," continued Poynter, "have a cigar, and do try and be sensible. I don't want to do nothing hard, but of course a man must fight for his own hand. I haven't come here to sell you up, but to bring you to your senses, like the friend I always was. Now look here, Hendon, this brother seems to be as loose a fish as a girl could have for a relation; but Miss Heath's as smart a little lass as e'er stepped—"

"Have the goodness to leave Miss Heath's name alone, sir."

"Waxy again. Now look here, Hendon, I'm a rich man. Suppose I say to you, my lad, look out for a snug little practice; I'll lend you the money—can't afford to give it—buy the practice, and marry Janet. Isn't that being a friend?"

Hendon went on pacing the room.

"Sulky, eh? All right: answer me this, then. Shouldn't I make your sister a better husband than this Mark Heath? Come, be sensible; take me up-stairs to see her. Now, at once. Let me make things pleasant for all of you. What's the good of being enemies, when we might be friends?"

"Friends!"

"Better than being master and slave, eh, Hendon, my lad? Borrower slave to the lender, eh?"

"Ah!" ejaculated Hendon.

"Come, come, you're sensible now. Take me up-stairs, and let's have it out with Rich."

"With Rich!" cried Hendon passionately.

"There, don't you be so cocky, young man. I don't call your Janet, Jenny. Yes, with Rich; my own dear darling Rich. There! How do you like that? Now then, let's get it over."

"My sister is not at home."

"Then we'll go up and see the old man; and let's hear what he'll say to it all. He won't deny that he's in my debt."

"Poor old fellow, no," groaned Hendon to himself.

"I say," said Poynter, turning grave, "where's Rich? She hasn't gone to see that sailor chap?"

"I don't know whom you mean by 'sailor chap,'" said Hendon bitterly.

"Then I'll tell you," he said. "I mean Mark Heath, and I've got a theory of my own about him."

"Curse you and your theories!" cried Hendon fiercely.

"Yes, and bless me and my money," said Poynter, laughingly.

"Stop! Where are you going?"

"This is my house, or as good as mine," said Poynter; "and I'm going up to see my poor old father-in-law to be. I don't think he's properly seen to, and I mean to have him off down to the seaside, to try and pull him round. Coming?"

Hendon was so much staggered by his visitor's cool insolence that Poynter was at the foot of the staircase before he thought to follow; and then, feeling that this man had a hold upon him that he dared not shake off, he followed him up-stairs, and into the sparely-furnished front drawing-room in which the doctor had been lying all through his illness.

He was seated where he could see the window, and his handsome face looked vacant and strange as he turned his head to Elizabeth, who was waiting on him in her mistress's absence.

"Is that Rich?" he said feebly.

"No, doctor, it's me, come for a bit of advice," cried Poynter. "Here," he said, turning to the maid, as he whisked his handkerchief round his hat, "you be off."

Elizabeth left the room, wiping her eyes, and Poynter sat down beside the doctor, and shook hands.

"Why, I ought to feel your pulse now, and not you mine," he said boisterously.

"Glad to see you, Mr Poynter. Pretty well, thank you. Is my Rich coming?"

"To be sure she is, old boy. Now I just want a cosy chat with you about Rich."

"About Rich? Yes, yes."

"You remember how I proposed for her?"

The doctor looked at him blankly; and shook his head. "Is Rich coming, Hendon?" he said.

"Yes, father; she is here," he cried; for there was the sound of wheels; and running to the window, he smiled grimly as he saw who descended from the cab.

"Might have stopped a little longer," grumbled Poynter to himself. "It don't matter; the game's mine now. Damn!"

He started from his seat as he saw Rich enter the room, closely followed by Mark Heath and Janet, to whom Hendon hurried with outstretched hands, and after a little hesitation, two little dark well-mended gloves and their contents were placed in his strong grasp.

"Dearest father," said Rich softly, as she hurried to the old man's side.

"Ah," he said, taking her hands, and fondling them, while a brighter smile came into his pleasant vacant face; "that's better—that's better. Here's Mr—Mr—Mr—"

"Poynter, doctor," said that individual, glad of an opportunity to remove his eyes from Mark's, which were gazing at him rather inimically.

"Yes, yes, Mr Poynter come to see us, Rich."

"And I have come to see you too, doctor," said Mark. "You remember me?"

The doctor looked up at him keenly, and then shook his head, and, with a troubled look in his eyes.

"No," he said. "No—no—no."

"Hah!" ejaculated Poynter, with a smile of satisfaction.

