Crawfordsville Weekly Journal, Crawfordsville, Montgomery County, 13 March 1896 — Page 11

TR4NK BARRETT

•Orr«l«MT, BY o^«s«uu OO. ANO pubucnxp *Y SMOIAk ARRANQKUtNT. "All, my poor master! Tliat killed the joy in bis heart, for look you, he loved you more than you could have believed—more than I knew, perhaps more than he knew himself. lie was no longer merry and cheerful as be had been lie did not sing when he catr.e from his atelier. And the house v, as as some one lay dead in it. It znelt r. one's heart to see him sitting alone at the tabic. He would have your cover laid, and we spoke as if you were coming back soon. But for my part 1 felt that there was more unhappiness to come—that Providence had sent this warning to prepare us for still greater calamity. That was something more than superstition and the fancy of an old women. Before the end of the month a second warning came. The master's work was destroyed for a" second time." .. "The group of statuary?" "Yes—the beautiful group that be had toiled at so long and patiently. It was in the kiln. The master saw the fires lit and staid in tho pottery till past midnight watching the burning. I was sitting up. for he had eaten no dinner, and 1 had a hot. supper to serve. Well, inon Dieu! he had scarcely seated himself at the table when we heard a terrible crash, and a boy running in from the pottery cried out that the kilu had fallen in." "Ilad it fallen in by accident?" "No, for when the ruins were cleared away traces of dynamite were found. When M. Kavanagh saw U, he said: 'The mark of the czar's hand is here. This has been done by the Russian police.' 'They have not beaten me yet,' replied my poor master, and that very day he began to model the group again. Then that good M. Kavanagh prayed .him to abandon the attempt, or at least to turn his efforts in some new direction, lest worst misfortunes should follow. I beard him say one day: 'These warnings are not to bo "mistaken. Next time these agents of the czar—these hired assassins—may be ordered to destroy not your work, but you.' 'Yes, that may be,' answered the master. 'If I do not yield, the czar will have me killed perhaps, but the disgrace shall be on his side, not on mine.' And he shook his head to every argument, forking on to the last. Ah, how he worked! One could see that he had nothing else to live for, my poor master. "But that, was not for long. It seemed as if the czar knew his intention and had resolved tostrike the blow before the work could be linisned. One night—only a fortnight after the kiln had been destroyed— they came to the house, the assassins, and rang the bell. They must have known that I had gone up to bed, and that Taras himself would answer the ring"

She broke off suddenly as the sound of wheels on the drive reached our ears. Taras had returned, and she went out to receive him, leaving me still in ignorance of the calamity that had befallen him.

CHAPTER XLII.

WHAT HAD BEFAU.K.V TAIJAS? I would have sprung up and retained Mere Lucas to learn the worst and eud my suspense, but fear unnerved .me and maue me powerless to move or act.

The carriage drew up before the door. 1 heard Mere Lucas' voice, and then Taras spoke in reply. I could not catch his words, but there was nothing in the tone of his voice to indicate that appalling change for which I had been prepared. What bad the men—Kavanagh's agents—done to him that night when they called him to the door? Had they inflictcd such injuries as to deprive him of reason? That was the greatest calamity I could imagine.

He was in the ball now. Every word he spoke was distinctly audible. "Oh, there was plenty of time." he said, "we had nearly a quarter of an hour to wait before the train came in. The air is soft this morning. Spring has come again, mother. I will go in the garden till lunch time."

There was nothing in this to signify mental derangement the only thing that struck me was that he spoke with less decision than of old, that there was an~accent of dependence in his tone. And 1 observed that the sound of his footstep was not the sa^ne. At one time 1 should have distinguished it from a thousand, now 1 should not have known it for his. It had been firm and light and quick, now it was slow and heavy and shuffling, like the step of old age. Mere Lucas went out with him into the garden at the back of "the house, passing so near the room where I sat that I heard the rustle of her skirt. Did he need her support that 8he accompanied him step by step? What had they done to him? Was he maimed for life?

As their voices faded away, suspense became intolerable. I stole cautiously out of the room and along the passage leading to the garden at the back. Approaching the door, I perceived Mere Lucas coming alone across the lawn toward me. She saw me and raised her finger to bid me be silent then, stopping, she glanced back, raised her two hands and let them fall in pity and beckoned me to advance.

