Crawfordsville Weekly Journal, Crawfordsville, Montgomery County, 4 May 1894 — Page 6

THE OLD MILL MYSTERY.

By Arthur W- Marchmont. B. A.

Author of "Miser Hoadley's Secret," "Mad

eline Power," "15y Whose Hand,"

"Isa," &c. &c.

LCopyright. 1892, by the Author.]

CTIAPTEK XVXT1

•WHAT SAVANNAH HAD TO BAT.

r- "What can this mean?" said Gorringe, 5n a low, strained tone, as if speaking in pain and fear. lie had paled a little, and trembled -and his finger shook as he pointed it at the blood-stained end of the bar. It was a fearsome, ghastly weapon, all suggestive of horrible cruelty and. violence.

Mary made no answer. Sha was too overcome to be able to spenk for the moment. She leaned heavily on the table, and. moving slowly, sank upon a chair that stood by it, and bent her face upon her hand.

The man was filled with pity at the sight of her terrible, silent agony but he knew the girl better than to show ihis feelings, lie sought to rouse her to action. "Tom must be brought back," he said. "This must be faced."

There was a ring of determination in his voice, and a suggestion that Tom had onl to come back in order to i-lnnr away the mists, for which the girl was thankful.

She looked up for a moment and showed her gratitude in the glance. "Do you know where lie is?" he asked. \y

The girl shook her head. "That's bad. Any delay is full of danger. The inque.it is this afternoon, you know." "Ah!"

The exclamation seemed to be wrung from her, despite her will. Then she looked again at Gorringe, this time with an almost imploring expression, wliilo her eyes traveled again to the terrible evidence of the murder which he held in his hand.

He understood the look. "You think no mention need be made of this to-day?" ".Need it?" "No, I think perhaps not. Little more than is absolutely necessary will "be done to-day to enable the funeral to take place." "Thank you," said Mary, gratefully, interpreting this as an indication that he would keep the secret for a time.

Delay meant hope for her. Then an idea occurred to her, and, supplying a purpose, gave a direction to her thoughts, and in this way restored somewhat her self-control.

She rose from her chair, Arm in her object, and surprised Gorringe by the sudden change she showed. "I was overcome and seared at the sight of such a thing as that," she said, pointing to the weapon with a shudder "but I am better. I found it here behind these books. They are Tom's. No one goes to them except him. I don't know what it means, but whatever the truth may be it must come out. It frightens me now when I think of it but it would kill me if I were to try and keep such a matter secret."

Gorringe looked at her, but she met the look without flinching. "Do you mean you will tell the coroner's jury that you found this thing here among Tom's books?" he said, to test what she meant. "If necessary, yes," she answered. "Not to-day, unless necessary but whenever it must be done I will say how I found it. If it means what at first I thought it meant it will kill me to have to say it." She sighed deeply and put her hand to her eyes, and added, in a very low tone "Hut it •would kill me as surely to keej) silent." "My poor girl!" said the man, tenderly. "It is a fearful time for you!" "You will spare me from having to speak of this to-day, then?" she said, with a wan and feeble smile, as she held out her hand to him. "You are good to me, Mr. Gorringe." lie laid the paper with its ghastly contents on the table as he took her hand and pressed it. "I will do all in my power for you, Mary," he said, earnestly. "We had better leave it in exactly the place where it was found," said Mary, quietly. "Had I not better take it with me?" asked the man. "Why? The truth has to be told, and thus it is better placed where it was found."

He did not press the matter, and before he could say anything further the girl took his hand in hers and thanked him again for sparing her the need of speaking about the discovery at once. "You will tell me all that happens, or that you hear?" she said, as they separated at the door and he promised.

She closed the door of the cottage and locked it, as soon as he had gone, and went straight back into the parlor to carry out her 'plan. She did not stop to think, but took the parcel from its place immediately, and going into the kitchen thrust it, without unfolding the paper, into the middle of the fire grate, and watched the flames as they consumed the paper.

Then it occurred to her that she was making a blunder. If the whole of the bar were burned, it might alter its appearance so much as to defeat the very object she had.

Her plan was to lead Gorringe to think he had mistaken paint for blood if he found the whole bar had been thus treated he would immediately see he had been tricked. She pulled the bar out again with the tongs, therefore, and stripping off the charred paper, left only the stained portion in the fire.