"Mark Heath, father dear," said Rich gently, "Don't you remember Mr Heath, who went to the Cape?"

"Heath?" said the doctor; "Heath—Heath? No—no," he added thoughtfully. "Glad to see Mr Heath. Friend of Hendon's?" His words were calm, but he seemed to wince.

"No, doctor: I'm Hendon's friend," said Poynter, with a laugh; and he gave his hat a loving wipe.

"Yes, Mr Poynter. You came to see me the day before yesterday. I remember—remember. I prescribed—"

"That's right, sir; that's right," cried Poynter, with one of his horse laughs.

"Is this man going, Hendon?" whispered Mark impatiently.

"No, Mr Mark Heath, he ain't," said Poynter fiercely. "Speak lower if you don't want people to hear; we've got sharp ears in the City, and I'm not going."

"No, no; Mr Poynter has come to see me," said the doctor, gazing in a frightened way at Mark. "Don't go, Mr Poynter. It's very dull here."

"I'm not going, doctor. It's all right," said the unwelcome visitor. "You're going to set me right."

"You'll excuse me—Mr Poynter, I think," said Mark; "but I have some private business to transact with Dr Chartley."

"Yes, I'll excuse you as much as you like. I've got private business with Doctor Chartley, too."

"Why, Mark," cried Hendon, "have you found out anything about your loss?"

"Yes. No. Well, yes; I have learned something," cried Mark excitedly, and he glanced again angrily at Poynter.

But the latter's unwelcome presence seemed to be ignored by all, in the intense excitement of the moment. For Rich threw herself upon her knees at her father's feet, and took his hands.

"Father dear," she said gently, "I want you to try and remember something."

"Yes, my dear, yes—certainly, certainly," said the old man, bending down to kiss her tenderly.

"That night, you know, when—when you were taken ill."

"Yes, my love, that night I was taken ill? Was I taken ill?"

"Yes, dear; but you are nearly well now. Do you remember Mr Heath coming? Try and remember, dear."

Poynter's face grew convulsed and angry, and he seemed to be looking about for some moral weapon with which to attack his enemy, but contented himself with a whisk of his handkerchief across his hat.

"Heath, dear? This is Mr Heath, you say—Heath?" and the doctor's face grew troubled.

"Yes, yes. Do you remember his coming to see you?"

The doctor looked from one to the other, and shook his head.

"Oh, father, dear father, for my sake try!" cried Rich. "Do you not remember his coming to you?"

The doctor put his hand to his head, and looked wildly round.

"No," he said at last. "No, I don't think I have seen Mr Heath before;" but the wild look was still in his eyes.

"Don't say that, doctor," said Mark, taking his hand. "You have forgotten. Don't you remember? That dreadful foggy night. I came to you, and you let me into the surgery?"

"Yes, dear, you recollect," cried Rich, piteously.

"I was utterly exhausted, and worn out—very much excited," continued Mark. "You took me into the consulting-room, and I lay down upon the sofa. You gave me brandy, and some narcotic."

"Brandy and a narcotic," said the doctor, smiling; "rather a strange mixture. Did I?"

"Yes; you recollect now?" said Mark eagerly.

The doctor looked at him intently, and then at Rich; but ended by shaking his head slowly.

"No," he said, "I do not recollect."

"All this is maddening!" muttered Mark, "just when one's hopes were reviving, and there was a chance of discovering something. Doctor," he continued excitedly, "try and recollect."

"Yes, dear, for Mark Heath's sake try," continued Rich; and Poynter ground his teeth, as he felt what he would give to evoke the same interest for himself.

"I will try, my love," said the doctor blandly. "Of course."

"Then you remember I told you I had just come from the Cape; that I had a bag of diamonds in my breast?"

Poynter uttered a sneering laugh, which made Heath wince, and turn upon him wrathfully.

"Diamonds? did you say a bag of diamonds?" said the doctor.

"Yes, yes; you remember."

"Was it not a very unsafe place to carry diamonds?"

"Yes, of course it was; but I could trust no one but myself! You remember then, doctor?"

Dr Chartley paused for a few moments, and shook his head again.

"No," he said blandly, "I do not remember. Diamonds, you say?"

"Yes, yes, diamonds!"

"I hope they were not lost," said the doctor simply.

"Yes; lost, lost!" cried Mark frantically. "The night you were struck down!"

"Here, hold hard!" cried Poynter sharply. "Look here, Mr Mark Heath, you came here that night?"

"Why do you interfere, sir?"