I went as far as the door, and there on the threshold I stopped spellbound. Taras sat on a garden seat on the opposite side of the lawn, bis hands folded idly on his knee. It -vyas strange to see hi in, of old so nervously active, sitting motionless without a book, a paper or sketchbook in his hand— with nothing to occupy his eager mind, but it was not that which made my heart stand still. His face was turned directly toward mo and yet he took no notice of me. 1 moved forward a step, stretching out my hands involuntarily, and. still he sat unmoved and motionless. Then I knew what had befallen him—what those hired villains had done that night. He was blind they had destroyed his eyes.

My emotion was too deep and terrible for tears. I could only stand there clasping my hands in an agony of pity.

The tears were running down Mere Lucas' cheeks as she came to my side and laid her hand in sympathy upon my arm. She would have led me away, but I shook my head, refusing to go. "He will sit like that for hours," she whispered, "listening to the birds. It is all he can do."

Silently I crossed the lawn and dropped upon my knees before him, awestrickeu by his passive unconsciousness, his helplessness and the calm, sad resignation in his noble face. In that sweet presence no bitter feeling could enter, my heart.. But iwhen I.left him my soul was stirred with vindictive passion, and a great craving for vengeance upon the remorseless villain who had wrecked the life o£ his friend possessed me. I vowed that Kavanagh should be brnnarht to ancount. that he .should.suffer

as he had "made Taras suffer, and that if justice refused to punish him then my hand should strike the blow.

This burning passion sharpened my wits, whipped up my ilagging energy and reanimated my courage. The necesssityof secrecy was more evident to me now than it had been hitherto. "You will not betray me to any one in the world?" I said to Mere Lucas. "Is it possible, my poor friend she asked. "Is it likely that I should expose your misfortunes when .1 myself am chiefly to blame for all that has befallen you? Besides, you forget that I still love you, my dear. Nay, I will do anything in the world to help you." ''Could I stay here?" 1 asked eagerly, seized with the unreasoning desire to live again under the same roof with Taras and to watch hi in day by day, even if 1 migut not speak to him. "To be sure, my dear," answered Mere Lucas gladly. "Thoro uro half dozen spare rooms, and the matter has begged me again and again to havo my cousin, Mme. Leroy, down here. Who iB to know you are not my couHin? Why, truly you may Hay. Mile. .Judith will uot be back before Saturday afternoon. That gives you two whole days." "No more." 1 said, with a sinking heart. "Why, my dear, you may stay longer if you think it would be wise. But look you, mademoiselle, Judith has sharp eyes, mid when one looks at you closely it is clear you are not so old us your gray hair. And mademoiselle has feelings like any other woman, so you er.n't expect her to look kindly on you, even if she consents to stay in the same house with you."

I ai'.w how unreasonable, how impracticable my idea was, but for all that it was uot easy to abandon it. My heart was wrung, not with mere womanly jealousy, but with a sense of my terrible loss. It was dreadful to think that another had taken my place iu Taras' heart, and that I could do nothing for him, nothing whatever, at a time when a woman's love and sympathy were needed to brighten his long days of darkness. And my grief was not lessened by tho reflection that 1 had lost all that was dear to me in trying to save him. At such a time one cannot feel that virtue is its own reward.

This was Wednesday. I promised that I would come again that evening or the next day and then hurried off, eager to see Mr. Pelham and learn what chance there was of sending the money to Siberia.

