Blind Policy

George Manville Fenn (continued 5)

Reading edition

They descended to the crypt again, and paused before the locked iron door, which, thanks to the experience gained in opening the others of the same make, the workmen forced in the course of an hour, and at the first flash in of a bull’s-eye lantern a suppressed hiss of excitement escaped from the officer’s lips.

“At last!” he muttered. “It’s murder, then, after all, but where’s the girl?”

For there, just as they had been carried in, ready for future disposal, lay side by side, in the bottom of the roomy iron closet, the bodies of the two servants, each with a bullet wound in the head, such an one as would produce almost instant death.

They were carried out and laid upon a broad table of massive make, and as soon as this was done the superintendent examined the iron closet, whose back was covered with a perfect nest of drawers, one of which on being opened proved to be full of carefully-done-up rouleaux, the greater part of the rest being similarly filled.

One of the rouleaux was torn open, and a portion of its contents poured into the officer’s hand.

“Sovereigns,” he said. “Why, they must have had to do with some bank. Eh, what?”

“Duffers,” said the constable addressed as Dick. “A gang of smashers.”

“It isn’t a time for making jokes,” said another of the men, who was handling a couple of sovereigns, “or I’d say you was a duffer. Look at that; hark at this.”

He handed one coin to the man, and rang another on the heavy table, for it to give out the true sound of sterling gold.

“No smashing here,” said the superintendent.

“Then what does all this mean?” said Dick, directing the light of the lantern he carried across to the far end of the vault. “There’s all the tackle—rolling mill, die stamps, and the rest of it.”

“Bah! coiners melt their stuff and electro-gild it. These are right enough, and there’s a big sum of money in there. Here, to work at once; I must have that door back in its place and the front sealed up.”

His man shook his head, and while the superintendent was busy directing the workmen, the constable carefully examined the elaborate machinery, and came upon a couple of chests full of little ingots which seemed to be of the right size for rolling out and stamping into coin.

“I know!” he muttered at last.

“What do you know?” said the superintendent.

“They must be South Africa people with a gold mine of their own, and to save trouble make up their own stuff into sovereigns. Here, I want to look at those poor chaps again.”

The superintendent seemed disposed to bid him let them be, but he was beginning to feel more and more confidence in his subordinate’s brains, and together they flashed the light over the ghastly faces.

“That’s right,” said the constable. “I know ’em well. It’s the butler and footman from next door. I’ve often seen ’em.”

“Then I’ve got a theory now,” said the superintendent, clapping his subordinate on the shoulder. “You’re right, I think, about their coining their own gold, and they came back to town—you see, Dick, the people of the house were out of town.”

“Yes, been out some time. I know that.”

“Well, they came back, and caught these two chaps breaking into the way to their underground bank, and they treated them like burglars, and shot them. Then there was a row; that lady you talk about wouldn’t stand it; you raised the alarm.”

“And they’ve sloped. Ah, we ought to have had them, sir.”

“Oh, we’ll do it yet. They can’t get away very far, my lad. Now then, what are you thinking about now?”

“All those quids, sir. I’m sure I’m right now. Big swells like they were, as I’ve often seen, with tip-top carriages and horses, wouldn’t coin their own gold even if they’d got a mine. They’re a gang of coiners, sir, and so you’ll see. Got one of the sovs., sir?”

“No.”

“Then take one of those little bars, and have that examined.”

The superintendent picked up one of the ingots, looked at it intently and shook his head.

“Ah, you can’t tell by that, sir,” said his subordinate. “I say, look, sir; they’ve had the electric light. I wonder where they turn it on.”

The place was soon found, the stud pressed, and about a dozen glass bulbs shed a beautifully soft light through the arched place.

“Good gold; a big sum of money in ingots, my lad,” said the inspector, jingling two bars together and producing a musical sound. “Here, stop! I must have all these in that strong closet before we go—and double my sentries,” he muttered. “Why, there must be thousands of pounds’ worth lying here.”

Chapter Thirty Four.

A Sharp Shock.

As Chester entered the room, and found himself face to face with the woman he had so cruelly used, he involuntarily caught Marion’s arm, placed it beneath his own, and drew a deep breath as if prepared to defend her against any attack.