"Never mind. P'r'aps I know something."

"You know something?"

"P'r'aps so. You say you came here—late?"

"Yes, very late."

"That night the doctor was struck down?"

"Yes; but why do you ask?"

"Because, you scoundrel, we've got the clue at last. You were the man!"

So sudden was the charge that Mark literally staggered back, and, weak from his illness, he gasped, and looked to a superficial observer as much like a guilty man as ever recoiled from a sudden denunciation. But as a wave of the advancing tide merely retires to gain fresh force, Mark Heath recovered himself.

"You scoundrel!" he cried; and he would have sprung at Poynter's throat, but for the restraining arm of Janet and Hendon.

"Scoundrel yourself!" cried Poynter savagely. "Look at his face! Here—the police!"

He strode towards the door, upon which at that moment there was a loud tapping; and before he could reach it, Bob stood in the opening, very rough of head, very ragged, and looking as if he had not been washed since he was missed.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

BOB IS EXPLANATORY.

"Here, boy," cried Poynter, "quick! Fetch a policeman. Half-a-crown."

He thrust his hand into his pocket, but at that moment even that outrageously large sum had not the slightest effect upon the boy, who looked quickly round from one to the other till his eyes lit upon Mark, at whom he rushed with the notion of a well-trained dog, seizing him by the arm and breast of his coat, and clinging tightly.

"I've got him," he said shrilly. "Fetch the perlice. I've got him, Miss Rich; I see him come that night."

Poynter raised his fist, and struck it into his open hand.

"I knew it!" he cried. "I knew I was right! Now, Mr Mark Heath, what have you got to say?"

"Hendon, lad, lay hold of this boy. He's mad."

"No, I ain't," cried Bob. "Had 'nuff to make me, though."

"Let go, you dog!" roared Mark.

"All right, I'm a-going to," said the boy, shrinking away as Rich came to him.

"Bob," she cried, "what is this you're saying?"

"Well, I d'know, Miss," he said, scratching his head; "and I don't think now it weer him. But I'll sweer he come and told the doctor as the perlice or some one was after him."

"Yes, boy, yes; I did come, but you were not there."

"Worn't I? Yes, I was," said the boy, grinning. "I see you come, and you'd got one o' them, long-tail ulcers and a broad-brimmed hat; and the doctor—I say, Miss, is he better?"

"Yes, yes, Bob; but pray go on."

"I am glad the guvner's better. It scared me. I thought he was a dead 'un."

The boy looked round, and gave everybody a confidential nod, including "'Lisbeth," who was standing at the door, crying, and smiling with satisfaction by turns.

"But you say you saw me come!" cried Mark, while Poynter stood looking on in triumph.

"See you come? Course I did. I know'd you d'reckly, but I don't think it was you as did it."

"No, boy, it was not I. But where were you?"

"Wheer was I? Ah! you wouldn't know, I was afraid o' the doctor dropping onto me for being there, and I skipped into the bone box."

"What!" cried Hendon.

"I did, sir, 'strue as goodness. There's lot's o' room, and I could just lift up the lid and peep, and that's how I see him come."

"You young rascal?" muttered Hendon; while the doctor sat quietly smiling, as if it were something got up for his special amusement.

"Then the doctor he took you into his room, and you had some bran'-water hot. I smelt it. And when he come and got down one o' the bottles, and misked you up a dollop o' physic; and I heared you both a-buzzing away, and talking about wheer you'd been. The doctor kep' coaxing of you, like, to go to sleep, and somehow that sent me off."

"What! in that box with those—"

"Oh, yes, I don't mind them. I often nips in there when any one's coming."

"Did you hear anything else, Bob?" said Rich excitedly, as she held the boy's hand.

"Not till some one else come, and knocked two or three times; and I was going to answer the door, when the doctor come and turned down the gas, and then I lay still, and heard him putting the physic bottles away afore he'd let 'em in; didn't you, sir?"

The doctor smiled, and shook his head.

"Why, I heared you!" said the boy reproachfully; "and then you turns up the gas again, and I lifts the lid a bit, and sees it was two men and an accident."

"An accident?"

"Yes, Miss, a chap as they said had been run over; and they brings him in, and puts him on the cushion a-top o' the box I was in; and I lay still and listens, for I says as it was a good chance to hear a operation if I couldn't see one."

"Go on, boy; go on."