My heart misgave me the moment I entered the solicitor's office, lie was not nearly so eager to get me into his inner office as he had been the day before, nor so smilingly confident as when we parted, and there was a depressing absence of enthusiasm as he closed the door and slowly seated himself at his writing table. "I have seen Mr. Lazarus," he began, crossiuy Lis legs, clasping his bunds on his knee and gently twiddling one thumb round the other, "and I regret to say that he firmly declines to move in-this affair until he receives tho cash." "But did you tell him that the money would certainly be paid?" "Yes, madame. I spared no pains to convince him on that point. 1 even went so far as to assure him that the order was as safe as government stock, and that I would guarantee the payment of a liberal bonus in consideration of the advance." "What did he say to that?" "Well, madame, he v^ry pertinently asked why, if I were so sure of obtaining this advantage for him, I did not avail myself of the chance and advance the i3C0 on my own account." "Ah, we never thought of that." "It certainly had not entered into my calculations," observed Mr. Pelham, with a serious shake of the head. "Can't you advance the money?" I asked eutreatingly. "I could, of course, but there are two or three serious objections to that proceeding. One of these Mr. Lazarus pointed out in his particularly clear and businesslike way. He said he had very little doubt about the genuineness of the affair and knew that the money was to be employed in assisting the escape of au exile from Siberia. 'But,' said he, 'the escape may not be pulled off, and then where are you?' Obviously, if Mr. Gordon does not return, he cannot pay the sum advanced on his behalf—either caoitul or interest." "We must find sonic other means ot rais-' ing the money." "Exactly tho words of Mr. Lazarus—a most sensible man of business, and really quite anxious to do what he can. 'Here is a telegram form,' says he 'I have only to write the address and one little word on it and send it with three or four shillings to the nearest postoiffice and in less than an hour perhaps this exile may be oil his way to London. That one little word shall be written and sent the moment 1 see the necessary indispensable £800.'" "Cannot- you help me?" I exclaimed in desperation. "You mentioned another name in our last interview. If you would authorize me to apply to any one—any friend who might advance the amount"

He paused, but 1 mada no reply. My thoughts were already turned in the direction ho indicated. It §eemed as if I must tell Taras at all hazards. Might I not obtain the money from him without exposing Gordon to the risk of rearrest at the frontier? The cloud that darkened my mind suddenly broke, and brightening with the ray of hope I started to my feet and said: "There is a friend who will give me this money. I will ask him for it myself."

CHAPTER XLin.

I MAKE MTSEI.F KNOWX TO TARAS. I returned to the Grange that evening. Mere Lucas, though she could not conceal the change in her sentiments toward me, did her best to make me feel at home in her sitting room and supply all my physical requirements. For the first time she permitted herself to sit down to table with mo, and we shared the same dish that had come from her master's table. There was significance in this. In her opinion I ranked no longer in social distinction with Taras and Mile. Judith. "l?ill your glass again, my dear," said she. "The master begrudges me nothing, as you know, and when I told him I expected Mrae. Leroy he bade me fete you."

Presently she left me to answer the dining room bell. She returned with the coffee service, her under lip raised and rueful misgiving in her face. "He wants to see you," she whispered. 'Tell Mme. Leroy,' says he, 'that it will give me great pleasure if she will come in and talk to me.' I begged him to excuse you, as you have a headache and are not tit for society tonight, but I do not see how you are to get out of it tomorrow. We ought to have thought of this beforehand." "I have thought of it. I want to speak to him." "Mon Dieu! I didn't think you had grown so hardy. Look you, yo|P will have to mumble your words finely, or he will know you by your voice, and then what will happen?" "If he cannot forgive me, I must bear it," •aid I. "But whether he forgive me or not

I am sure"he will never ten any one or my disgrace, and that is all I fear." "No, that is certain. You can count upon bis saying nothing about you to any one as surely as you can rely upon my silence. Nevertheless it's as good as confessing everything to make yourself known to him. However," she added, with a sigh of satisfaction, "thank God, there's your clothes, that I brought away from Lambeth, up stair3 in the press, and all your linen as sweet and clean as hands can make them."

Cleau linen and a neat appearance were very much more in accordance with her views of true repentance than sackcloth and ashes, ami I doubt if she could have felt genuine respect for any one in such a wayworn and bedraggled conditiouasmine.

Soon after breakfast the- next morning she led me into the dining room where Taras was sitting, and having hastily introduced me as her cousin, Mine. Leroy, she as speedily withdrew, leaving me to tako tho consequences upon my-own shoulders.

After begging mo to be seated Taras said: "Wo would have sent a trap to the station if we had known you were coining last night. It is a long way from the station. I hope you feel better thb morning, madame."

I had intended to disguise my voice, but my heart revolted against deceiving my dear, stricken friend, and, after a moment's hesitation, in my natural voice I answered "Yes."