Marion shivered slightly and pressed to his side, while Isabel gazed at her wildly and fixedly, before letting her lids drop over her eyes, and standing there breathing painfully, with one hand resting over her heart.

Chester glanced at her with a feeling of despair and misery rising in his breast, but he turned his pitying gaze away and spoke to his sister, who stood drawn up to her full height, frowning, and as defiant as the brother upon whom she fixed her eyes as he spoke.

“Laura,” he said gently, “I have brought this lady here as a man brings one who seeks sanctuary—safety from a terrible peril.”

“Well?” she said coldly.

“I bring her to you, my sister, asking you—to let her find the refuge and safety of which I have spoken. You will do this for my sake?”

“No!” cried a sharp voice from the door—a voice which sank from time to time in its owner’s excited state, so that her words were only half audible—“No, she will do nothing of the kind. How dare you bring her here to insult the lady to whom you were betrothed?”

Chester turned upon the speaker angrily, but after the first word or two his voice softened down, and he spoke as one suffering deeply from his emotion.

“Aunt, you have no right to speak to me like this. Remember, please, that something is due to me; far more to the lady for whom I ask protection and a welcome.”

“No, no,” whispered Marion. “For pity’s sake take me away from here.”

“No,” said Chester, firmly. “This is my house, and you will stay here. Laura, you heard what I said?”

“Yes, Fred; I heard what you said,” she replied in a cold, unemotional way.

“Then give Miss Clareborough the welcome I ask of my own sister.”

“No!” cried Aunt Grace, angrily.

“Aunt,” said Laura, coldly, “have the goodness to be silent. No, Fred, I cannot do what you say. It is an insult to Isabel and to me to make such a request.”

“Have you no pity for me?” whispered Marion, reproachfully. “How can you expose me to this?”

He passed an arm round her waist and led her to a chair.

“Isabel,” he said gently, and she started and raised her eyes, to gaze at him fully, “you must know I could; not dream that you would be here. You will forgive me, too, for what I am compelled to say.”

She bowed her head gently and once more veiled her eyes, while Chester stood by the chair holding Marion’s hand.

“Aunt Grace, I insist upon your being silent. You have no voice in this matter. Laura, I tell you again that this lady is in grievous peril and needs all a sister’s help. I ask that help of you; will you give it?”

Laura was silent for a few moments; then she turned and gazed at Isabel, ending by throwing her arms about her, and then facing her brother once more.

“Well?” he said bitterly.

“It is impossible, Fred. If you have forgotten all that was due to Isabel, I cannot. No; and if aunt leaves this house I go with her.”

“I insist then,” cried Chester, angrily.

“No,” said Marion, rising. “I must go. It is not right.”

“I am the best judge of that,” said Chester, firmly, and he retained her hand. “Isabel, I never thought that we could ever stand in such a position as this; but now, face to face, I feel bound to say once more, forgive me, and to ask you to believe the simple truth—that I should have been doing you a greater wrong in holding to our engagement and making you my wife.”

She looked up at him firmly, and his heart throbbed with pity for her innocence and suffering, but there was no reproach in her clear, steadfast gaze. He read in it that she unquestioningly yielded to her fate; and at the end of a few moments her eyes fell towards the floor.

“You see,” whispered Marion, faintly, “it is impossible. Let me go and join them.”

“And leave me?” he whispered. “Here, water—quick! Oh, if there is an unfeeling creature upon the face of the earth, it is a woman at a time like this. Can you not see that she is fainting after the most cruel sufferings, and you all stand aside as if she were some leprous thing! Hah! Isabel!”

“Yes, Fred,” she said softly.

She went down on one knee and tenderly raised the fainting woman’s head till it rested upon her shoulder.

The touch seemed to revive Marion, and in a few moments she opened her eyes and gazed wonderingly at the face so close to hers.

“You?” she said softly.

“Yes; I. He says you are suffering and in great peril. I am alone now here in London, and if you will come with me, for his sake I will be to you as a sister till the danger, whatever it may be, has passed.”