Then she began to think of other matters. The story she meant to manufacture must be circumstantial, and must be supported by details. For this purpose, there must be something in the house amongst Tom's belongings which wpiiiiL bear ji_ out. She de­

termined, therefore, that she would getsome red paint and lea.ve it about in Tom's bedroom, together with such odds and ends as would suggest that he had been using it.

While she was thus engaged she was kept from thinking too closely of what the discovery of the weapon really meant, and, partly with this object, she hurried on with this work as quickly as possible, and did not rest until it was completed, and she had replaced the short bar of steel, changed as she had designed, and wrapped in a sheet of foolscap paper, taken from some she found in Tom's bedroom, which had no connection with the accounts of the sick fund, and had certainly never been at the mill.

When she had finished, a further idea struck her—to add to the complication by giving the bar thus changed into Reuben Gorringe's own hands for him to keep and she saw at once the sooner this was done the better. She had taken a very short time to do what she bad planned, and she wrapped up the bar at once and carried it to the mill, hoping to iind the manager there.

Reuben Gorringe was there and came out to her. "I have thought, after all, that it would be better for you to have this, Mr. Gorringe," she said, giving it into his hands, "that you may keep it in a safe place." lie took it at once and began to unfold the outer paper with she had wrapped it. The girl was afraid he meant to examine it again. "Can I look into the oiliee?" she asked, unable to think of anything else likely to draw away his attention from the parcel.

She was successful. "For what purpose?" he said, quickly, stopping in the act of unwrapping the paper and merely glancing at the writing and figures—Mary had taken care to substitute for the original wrapper a paper which was covered with Tom's figures. "I want to get a clear understanding of all the dreadful facts," she answered. "Will you tell them to me?" "You can come into the inner office if you like."

The girl thought it would be well for her to know where he put the fateful little parcel she had brought, and, making an effort to fight with a sort of half-hysterical dread that affected her, went with him. "1 am nervous," she said, glancing up at hiir., and laying her hand on his arm as she spoke. "There is nothing to be nervous about," he answered, smiling. "I am nervous while you hold that," she said, pointing to the bar he was carrying in his hand. "Put it away."

He smiled as he might have done when humoring the whim of a child. "I will keep it here," he said, putting it in a drawer, which he locked. "You are very good," she said. "You will keep the promise you made?" "Certainly. That will never be moved till sticli time as we agree that it shall be produced." •'Now will you tell me all that is said about the—the scene of last night?" "You can see everything from here, if you can bear to look," answered Gorringe.

Before he had finished the telling, some one came to speak to him, and Mary went away.

She thought over everything she had heard, and tried to look at it all os it affected her lover, but she could not see that there was any evidence of any kind against him, beyond the fact that he had quarreled with the mill-owner —except only that which she had destroyed in reference to the steel bar. As she thought of this, she was glad that she had done so.

But this thought led her to consider that she had had no time since she had made the discovery to think about the real significance of that piece of evidence. Did it mean that Tom had gone in hot temper to the mill that he had seen Mr. Coode and quarreled with him and perhaps in auger had struck the blow which had killed him, and then, hastening home, had put the weapon in the place where she had found it. and fled away in the night? "If so, why should lie have put it in such a place?"

It was something LO be solved afterwards. Why had he fled from the village? That was the first question to be answered. And there was outy one person who could answer it to her —Tom himself.

There was another who could say something— Savannah Morbyn. She could say whether Tom had gone with her. And the dilemma which the answer^ to that question suggested to the distracted girl made her more wretched than ever.

If Tom had gone with Savannah, then he was false to her. If he had not gone with her. then what could be the reason of his flight?

But she was utterly miserable and broken, and for two days, during which no news came except the bad news that vague suspicion was beginning to point to her lover's direction— she was comfortless and disconsolate.

Then a. spark of light flashed. Sac vannah came home on the Monday evening. Mary went to her at once. "Where have you been, Savannah?" she asked and something in her manner revealed by some instinct to the other what feelings prompted the visit and the qtiestion.