At that one word, faint as it

twas,

he

started, and turning his head slowly toward me—for he had mistaken my position in the room—he faced me. For a full minute lie was silent, his closed eyelids quivering as if in conflict with the instinctive effort to penetrate the eternal shroud that hid me from him. "Mme. Leroy?" he said iuterruptively, with emotion in his voice. "Yes."

He bent his head to catch my response, and there was another pause.

He bent his head to cntr.li my response, and. there teas another pause. "You have come alone, Mme. Leroy?" he asked. "Yes." "Thero wasno friend you cared to bring'" "No."

These faltering monosyllables must have betrayed me, even if he doubted the evidence of my voice, but the belief that I wished to remain unrecognized was sufficient to withhold him from discovering his knowledge. "You are yoing to stay with us, Mme. Leroy?" he asked. "No I think of leaving this afternoon," I stammered.

He made no reply, but a look of pain came into his face, and I was silent, too, not having the courage to tell him why I bad come. But he must have concluded that I was in trouble and in need of help, for presently, drawing some unopened letters from the inner pocket of his coat he said: "These letters came last night. Will you open them and tell me who they are from?"

They were from sympathizing friends in London. I read the names and addresses to him. "Have you opened them all?" he asked. "Yes." "I hoped there was one from a friend—a dear friend of bygone days—from whom I have been hoping and expecting to bear by every post. Do you mind looking through lb em again?"

I understood his motive in giving me the letters now, and seizing the opportunity I asked him if it was from a poor woman in distress that he expected to hear —a nameless creature who dared not show her face. "It cannot be my little friend," he said sadly. "She would not fear me. We were comrades, she and I, and should be stillcompanions in adversity. To think that I could judge her harshly is to judge me yet more harshly." "She does not fear you, but she dreads those who have less charity." "She is iu trouble, you tell me. Can I help her?" "She hopes you will. Her happinessmore than she can tell you—depends on that." "Tell me what she wants." "She is in need of money." "Does her happiness depend on that?" "Yes." "You are sure she asks for nothing more than money?" S "Nothing."

He bowed his head as if to conceal the pain that came into his face. Then, quickly recovering himself, he said gently: "Poor soul, if money can make her happy, Bhe shall have it."

He ,._c, felt bis way to a writing table and seated himself before it. From a drawer he took out a checkbook, opened it, and passing his loug, nervous fingers over the paper he slowly wrote his name in the right hand corner. Then he tore out the check, and returning to his former seat gave it to me. "I have left it open," he said. "Ask her to write in—my unhappy little friend—the amount she needs, and tell her, in case she d'oubts it still, that her secret is safe in my keeping and that she has made me happy by remembering me in her distress."

I took the check, faltering some incoherent words of gratitude. "You will stay with us a day or two?" he asked. "No I must go away today." "Have you far to go home?" "I am going to London," he replied evasively. "You are staying with friends there?" "No I have no friend to go to." "Are you quite alone?" "Quite."

He was silent for a moment, seeming greatly shocked by his discovery. Then he said: "But you have friends." "None but Mere Lucas and"

He held out his hand quickly, and as it closed on mine a smile broke over his face. "And me," he said. "Oh, if my ear and

reason deceived me i.ue sense oi touch would tell me whose hand this is I hold. Let us give up this game of crooked questions and cross answers and be ourselves. Have faith in me, little friend."

For some minutes we sat thus, with our hands locked, and neither spoke. Some such feeling of mingled joy and sympathetic sorrow as choked my utterance may have silenced him. Perhaps ho was waiting for me to cbnlide my sorrows to him— to pour out the history of past troubles that he'might give me con-fort. But 1 dared not answer that, silent appeal, and the tear that slipped from my cheek and fell upon his hand as 1 bent over it was all the confession I could make. "Is there nothing 1 can do to help you?" he asked in a tone of deep agitation. •'Nothing—nothing more than you have done. No one can help me. 1 need no help now. The worst is past. Better days must come. Then I may tell you.more." "I waut to know no more than that," lie answered impressively. "If the worst is past, wvi will ceaso to think of It. Lot us go in tl.u garden," he added in a brighter tone as he rose to his feet. "The sun ought to be shining today."