"All right, sir. Well, as I listens—oh, it was good! The chap groans and hollers about his chest, and then he makes no end of fuss, and the doctor says he'll soon be all right; and then—whoosh!—croosh! I hears as if some one had been hit, and a big fall—quelch! Then I lay very still, for I was scared. I heard some one get off the box, and a lot o' whispering and I dursn't move, for fear they should know I was there. But when I did peep, and lifted the lid softly, there was the doctor lying close to the box, on his face, and I thought he was dead.

"That give me a turn, Miss," continued the boy, after moistening his lips, for his voice had become husky, "and I don't think I knowed what happened till I heerd a skeary kind o' noise, and a loud sort o' whop in the 'sulting-room; and then the door was opened, and I see the light shining on you a-lying on the sofa—you, sir—sleep or shamming, and a man in there too, a-lying down, and—and—I—I can't help it, Miss—I ain't had much to eat lately, and I—"

Poor Bob let himself sink in a heap upon the floor, covered his face with his hands, and burst into a fit of sobbing.

There was another fit of sobbing heard, for grimy-faced Elizabeth rushed forward, plumped down beside the boy, and took his head to her breast, to rock him to and fro.

"Poor boy!" said Rich softly, and she took his hand.

The touch was like magic; for Bob lifted up his dirty tearful face, all smiles.

"It's all right, Miss; I'm on'y a bit upset. Only let me get into the surgery again, and I knows what to take to put me right."

"Can you tell us any more, my lad?" said Mark kindly.

"Course I can, sir; not much, though, for I dunno what come over me. I see them two a-lying about, and as something horrid was the matter, and I come over all wet and sick; and then I don't remember any more till I seemed to wake up with a headache, and couldn't make out what it all meant; and when I could I lifted up the box-lid, and put out my hand, and felt to try if it was fancy. But there was the doctor lying on his face, and though all was very quiet, I knowed the other dead un must be in the 'sulting-room, and I lay there 'fraid to move, and all of a pruspiration."

"Did you hear anything else?" said Rich eagerly.

"Yes, Miss; I heared the window broke, and you come, and the perliceman, and I heared all you said; but I dursn't move, for fear the perlicemen should think I did it—the perlice is such wunners, you know; and last of all, I hears the perliceman begin hunting about, and I got scared again, and tried to hide; and jus' as I picks up that there white skull, and was trying whether I couldn't get lower, he opens the lid, and bangs it down."

"Should you know the men again?" asked Mark eagerly.

"Dunno, sir. You see it was all foggy like, and they was wropped up; but I should know 'em if I heerd 'em speak."

Mark uttered an ejaculation full of disappointment, and signed to the boy to go on.

"Well, sir, that's all; only I waited till no one was there; and then I lifted the lid and crep out of the box; and it was very horrid, for there was the dead chap in the nex' room, and I kep' thinking he'd come after me, or them others would; and I was that scared, I crawled along the passage, and down-stairs, and then sat and shivered, list'ning to you folks talking, and something in my head going buzz."

"Why did you not come to us?" said Rich kindly.

"I did want to, Miss, but I dursn't. I was 'fraid 'bout what you'd say; and there was the perliceman too, and I'd no business to be there. I d'know, only I was very frightened, and didn't hardly know what I did. I never see anybody dead afore."

"Well, what did you do then?"

"Waited a bit, Miss, and then I got out in the area, nipped over the rails, and went home and told mother."

"But one minute," cried Mark, pressing his hand to his breast; "did you—did you hear anything said about—about diamonds?"

"Yes," cried the boy. "I heared one on 'em say, 'Be cool, and the diamonds are ours.'"

Mark uttered a groan. His last hope was crushed; and the boy went on:

"Mother said she know'd no good ud come of my being at a doctor's, and that it all meant body-snatching and 'section, and that I shouldn't get into trouble for no one. She said if I stopped I should be took up by the perlice; and I was scared enough, and did as she said, and she took me with her down in the country."

"In the country?" cried Hendon. "Where did you go?"

"I d'know," said the boy. "Everywhere's, I think. Tramping about, and sleeping in workusses; and it's been very cold and mis'able, and I'm very fond o' the old woman; only somehow—"

"Well, Bob, why do you stop?" said Hendon.

"Dunno, sir," said the boy, looking very hard at Rich's white hand. "I wouldn't ha' done it, on'y she was took bad, and they put her in one of the workas 'firmaries, and wouldn't let me stop along with her. They shoved me in a school as was all whitewash, with a lot more boys; and I got in a row with some on 'em, and we had a fight, and the master caned me, and I hooked it; and please, Miss, mayn't I stay?"



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

A JAR WRONGLY LABELLED.