She turned her handsome face and flashed her large eves, bright with a menacing gleam, upon the other. Then she laughed, as if rejoicing at the girl's misery. "What is that to you? Can't I go where I please?" "Of course you can." "Then, why do you come bothering me with your questions?" Then she burst suddenly into a loud laugh. "You are a fool, Mary a great fool. You had better give him up." "What do you mean?" cried Mary, angrily. "Oh! what do I mean, I wonder, and whom do I mean? Bah, you area fool! But you are too good for him—too rp"d and too goody. You knovj

1

whom I mean." "Savannah!" exclaimed Mary, in her wonderment at the other's manner. "Savannah," she replied, mocking Mary's tone. "Savannah. Well, what is it you want to know from Savannah?" Then her manner changed suddenly to her usual softness. "You are making yourself miserable, fretting. What is it? Tell me frankly, like yourself, and I will tell you all you want to know." "I want to know whether you have seen Tom Roylance while you have been away," said Mary, after a moment's pause. "Wherf should I see Tom—your Tom?" said the other girl, laughing again, mockingly, but softly. "I didn't ask where but whether you have seen him at all?" said Mary, looking steadily at her. "I heard you," replied Savannah, returning the look, but dropping her eyes before Mary's gaze, as she answered, laughing lightly again, "and I didn't say whether I'd seen him .it all, but asked where I should see him. So we are quits—see?" "Do you mean you won't tell me?" "Do you mean you think I've been away with your lover?"

Mary flushed crimson at this. "And suppose I say I have what then?" said Savannah, quickly. "Then I should ask you where he is?" answered Mary, her voice quivering partly with passion, partly with pain and the effort it cost her to restrain herself under the other's sneers. "What sweet humility! what touching gentleness! After that it would be cruelty to keep you in suspense. No, I haven't seen Tom, and don't want to see him and I don't know where he is, and don't care. Does that satisfy you?" "When did you last see him?" "When you were at his cottage. Have you any more questions to ask?" "What is the matter with you?" asked Mary, going to licr. "You are so strange." "Strange! What do you mean? How dare you say that?" she cried, fiercely. "You come here to spy and pry upon me, badgering me with question upon question about every this, that, and the other and because I don't choose to answ«r everything directly, you turn on me and call me like that. I've not seen your lover I don't want your lover I wish I'd never seen him, or you, or anyone in the place. I hate you all. Go away," she said, with an angry gesture "Go away! for if you stop here I rmry be tempted to do you a mischief. Go away, you spy!" Then, as if excitement had spent itself, she stopped and burst into a violent storm of sobbing.

Surprised, hurt and somewhat afraid, Mary left the room. As she walked homewards, the thoughts which gradually separated themselves from the too tangled maze of wonderment which Savannah's extraordinary conduct haft caused, were first intense relief and pleasure that Tom was love-loyal to her and, secondly, profound perplexity as to the reason for his sudden and mysterious flight.

If only she could know where he had gone. That was her chief concern now.

He must be in some place, she thought, where the news of what had happened at the mill on Friday had not reached him.

He must have gone away out of fear of what was threatened at the mill. But if so, why had he not written her to go to liku?. At home a great surprise awaited her. On the table lay a letter for her and she felt it was from her lover. She grasped it with almost hungry eagerness, and read the address with brightened eyes and flushed cheek.

She had guessed right. She knew the handwriting well enough. The letter was from her lover.

CHAPTER XIX.

'TW1 XT LOVE AND DOUBT.

Her heart beating high with strangely mingled emotions, Mary tore the envelope open "Dear Mary—I am very miserable. I have broken my promise to you about stopping to face out the trouble but that is not the worst. I wish now with all my heart that I had taken your advice but there—I cannot tell you all that has happened. Some day I will. I am going away either to America or Australia. I cannot stay in the country after what has happened but I must see you if I can before I go. Can you forgive me enough to come and meet me? I am here in Manchester, living at 10 Bolton street. Wrill you come and meet me, if only for the last time before I go? I am utterly wretched. I want to know that you can forgive me, and I want to hear it from your own lips. Then I can go across the sea with a lighter heart. Come Tuesday. I'll meet all the chief trains that you can come by at Exchange station. Do come. TOM." "Across the sea!" That was the sentence which at first held her, and the thought of it stabbed the poor girl to the heart. She sat for a minute or two perfectly still in dumb misery. "Across the sea!"—he to all out his life in one world she to live in another— a life of work, hopeless, wearying, void of love.

After a time she read the letter again, and the second reading was not so fruitful of emotion. Her reasoning faculties were less deadened by her feelings and she was surprised that Tom did not refer to what had happened at the mill, nor did he give the cause of his having left Walkden Bridge.

With this thought uppermost, she read it again, and found that although there were one or two vague sentences which might or might not be taken to refer to the tragedy at the mill, they were not such as he would have written. "I cannot tell you all that has happened. ... I wish now with all my heart I had taken your advice. 1 cannot stay in the country after what has happened." These sentences were just what anyone might have written who was referring to pome. Qlher rieas-oq. for leaving the

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town, and not to the tragedy, What was it, then, that he could not tell?