He took my trembling arm. "You know the way?" lie asked. "Yes I walked across the lawn yesterday." "I knew it," he murmured. "Something touched my arm, and 1 felt tliut you were near. I have been expecting you to come."

He said this, I thought, to encourage me, but the radiant happiness in his face surprised me, though 1 knew the vigor and fortitude of his character. One would not have imagined but for those poor closed eyes that, he had lost the most precious gift of nature. He pressed my arm to his side and spoke some wise words of assurance, adding: "We have both met with misfortune, little friend." "I think too much of my own." ".Mine," he said to turn.iny thoughts, "is not so great as you would thiuk. At first it was hard to bear—the world seemed so empty. But 1 am learning to see now with-out-my eyes, and I find a multitude of beautiful things that had before escaped my notice. I never weary of sitting here and listening—puzzling out.where .all the sounds come from and making a better acquaintance with the hidden world." "Atkl in the evening you have Miss Bell to read to -vou and play." ,'1'es. She is a good, amiable girl, won derfully patient and untiring."

There was a great'whir of wings over our heads, startling me for the moment, and then six or eight beautiful pigeons fluttered down and settled on Taras' shoulder and outstretched arm. He gave them a handful of maize lrom his pocket, and they clustered about his hand with outstretched wings to take the grain. "l)o they come down to Miss Bell like that?" I asked, with envy. "They will come to any one who has something to give them," he said, smiling.

I wondered it' he regarded me in thesame light. 1 held out my haud timidly to the pretty, fluttering birds, but they had swallowed the last grain, and they took to their wings and Hew away in a body.

I could bear it no longer. The pain at my heart was greater than I could endure. "I must go away, too," I said, choking down my grief.

CHAPTER XLIV. A Fill END IN NEED.

Taras would have had mo take liis carriage to the station, but I refused. I wanted to be quite alone that I might relieve my heart of its burden in an unrestrained flow of tears. And as soon as I got away from the gates of the Grange they came— those welcome tears—and blinded I st.umbled along the road with down bent head.

When the paroxysm was past, I tried to think of the future, but even the prospect of bringing Gordon back and removing the illusion that must have lessened Tara's respect and affection for me failed to lighten my spirits. Could the old tic ever be renewed? Would Taras ever again feel nshe had felt toward me? Had he not already given bis heart to Judith? I asked. Then the figure of George Gordon as I had seen him at the last moment standing under the dark pines, waving his hand in a cheerful farewell, rose before my imagination, and at the thought of his bitter disappointment in finding that Judith had transferred her love to Taras—as I felt she must have done, living for so long in close companionship witl$bim—of his experiencing such bitter anguish and regret as this which tore my heart, 1 asked if it would uot be almost more merciful to lcave'him therein ignorance of this greater misery. But the thought of doing my duty urged me on and overcame these hesitating doubts.

Mr. Pelham had given the finishing touch of newness to his office by the addition of a new clerk, who, when I entered, was engaged in addressing circulars at his desk. After taking my name, which I gave as Mme. Leroy, this young man led me into '.he inner office, where 1 found Mr Pelham waiting for clients to come with the patience of a spider on tho lookout l'oi stray flies, as it seemed to me. "I have got it," I said triumphantly as I laid the check before him. "I am delighted to hear it, madame. You wish me to go with you to Mr. Lazarus and see this affair through—ahyays the most advisable course in a transaction where proof of payment may be needed. No time is to be lost. I"— Ilis enthusiasm was abruptly checked and bis countenance feil as he glanced down at the check he bad unfolded. "But, this is not filled in, madame." "Thatis why I came to you first. I'm to write in the amount, and I want you to show me how to do it." "I perceive," he said, but in a dubitative tone, and then, as if anticipating a repetition of the difficulty that prevented the cashing of Gordon's offer, he added: "It will be advisable perhaps to take this to the bank before we see Mr. Lazarus. Busi ness men are so particular, you know."