“Ah!” sighed Marion, the spasm seeming to tear itself from her breast, and she lay still for some moments with her eyes closed.

“Come—sister,” whispered Isabel, and she bent down and pressed her lips to the forehead so near her.

Marion’s colour flushed to her temples, and she looked up wildly and flung her arms about Isabel’s neck, kissing her passionately.

“Yes,” she said. “I will come.”

There was a tap at the door, and Chester hurried across the room to prevent the maid from entering.

“Yes,” he said excitedly; “what is it?”

“If you please, sir, it is the police; two of them, and they say they must see you directly.”

“Great heavens!” cried Chester, wildly, as he turned and gazed at where Marion had started to her feet and stood pale and ghastly, for she had heard the words. “Too late—too late! Yes; I know. Marion, that hound! that fiend! He is taken, and in his cowardly revenge he has sent them here.”

In the full belief that the police would be coming up to the room, Chester ran to the door.

“Where are they?” he whispered sharply to the maid, who was wondering at the undue excitement displayed.

“In the hall, sir.”

Chester’s mind was made up on the instant, and he turned to Isabel.

“Heaven bless you for this!” he cried passionately. “I cannot explain now, only that it is a case of great emergency. Take Miss Clareborough with you, and keep her until I write or come. I do not deserve this at your hands, but your presence here is like that of some good angel. You will take her home?”

“Yes,” she said softly, as she avoided his eyes.

“Listen, then,” he whispered anxiously.

“These people below have come in search of her, and she must not fall into their hands. I will go and keep, them in conversation, while you get her away at once.”

“I will,” replied Isabel, calmly.

“Heaven bless you!” he cried passionately, and then he turned to Marion, who looked quite exhausted.

“Go with her,” he said—“at once. You will be safe there until I come.”

“No,” she replied despairingly. “It would be better for you—for her—that we never meet again.”

He caught her hand in his.

“Refuse this, and I will not answer for the consequence,” he whispered angrily. “Remember you are mine.”

He hurried out, trying to be perfectly calm, met the representatives of the law in the hall, and signed to them to come into the consulting-room, and closed the door.

Chapter Thirty Five.

The Climax of a Madness.

“One minute. Sit down while I attend to this.”

The inspector took a chair, but his follower, evidently a plain clothes’ officer, remained standing by the door; while, as if bound to make a memorandum of some important case, Chester took ink and paper and began writing rapidly for a few minutes, listening intently the while for the sound of steps upon the stairs, every nerve on the strain, as he wondered at the patience with which the two men waited.

At last, with his heart throbbing painfully, Chester heard a faint rustling sound outside, and the front door close, just as the inspector broke the silence.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, “but this is a case of emergency. I should be glad if you can come at once.”

“Come at once?”

“Yes,” said the inspector, coolly. “Only in the next street. Case of attempted suicide. Doctor with the party wants a second opinion.”

Chester drew a deep breath, wrote another line of incoherent words, and then, having hard work to speak composedly, he rose and said—

“I am at your service now.”

He followed the inspector to the door, and feeling half stunned at what seemed like so strange an escape, he went to the house where, in a mad fit, the occupant had taken desperate measures to rid himself of a life which had grown hateful; and while Chester aided his colleagues for the next hour in the difficult task of trying to combat the poison taken, he could not help feeling that this might have been his own case if matters had gone otherwise, for despair would have prompted him also to take a life that had become horrible—an existence that he could not have borne.

He went back home at last, but he made no attempt to see sister or aunt, his anger for the time being was too hot against them, and he was in no disposition to make any excuse. His next step was, he felt, to set Marion’s mind at rest regarding the police, and he was about to start for Isabel’s temporary London home, when he hesitated, shrinking from meeting her again. He felt that his position was despicable, and now the danger was past he mentally writhed at the obligation which he had so eagerly embraced.

“What a poor, pitiful, contemptible object I must seem in her eyes,” he muttered as he paced the room.

But he grew cooler after a time. Marion’s happiness must stand first. She was prostrate with horror and despair, and at any cost he felt that he must preserve her from danger, and set her mind at rest.