That Tom would not stay in the country when he felt that he had been branded as a suspected thief, was a natural enough decision for him to make but what if the letter did mean that he had heard the news and was going away in consequence? How was it possible that he had not heard? All of the evening papers on Saturday had been full of it the morning papers that day had had long reports the very fact of the murder having taken pln.ee in such a spot as a mill was enough to make everyone in Lancashire talk about it.

She could get to no solution, except that she would go and see him the very first thing next day. She took out paper and began a letter to tell him so. But she did not finish it, as she reflected that now it might not be safe to write to him by name. Then she destroyed the letter.

She was tearing it up when some one came to the cottage and knocked. It was Reuben Gorringe, and as soon as lie entered the door Mary saw by the expression on his face that he had important news. "You have news?" she said, glancing at him, somewhat nervously. v, "Savannah is back." he said. "I know. I have seen her," answered Mary. "You know that she has not seen Tom, then?" he asked. "Yes, I am glad of it," replied the gii'l. "Glad?" echoed Gorringe. "Very glad," said Mary, confidently. "Do you know what it means?" •'Yes. It means that Tom has been wronged in regard to her." "Why did he run away if not with her?" asked Gorringe, sharply, looking at her as he delivered the thrust. "Because Mr. Coode and you told him to go if he wished to avoid proceeding against him on the other matter. You drove him to go away," she answered, readily. "You believe, then, that his only object in going away was this desire to avoid the consequences which Mr. Coode mentioned?" he asked, after a pause. "I have no reason to believe anything else." "My poor lass!" he said, sighing as he spoke.

The girl looked up questioningly and anxious. "Yes," he said in answer to her look. "I have news, bad news. 'Tis hard on mo to have to be the bearer of bad news to you it will turn 3'ou against me, Mary." "!Nay! I would never turn against anyone for the sake of the truth," answered the girl. "What is the bad news?" "Something that seems to give the motive for that deed at the mill," he answered. "Against whom does it point?" she asked, almost breathlessly, her eyes wide open in apprehension. "Against Tom Roylance." "AVhat is it?" she asked, brave but pale, and facing the man. "Something was taken away which concerned no one but Tom," he answered. He paused, and then added: "Papers that related to that money business."

It was a heart-thrust, and the girl went cold. "AVhat papers were they?" she asked after awhile, her voice hoarse and low, and her lips quivering. "They were the papers which proved the case," answered Gorringe. "There were the accounts, on separate sheets, the receipts given by Tom for the money he had had and the receipts he had taken from others for what he had paid. The former included those for which no account was ever given in by hir" "Who missed them?" she asked, when she had time to understand what this meant. "The police, when they searched," answered Gorringe.

The use of the word was another sharp stab. "How did the—how did they know the papers were there?" "They went over all the papers, and these were missing." "Yes, but who missed them? Who knew that they were ever in Mr. Coode's possession, and on that night particularly?" "I did. I gave them myself into Mr. Coode's hands."

The girl thought she could see a glimpse of hope in this. "But you have not told the—anyone of this, have you? You are Tom's friend and mine," she spoke, eagerly, and a light flashed in her eyes as she touched his hand. "No, I have told no one yet," was his answer.

Mary took his hand and pressed it, and then carried it to her lips, and looked at him with a light of sweet gratitude. "You are good indeed—a true friend —a staunch friend. It is not such bad news only you and I know it." She spoke with a smile so wistful and sad that it touched his heart. He tried to respond so as to reassure her but he could not. He had what he knew would be much worse news than any yet told.

She was quick to read his manner and then sought to buoy up the hope she had expressed. "You will not tell anyone, will you?" she asked, almost pleading to him "You will promise me this?" "I will promise, if it be possible and," he added in a low warning voice, "if it be of any use." "What do you mean? Ah, there is more behind. What is it? Please, what is the worse? Tell me the worst," she cried, in a voice through which the pain and dread were audible. "The police have found a witness who saw Tom go into the mill at about ten o'clock on Friday night," answered the man, in slow, distinct tones.

She tried bravely to keep up an appearance of indifference, even to Reuben Gorringe, friend though he said was .was..