James Poynter blustered and threatened; but the only proceedings he took were the sending of threatening letters to Hendon—letters which Mark advised him to throw into the fire.

"Wait," said the latter one evening, "and let him develop his attack; we should only weaken ourselves by going out to meet him."

"But if he really has claims on my father, and seizes this place?"

"Then, my lad, you and I must set to, and see if it is not possible for us to join hands and get together another home for your father and sister—one, perhaps, that, if small, might be made happy till I came back."

"Came back?" said Janet, who had accompanied her brother to the doctor's that evening.

"Yes, dear," said Mark. "I have not said a word to a soul; but I'm going back to the Cape by the next boat."

"To try your luck again?" said Hendon quickly.

"To try my luck again," replied Mark; and he glanced at Rich, who was seated at work with Janet, while the doctor looked on, and smiled placidly at both in turn.

Rich turned very pale; but she did not speak.

"I have no prospects here," continued Mark; "and out yonder I have faith in making some progress. I shall tempt my fate again."

"And if I could only feel sure that those we left behind would be safe," cried Hendon, "I'd go with you."

Janet's eyes lit up, and it was a look more of encouragement than blame which she directed at her lover.

"You, Hendon?" said Mark, smiling.

"Yes; I want to get away, and begin differently. I'm—there, look here, Mark Heath; with a strong-minded chap like you, I know I could get on, doctoring or diamond-digging, or something of that kind. Hallo, what is it?"

"Letter, sir."

"Letter? Why didn't the boy bring it up?"

"He's a-dusting the surgery, sir," replied the maid, who seemed to have been engaged upon some cleansing business in which she had been worsted.

"For you, Hendon," said Rich, who had taken the letter. "Is it from the hospital?"

"No, it isn't from the hospital," said Hendon quietly, as he knit his brow over the correctly-written formal letter, in which a firm of solicitors respectfully informed him that unless certain sums due on dishonoured bills were paid to them in a specified time, they were instructed by their client, Mr James Poynter, to take immediate proceedings for the recovery of the debt.

"Mark, old chap, the attack has begun;" and Hendon handed the letter to the former, who read it through.

"Let's go down-stairs," he said. "I want to talk to you."

"Is anything wrong?" said Janet anxiously.

"Nothing fresh, my dear," replied Mark: "Hendon and I are going to chat over matters. We shall be up again soon."

"But is the news very bad?" said Rich.

"No: on the whole good," replied Mark; and he and Hendon went down-stairs, and were going into the dining-room, but the gas was lit in the surgery, and they went there, to find Bob going over the bottles, and, after a careful polish, putting them back.

"Be off for a bit, my boy," said Hendon; "or—no; go on with your work."

He took a match from a box on a shelf, and lit the consulting-room lamp.

"Here," he said, "room's chilly; we may as well have a pipe over it."

Mark nodded, and they smoked for a few minutes in silence.

"Why did you say that was good news?" said Hendon at last.

"Because the enemy shows his hand."

"Shows his hand? How?"

"If he had any claim upon your father, he would have attacked him first. He has no claim. It was an empty boast."

"So much the better," cried Hendon. "Well, that settles it. I shall go off with you."

Mark smoked in silence.

"If you'll have me. But I say, old fellow, do you quite give up the diamonds?"

"Quite."

"You said you had been to the police again, yesterday."

"Yes, and they say they think they can lay their hands upon the men when they try to sell."

"Well, then, there is hope."

"Not a bit. They are cooling down. I don't think they have much faith in my story; and, besides, the matter is growing stale. They have a dozen more things on the way. Hendon, my lad, you love my sister?"

"On my—"

"That will do. I believe it; but neither you nor I can marry for years to come. You shall go with me, and we will come back well enough off to make those two our wives."

"But Poynter's debt? He'll have me arrested before I can leave the country."

"His debt shall be paid."

"Paid?"

"Not in full, but as much as is honestly due to him. I shall set a sensible solicitor to work to make a compromise."

"But the money? No, no; he will not give up. This is putting on the screw so as to move my sister."

"Whom he will not move," said Mark, smiling with content. "I suppose you are not likely to take up your father's invention?"

"Good gracious, no! Millington, our big swell, told me, when I mentioned it, that it was a craze, and that it was contrary to nature. You can't arrest ordinary decay."

"No, of course not; life must go on till it reaches its highest pitch, and then decline."

"Of course."

"Well, look here, Hendon, Janet and I have a little money between us in Consols, and, as we are going to make a fresh start together, we'll do so clearly, and your debt shall be paid."