“But I cannot go,” he muttered—“I cannot face her again.” Then, half mad with himself for his miserable cowardice, he cast aside the pen with which he was about to write, and determined to go.

“She will forgive me,” he said; and he hurried into the hall, took up his hat, and then stopped short, aghast at his helplessness.

Where was he going? He had not the most remote idea as to where Isabel was staying, and maddened by his position, he forced himself to go up to the drawing-room and ask his sister for the address.

“I must be half mad,” he muttered.

He threw open the drawing-room door and, strode in, determined to insist upon the address being given him if Laura should refuse.

But the room was empty, and, staggered by this fresh surprise and with ominous thoughts beginning to arise, he went out on to the landing to call his sister by name. Then he called aloud to his aunt, with the result that an answer to his shouts came from below in the servant’s voice—

“Beg pardon, sir; Miss Laura and Mrs Crane went out more than an hour ago.”

“What! Where did they go?”

“I don’t know, sir. I had to whistle for a cab, and they each took a travelling bag.”

Chester went down to his consulting-room, checkmated, and feeling completely stunned at his position.

What was he to do? He might set a detective to try and find the cabman who took them away, but it would be days before he could have the man traced.

Then came a bright idea.

The hotel where Isabel had been staying—the manager there would know where she and her father and mother went on leaving.

He took a cab there, but the manager did not know. He thought the old people went abroad, and the young lady went into private apartments.

“But their letters—where were their letters to be addressed?”

“To their country house, sir.”

Chester hurried away again. Perhaps something might be made of that, and he went to the first post-office and telegraphed down to the person in charge of the house, paying for a reply to be sent to Raybeck Square, to which place he returned, and paced his room for two hours before he obtained the brief reply:—

“Address not known. They have not written yet.—Susan.”

“Was any poor wretch ever so tortured by fate?” he muttered; and he threw himself into a chair to try and think out some way of finding out the address to which he had sent Marion.

At last, faint, and with his brain in a whirl, he sought for temporary release from his sufferings in one of the bottles of drugs in his consulting-room.

But the ordinary dose seemed to have no effect, and he repeated it at intervals twice before he sank into a state of lethargy from which he did not awaken till morning, to find himself lying back in a corner of the couch, with the three servants gathered in consultation.

“Yes,” he cried wildly, “what is it?—what is the matter?”

“Nothing, sir, only that you frightened us. It’s past eleven o’clock, and we were going to send for a doctor,” said the parlour-maid.

“No, nothing the matter. I was tired out, and overslept myself. Here, stop! Has—has Miss Laura come back?”

“No, sir.”

“That will do. Go away.”

“Hadn’t you better have a cup o’ tea, sir?” said the cook, suggesting the universal panacea.

“No, no!” he cried, so fiercely that the servants backed out, and the wretched man let his burning, confused head sink into his hands while he tried to collect his thoughts.

But it was in vain. He bathed his temples, went into the breakfast-room and tried to partake of food, but gave it up in disgust, and finally turned to the drug again.

“This can’t go on,” he muttered; “the human brain cannot stand it. Months of strain now, and my position worse than ever. And even now the police may have traced her, and she be looking vainly to me for help.”

He did not hear a ring at the front door, for he went back to his consulting-room, to sit with his head in his hands; neither did he hear the conversation going on after the closely-veiled lady who rang had been admitted.

“Gone! You think Miss Laura will not return?”

“I don’t think so miss.” There was a few moments’ thoughtful silence. “Where is your master?”

“In his consulting-room, miss, in a dreadful state. Oughtn’t a doctor to be fetched to him? He looks so awful; his eyes roll at you as if he was going mad.”

There was another thoughtful pause, and then the visitor said firmly, “Go and ask Mr Chester if he will see me for a few moments.”

“Please, miss—ma’am—I really daren’t,” said the maid, pitifully. “He frightened me so last time I went into the room that I’d sooner leave at once than go in.”

There was a third period of hesitation, and then without a word the visitor went straight to the consulting-room, entered, and closed the door.

Chester did not stir, but sat there in the gloomy place with his head bent, the image of utterly abased despair; and the visitor stood looking down pityingly at him for some moments before she spoke.