"What does that prove?" phe asked, glancing up at him with almost as much fear as if he had been a judge. "It shows that he was in the mill that night—on the last that Mr. Coode was seen alive—almost at the hour when he was thought to have been— to have died," he said, checking himself and changing the expression he was going to use. "But does anyone suppose that if Tom Roylance went to the mill to—to do any such act as—as this, he would have gone publicly for all the world to see? People, when they go to do wrong, don't carry a lamp to show others what thej7 are doing, I suppose, do they?" She spoke fast, trying to feel as she spoke. "I don't say he went publicly," answered the man. "Mary, my lass," he said, suddenly, taking her hand and clasping it firmly. "It's no use struggling against this. Heaven knows, I'd spare you the knowledge of it all, if I could. Tom was seen to break into the mill from the back—round by Watercourse lane you know the spot. The police know it all now: and as if that were not enough, the traces of the window having been forced have been seen easily enough, while close by the window inside the mill this was found."

As he spoke he took out of his pocket a thin neck scarf, with Tom's name on it.

Mary recognized it instantly. She herself had given it to him. "Who found that?" she asked, just in a whisper. "I did," said Gorringe. "I have not shown it to anyone yet," he added, as if anticipating her next question.

The girl bui ied her face in her hands again, profoundly moved by what had been told her too full of distress to speak. Then she rose and held out her band. "I cannot yet understand all that you have told me. I am bewildered. Forgive me if I ask you to leave me alone now—unless, that is," with sudden wistful pain and fear in her voice, "unless there is anything else to tell me." "No, Mary, I have nothing more to tell you. I have brought enough bad news for one visit. But I have something I should like to say before I go. You know where Tom is. Go to him." "What do you mean?" asked Mary, in sudden alarm, showing the man by the expression on her face that he had guessed aright. "I thought 3'ou would be sure to know. I will not ask you. If you do not know, never mind if you do, then think of it. Go to him, ask him to tell you frankly what all this means, to give you the fullest information of every movement of his on that night, and to say whether he can at once face an inquiry. If he can let him come back at once if he cannot, then we, his friends here, can help him to a place of safety until the time comes when all can be cleared."

When she was alone Mary gave herself up, without restraint, to the storm of feeling that swept over her. The terror, inspired by the news which Reuben Gorringe had brought, was intensified by the air of reluctance with which lie had told it, and by the infinite kinduess and friendliness with which he had spoken at the end, and had offered his advice that she should go and question her lover.

Btit to go and question him on all the points of doubt and suspicion which Reuben Gorringe had suggested would seem like accusing him and doubting him at the same time. Did she doubt him? She told herself over and over again that he could not have done anything so atrocious but one after another the accusing facts which Gorringe had told her rose up and refused to be explained away.

Thus it was with fear, and 3'et hope, that she looked forward to the interview with Tom on the morrow.

CHAPTER XX THE ARREST.

On the following morning Mary felt much calmer and was able to take a more hopeful view di We facts "which overnight had seemed so black and so threatening.

Her faith in her lover had strengthened, and although she could not see her way definitely to meet the charges, her confidence in Tom's ability to do that was increased.

If the police were, as Reuben Gorringe had said, really beginning to suspect Tom, he must come back and give the lie to the accusation. At the same time it was possible for innocent men to need time in which to prove their innocence and it was therefore necessary that she should see Tom without at the same time doing anything that would be likely to hasten any steps being taken against him.

She looked out, therefore, at the Walkden Bridge station, as well as at Presburn, where she had to change carriages, to see that she was not followed and this act of itself made her somewhat nervous and flurried.

At Manchester, being quite unused to the rush and crowd of a big station, the girl felt bewildered, and gazed about lier in every direction, trying to catch a glimpse of her lover.

Her heart gave a great leap as she caught sight of him. They clasped hands and stood still in silence for fully a minute and the girl's heart was sad to see the change which even three days had wrought in him. He looked haggard, and worn, and worried while there was a dejected, anxious look of suffering in his face that filled her with infinite pain.

At first she longed to let her pity and sympathy find vent in words but then her woman's wit checked her and she forced all the expression of alarm and concern out of her face and smiled. "I am so glad to see you, Tom," she said. "So glad, dear. I was feeling quite lost in this great crowd. But now I feel safe and contented when my hand rests again on your arm."

Then she pressed closely to his side. "Let us get out of this lot of pushing folks and go where we can be by ourselves and have one of our long talks and thus she drew him out of the crQ\vxLand^.\viu:fiamJilia.fillatjLQiu

"I^on't know where to go to, lass,"" he Slid, after they ha'd gone some •distance. "I have an idea," she answered. "Let us get on the tram and go to the Botanical gardens."