"What, with Janet's money? Hang it, no!" cried Hendon fiercely; "I'm not such a cad as that."

"You are going to be my brother," said Mark, smiling as he slapped him on the shoulder, "my younger brother, and you'll do exactly what I bid you."

"Yes, but—"

"That will do. I see my way clearly now, so let's go up-stairs and have a chat with the girls."

Hendon put down his pipe very slowly, and glanced up at a shelf, upon which some of the apparatus connected with his father's dreams was standing; but it offered him no solution of his difficulties, and he followed Mark Heath into the surgery just as Janet and Rich, who were unable longer to bear the suspense, came down to press for an explanation.

"Here, I say," saluted the party, from Bob, "who's been a-meddlin' with these here preparations?"

"What preparations?" said Hendon sharply.

"These here," cried Bob, who had just taken down a large glass jar to dust. "The doctor will be in a way. He don't like no one to meddle with them."

The jar was labelled, like the row from which it had been taken, with a gummed-on slip of letter paper, the contents being written in the doctor's own bold hand, the ink now yellow with age, and the gummed-on label beginning to peel off.

"Put the horrible thing away!" cried Hendon angrily.

"But some 'un's been a-stuffing something else in here as don't belong," cried the boy. "I knows 'em all by heart. Look here!"

He thrust his hand into the glass jar, after removing the great stopper.

"What are you doing, boy?" cried Hendon, stepping forward to arrest the lad's action, as he drew out, all dripping with the spirit, a disgusting-looking swollen object, evidently a portion of the digestive viscera of a calf or sheep; but before he could reach him, Mark uttered a wild cry, thrust him aside; and, as he snatched the hideous-looking object from Bob's hand, the glass jar fell upon the surgery floor, was smashed to atoms, and a strong odour of methylated spirit filled the place.

"You've done it now!" cried the boy piteously; and then he stared as Mark dragged from his pocket a knife, and cut the string of what, in place of an anatomical preparation, was a soaked and swollen wash-leather bag.

"Look, Rich, look!" cried Mark, dropping the knife, his hands trembling with excitement, and his voice so husky and changed that it was hardly recognisable.

As he spoke, he thrust Rich back upon the settee, and, with one quick motion, poured a couple of handfuls of rough diamonds into her lap.

"Mark!" she cried, as he sank upon his knees before her, and clasped her hands; while, in his excitement, Hendon caught Janet in his arms, from which she might have extricated herself a little more quickly than she did.

"Now just look at that!" said Bob, picking up the bag, which had fallen upon the floor. "Why, it's just like one o' them things as the doctor's got saved up. I say," he continued excitedly, "lookye here, sir, there's another one inside."

He drew out of the swollen leather bag a stone as big as a small marble, and held it out.

"Yes; and that's yours, my boy," cried Mark excitedly; "whatever it fetches shall be for you."

"What! my own?" cried Bob.

"Yes—yes!"

"To do what I like with, sir?"

"Well, it shall be applied for your benefit, my lad."

"Then I wants some on it now!" cried the boy excitedly.

"What for?" said Rich.

"To get my old ooman home."

"And I want one, Mark," cried Hendon.

"Yes," said Mark; "to pay James Poynter's debt."



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

KNOTTING UP LOOSE THREADS.

It had been the doctor's last act before he admitted his assailants. As if inspired by a fear that his patient's excited utterances might be true, and urged by the risk of leaving so valuable a treasure unprotected, he had taken the bag, and slipped it in a place not likely to be examined, though he never recovered sufficiently to recall what he had done.

As to the two men who had visited the surgery that night, by a strange want of scent on the part of the sleuth-hounds of the law they were never found; one reason being that, with the cash they found in the belt Mark Heath wore, they had made their way back to the Cape.

The house in Ramillies Street remained unchanged in aspect so that after a time, under the old doctor's name, a new plate was affixed, bearing that of his son.

The red light shone out every night, and the plate upon the door glistened in the sunshine, such little as came into the street, after Bob had been over the said plates with rotten-stone and oil, prior to "cleaning hisself," as he called it, and donning his new smart livery, ready to admit the patients who came; but though James Poynter was often really sick, he sought advice there no more.

That red light shone out every night with a dull glare across the road; but whenever as ordinary constable, or later on as sergeant, John Whyley's duties took him round that way, he always stopped, and rolled his head in his stock with a sapient shake.

"Ah!" he invariably said; "that there just was fog!"

THE END.