Her voice seemed to galvanise him into life, and he started up and gazed at her wonderingly. “Isabel?” he cried. “Yes, Fred; I have come.”

“Hah! and Marion? How is she?” There was no reply for a few moments; then in a low, compassionate voice, “She was very, very ill last night, but later on she dropped asleep, and I left her about three, perfectly calm and peaceful.”

Chester gazed at her wildly.

“Yes,” he cried, “go on.”

“I went in to see her at intervals of an hour, and she was still sleeping calmly.”

“And you have left her!” he cried angrily. “You should not have done this.”

“No; I ought not to have done this,” said Isabel, sadly. “You placed her in my charge, and I have betrayed your trust.”

“What! What do you mean?”

“I went to her room about nine, and—”

“Yes,” he cried, springing up and catching her arm so fiercely that her pale, sad face grew full of suffering.

“Tell me; you are keeping something back.”

“Must I tell you?” she said faintly.

“Yes, yes!” he cried. “Why do you torture me?”

“Fred, I was to blame,” she said piteously. “I would have done anything for your sake. I could not foresee it all. She has gone!”

“Gone?” he gasped.

She held out a letter addressed to him, and he snatched at it and tore it open, to read with burning eyes:—

“Good-bye for ever. I love you too well to come between you and the happiness that may some day be yours. Do not seek for me: my love would prove a curse. I know it—I feel it. Forgive me the suffering I have caused to you and the gentle woman who has tended me. She will forgive you the past as I have prayed her to; and she will forgive me, knowing as she does that it was in all innocency I did her that wrong. Think of me as one who was not to blame for her position. I did not know everything; they kept it from us weak women. I did know, though, that they were engaged in some unlawful scheme, and prayed my brother to take me away; but he could not shake off his bonds—I could not leave him. Good-bye: think of me kindly. We shall never meet again.”

Chester read to the last word, then turned half round and fell heavily to the floor.

It was as if the tie which bound him to life had snapped in twain.

Chapter Thirty Six.

Why and Wherefore.

The customary inquest followed, and after careful examination of the various witnesses, and a visit to the place, the jury, by the coroner’s direction, returned a verdict of “wilful murder.” Then the strange affair passed into the hands of the police. The hounds of the law were laid upon the scent, and they were active enough in their efforts to run the Clareborough family down, but without success: for they had suddenly disappeared from The Towers, as completely as they had from their town mansion, but what direction they had taken was not discovered.

They were “wanted” for the clearing up of the death of their two servants, whose bodies were identified by the domestics brought up from the country house; but the witness particularly sought for was the old housekeeper, who, it was presumed, would be able to give a pretty good account of the doings at the great mansion. But she could not be found, and the suspicion at once arose that she had been murdered by the men who made the attack upon the safe after obtaining leave to go up to town on business.

Search was therefore made in the town mansion, and also in the adjoining house with the curious underground works, but without result, and the disappearance of the old lady’s body added to the mystery.

The family were wanted, too, soon after, upon another charge—that of coining, for upon further investigation of the supposed wealth banked in the strong-room, it was found that the coins were base.

But it required a far more than superficial examination to prove this, official after official from the Mint declaring them to be genuine according to the ordinary tests. Their weight was absolutely correct, the workmanship was perfect, and they gave forth a true ring, but upon every sovereign being broken in half, though there was nothing to see, the coin appearing to be of gold with the proper amount of hardening metal added, the application of the acid test showed that something was wrong.

The examination of the bars of metal supposed to be gold, and discovered in the underground place beneath the old professor’s house, gave the explanation, the two chests delivered by the railway company helping the matter, for after the police had removed a layer or two of old books, they came upon small oaken boxes containing ingots of the base metal used in the manufacture of the coin, these being of an ingeniously compounded alloy, whose constituents, after metallurgical analysis, the Mint authorities kept secret.

Examination of the cellarage proved quite startling, from the perfection of the dies, presses, and rolling mills, all of great power, beautifully made, but of foreign production.

There was a small furnace, too, with crucibles, and other paraphernalia, the most interesting find being the small ribbons of metal from which the round counter-like flats had been punched, and some pieces in a box ready for being pressed.