On the tramcar she talked and laughed about what they saw in the streets as they passed, so that the man might overcome the reserve and confusion which she could see were disturbing him and when they reached the gardens the change in his manner told her that he was somewhat more at ease.

They walked arm in arm through some of the walks in the place, until they came to a seat in a quiet sidewalk, and there they sat down. Then her forced courage gave way a little and she did not know how to begin. But the man had a question which he had been longing to ask her from the moment of their meeting and with a return of the anxious worried look to his face, he turned his head this way and that, as if to make sure that they were not overheard, and said in a low, nervous voice: "Is it true, Mary?" "Is what true?" "What I read in the newspapers yesterday about about Mr. Coode— that he was—that he was killed in the mill?"

The question let a bright light of happy relief into the girl's heart and filled her with an absolute reassurance of her confidence in him. "Yes, it is true terribly true, dear. When did you see it?" "Yesterday morning, just after I had posted iny letter to you. Who did it? Is it known yet?" "No nobody knows yet!" "When did it happen? Is anyone suspected?" he asked in a quick, hurried voice. "Some time on Friday night it happened. It is not quite certain when, lie was seen alive somewhere about eight o'clock on Friday evening and when Jake Farnworth went to the mill to fettle up something in the engine shed, he found him dead." She did not answer his second question, but he repeated it. "Do they suspect anyone?" "They've hardly begun to make an inquiries yet," she answered, evading it. "Are you sure of that, lass?" he asked, anxiously. "I thought they might perhaps suspect me." He said this with a forced and uneasy laugh that grated painfully on the girl's ear. "Why you, Tom? Why should they suspect you? Did you go to the mill that night, as we arranged you should? I have often wondered whether you did." "No, lass, I didn't go. I started to go, but I never went." "I wish now you had," she said. "You might have saved his life. This might never have happened if you'd gone there. Why didn't you go?" "I don't know. I suppose I was a bit. afraid of facing him, or I didn't think any good would come of it. He was so dead sure of my having tampered with his money." "Is that why you came away, then?" "Yes, mostly, that and other things." "AVliat other things?" "Oh, I don't want to talk about them. Never mind them now. I did come away, and ever since I saw what had happened that night, I've been downright afraid lest they should think I'd cut it on account of—of old Coode's death." "I wish you'd tell me what other things led to your coming away, dear," said Mary, gently. "Why? It can't do any good that I can see," he answered, somewhat, sharply. "I've been a fool, Mary," he said, in a low, rather ashamed voice, "but I've given it the go-by now. Don't ask me any questions about that anyway not yet. I'll tell j'ou some da3r. I've been a mad fool, but it's all over, if you can forgive me. I'm going away, as I told you in the letter, and I don't want you to think hardly of me, lass but I'd rather 3-ou didn't ask IT* anything about that," he said, dejectedly. "I'll only ask 3?ou one thing. You're sure you weren't in the mill that night, Tom?" "Sure? Of course, I'm sure! Who says different? I wasn't far away from the mill, but I didn't go into it." "Then if anyone saj's they saw you going iuto the place that night about ten o'clock from the Watercourse-lane, it wouldn't be true, would it?" "No, it would be a thundering lie, whoever said it," he answered, vehemently. Then he added, quickly and shrewdly: "Then I'm right. They do suspect me, eh?" "What scarf had you on that night, Tom?" she asked, passing over his last question. "Why, just what I have on now, to be sure," he answered, readily. "But what do you mean by such a question as that?" "Fd better tell you plainly. They say you were seen getting into the mill that night a1» about ten o'clock and that a handkerchief of yours—one I gave you, Tom—was picked up inside the mill, close by the place." "Who found it?" "I believe Reuben Gorringe did." "Ourse him he's a traitor, I believe!" cried Tom, fiercely. "Nay, Tom he's a friend. Directly the affair at the mill had happened he came round to say that he wanted you at the mill, and that you were not to think anything more of what had happened in the afternoon between Mr. Coode and you. He's a friend. "Does he know you've come to see me?" asked the man, suspiciously. "He doesn't know it but he guessed I should come, and he advised me to tell you to come back to Walkden Bridge and face matters out, but that if not he would do whatever he could to help you to wait until the explanation could be given." "Explanation," cried Tom, "what explanation? What does he say against me?

(To Be Continued.)