These last ribbons of metal proved to have been made from the base metal ingots, after the old fashion of producing silver plate—before the introduction of the cheap electro-plating system—by which the pure metal is deposited upon the base.

Old silver-plated goods were made by taking a bar of copper and placing at top and bottom a thin slip of pure silver, which was made to adhere to the copper by heat. Then the silvered copper bar was passed through rolling mills till it was flattened to the necessary thickness, and came out with its due proportion of silver on both sides, ready for working up into shape, with the addition of pure silver finishings to the parts likely to be most worn.

The Clareboroughs’ sovereigns were, then, thus made, careful analysis proving that each ingot of alloy was prepared with the addition of one-half of pure gold, that is to say, one fourth part at top and bottom. This was fixed in the furnace; then the ingots were rolled to the right thickness, the flats punched out, and afterwards passed through the die press, to come out so perfect that for years these coins ran current by thousands, even the banking companies receiving them without demur, and it was not till long after that Chester discovered that his two-hundred-guinea fee was all perfectly base.

The learned said the production of such coin was an impossibility, but the Clareboroughs proved to them that it was not, and the Mint authorities were puzzled by the perfection attained. But at last it was remembered that about twenty years before, a very clever metallurgist and chemist, who had held a high position at the Mint, was discovered in an offence against the rules of the establishment, which resulted in his immediate discharge and degradation, he having escaped a criminal prosecution by the skin or his teeth.

This official had married a lady of the name of Clareborough, and it was suggested by an ingenious personage as being possible that to this man was due the manufacture of the base coinage.

The right nail was hit upon the head, for at the time when, some seven or eight years earlier, the Clareborough family were, through their wild expenditure, utterly penniless and hopelessly in debt, this man, after many experiments, so advanced his project that he laid it before James Clareborough, who jumped at the idea; his brother Dennis and cousin Robert, both helplessly aground and forced to enlist in cavalry regiments, eagerly joined, and in a very small way the coining was begun, but they were terribly crippled by the cost of each piece. James Clareborough was for producing something cheap, saying that it was absurd to be making imitation sovereigns the material for each of which cost ten shillings; but his uncle’s theory was that only by the great perfection of the coins could success and immunity from discovery be assured.

The uncle had the support of the two younger men, and after a while the skill begotten from practice enabled them to produce the coins more rapidly; improved machinery was obtained from Belgium; four more impecunious members of the family were sworn in to join in the secret of what they called their private bank; and at the end of three years the mansion in Highcombe Street was taken, fitted up by foreign workmen, and by degrees the machinery brought in through the book-collector’s house, and all done without a suspicion being raised.

The generally-accepted idea in fashionable sporting circles was that the wealth of the Clareboroughs came from their clever gambling transactions, and many a speculator was ruined by trying to imitate them, notably their two servants.

The various difficulties in the Clareboroughs’ way dissolved upon being attacked; wealth rolled in as fast as they liked to make it, working hard under the guidance of their uncle, the professor, who kept the position of captain over them, for in spite of James Clareborough’s overbearing ways, he gave up, as did the others, feeling that everything depended upon their being united. The old man’s occupancy of the adjoining house, where he made his genuine love for collecting old works act as a blind for the receiving of heavy cases of metal, served them well, and the servants never once had a suspicion that there was a communication between the two buildings, or that the stern old housekeeper was the professor’s wife.

Her part was well played, too. She never left the town mansion when all the servants went down to The Towers. And it was at these times that the young men came up frequently, ostensibly to visit Paris or attend meetings, but really to work hard in the well-fitted vaults to replenish the strong-room, whose contents they wasted fast.

Self-interest, as well as clannishness, held the family together. Use had made the labour of production familiar, and they might have gone on for years in their life of luxury unchecked, but for the one weak link in their chain—the strongest and most overbearing man among them. His plainly-displayed passion for his cousin had been the cause or quarrel after quarrel with Robert Clareborough, one of which culminated in blows, the use of the revolver, and Marion rushing off, believing her brother dying, for the aid of the surgeon with whose name a recent case had made her familiar.

Of the further career of the family nothing more was known in England. The police were indefatigable, but they had keen, shrewd men to deal with, and the culprits completely disappeared. Suspicions were entertained that they might have had something to do with the distribution of a great deal of base coin in Germany, but it was never traced home to them, and to all intents and purposes the name of Clareborough soon died out and the mysterious business in Highcombe Street was forgotten.

Chapter Thirty Seven.

Chester Awakens from his Dream.

It was not until after many days of wild delirium that Fred Chester unclosed his eyes with the light of reason to make things clear once more. He was in his own room, and he lay wondering why he was unable to raise a hand or turn his head without difficulty.

He lay for some time trying to think out what had happened in an untroubled way, for a restful sensation pervaded his being, and it did not seem to matter much till he became conscious of a peculiar, soft, clicking sound, which he knew at last to be caused by a needle coming in contact with a thimble.

It came from somewhere to his left behind the curtain, which was drawn to keep the sunshine which came through the open window from his face.

This afforded him fresh food for thought, and by degrees he turned his head a little, till he could lie and watch the curtain, and wonder who was beyond.

That was all. He felt no temptation to try and speak, for it seemed, in a pleasant, dreamy way, that sooner or later he would know.

It was sooner. For all at once, as he lay watching, the sewer bent forward a little, so that she could gaze at the face upon the pillow, and their eyes met, those of the nurse turning wild and dilated as she started up and hurried from the room.

“Isabel—you!” he said, in a mere whisper of a voice, but she did not stay, and the next minute, as the sick man still lay wondering, the door was opened again and Laura entered.

“Oh, Fred, Fred, my own brother!” she cried, as she sank upon her knees by the bedside and pressed her lips to the thin white hand lying outside the sheet.

“Laury,” he said, feebly; “you, dear? Wasn’t that Bel?”

“Yes, yes; but you must not talk. Oh, thank God! thank God, you know us once again!”

“Know you?” he said, smiling, “of course. Where’s aunt?”

“Downstairs, dear, asleep. She is so worn-out with watching you.”

“Watching me?” he said, with a little child-like laugh. “Yes, of course, she is always watching.”

He gently raised his hand, to place it upon his sister’s head, and it lay there passive for some time, till Laura realised that her brother was fast asleep; and then she stole away to join Isabel in the next room.

The next day Chester was a little stronger, but it was as if his mind was passing through the early stages once more, he was so child-like and weak; and it was not until the third day of his recovering his senses after the terrible brain fever through which he had passed that he remembered Isabel again, and asked if he had not seen her there.

Laura told him yes, that she had been there, and he asked no more; but as the days went on he learned all. That his sister had returned to town with his aunt and written to the servant from their hotel to pack up the clothes and books they had left behind, and received an answer back that Chester was dying of brain fever.

This brought sister and aunt to his side, to find that Isabel had been with him from the first, watching him night and day. Then they shared the task with her, till the first rays of reason began to shine out of his eyes.

“But where is she now? Why does she not come?” he said rather fretfully.

“She left directly you seemed to be out of danger, Fred.”

“But how unkind. Why should she do that?”

“Why, Fred—why?” said his sister gazing at him wonderingly. “Oh, brother, brother, you do not grasp all yet.”

Laura Chester was wrong; he did grasp it at that moment, for the past came back like a flash, and he uttered a low groan as he recalled the contents of that letter, the words seeming to stand out vividly before his eyes.

From that hour his progress towards recovery was slower than before, and he lay thinking that the words contained in that letter were true—that it was good-bye for ever and that his life was hopelessly wrecked.

The return of health and strength contradicted that, though, as a year passed away, and then another year, in the course of which time he learned that the discoveries in Highcombe Street had been forgotten by the crowd, other social sensations having blurred them out.

His own troubles had grown fainter, too, as the time wore on; but for two years he did not see Isabel again. Then they met one day by accident and another day not by accident, and by slow degrees, while tortured by shame and remorse at having, as he told himself, thrown everything worth living for away, he learned what a weak, foolish creature a woman who has once truly loved a man can be, and said, as many of us say—

“What a miserable desert this world would be if there was no forgiveness for such a sin as mine!”

The End.