His spirit quickly rose again, however, as I filled up the check according to his directions, the prospect of handling money being, I think, as agreeable to him as to Mr. Lazarus himself, and when I had done he rose briskly and took his hat from the peg on the wall. "Oh, by the way," he said, coming back to the table and opening a drawer, "can you tell me if your M(. Kavanagh has an office in Lambeth?" "In Lambeth? Not to my knowledge." "Ah, theu, it is a singular coincidence and nothing more. My clerk." he explained, "is eugaged in addressing circulars to certain capitalists respecting a company that is being formed. This envelope was among them, and liie name catching my eye—yo interesting case is continually in my u-.imi —1 looked in the directory and found, t.j i.r. astonishment, that titeo.i.co to which tiii.letter is addressed was occupied by .Vies.-,]* Bell & Gordon. 1 say 'was' advisedly, bn cause probab.y the directory was compiled last autumn. Now, the association of these twonames "The Old Lambeth Pottery?" 1, inter rujjted. "Xes, that is the address."

"That may be mivanagn-s aaaress now. What is inside tho envelope?" I asked eagerly. "We will see."

He opened it. "Only a circular. If you think there may be more in this than mere coincidence, I will question Mr. Brett before you—here, now, if you please." "Yes," said 1, feeliug that I could not rest in uncertainty as to the extent of the clerk's connection with Kavanagh.

Mr. Pelham placed a chair for mo where 1 could sit with my back to the window and touched th't bell on tho table. The new clerk eainc to tho door. "Come in. Mr. Brett," said tho solicitor. "1 saw a circular addressed to a X-f. Kavanagh, Old Lambeth Pottery. Do you know

ljim?"

"Client of my late employers—Evans & Svnns—sir." "You don't know him personally?"

The clerk shook his head, with a smile. "A little too high up 'for imt, sir," said

he. "A gentleman ci fortune—holds' a post iu tho house, 1 believe." "lie speculates, of course?" "Not sure, sir. 1 know he has bought up two or three little potteries," "What potteries?" "Well, '-.here's the Old Lambeth, but he took that up, 1 believe, inure from charity than as a paying concern." "But the Old Lambeth—why, that's Bell & Gordon's surely?" "Was, sir, before'Mr. Gordou bolted." "Mr. Gordon bolted!" exclaimed the solicitor in a tone of incredulous astonishment, "Why, this is the first I have heard of it." "Last November. A young lady in the case, I believe," said the clerk, with a mild grin, which .lie would certainly havo kept for another occasion had he suspected that I was the young lady in question. "Dou't know much about, that, but I do know that he left his affairs in a.regular muddle and behaved shamefully toward his nartner, poor old Colonel Bell." "This is bad news, madame," said Mr. Pelham, turning to me with a grave shake of the head. "In what way did lie behave shamefully, Mi\ Brett?" "Took Colonel Bell into partnership and invested in a pottery that was worth nothing at all, incurred considerable debt iu building kilns and improving the place, and then, when be found that the colonel's affairs were not so good as he expected, he realized what he could and bolted, leaving this poor old gentleman to get out of his difficulties as he could." "Ah, well, what happened then?" "Things went worse aiid worse with the colonel. The kiln that ho still had to pay for fell in the first time it was fired. Then, to meet his creditors, the poor old fellow tried to raise money on some mining stock ana found the shares worth nothing. Mr. Kavanagh introduced him to us, and 1 had to go into the affair, so 1 know all about it." "And the result of your examination showed" "Showed that Colonel Bell had not sixpence in the pound to pay his creditors." "But he couUl call upou his partner, Mr. Gordon." "Couldn't find him, not a trace of him anywhere, anil Lis solicitor—Cunningham of Lincoln's Inn—refused to producu a penny without Ids'order, naturally." "Oh, Mr. Gordon had means then?" "Plenty, but it's all tied up. No onocati touch it until he is found or an order is obtained from the court of bankruptcy." "Dear me! And what did'Colonel Bell do in that emergency?" "Just what might be expected of an honorable old gentleman at a bad man of business—sold up all his private property and paid over every penny to the creditors of Bell & Gordon. Evans & Evans did their utmost to prevent him making such a disastrous sacrifice and advised him to declare himself bankrupt at once. But he would not be persuaded. Yielding in most things, he was as stubborn as—as anything on this.

Old fashioned notions, you know, sir, about honor and the disgrace of being whitewashed." "Of course tho sum realized was insufficient to satisfy the creditors of the firm." "Didn't satisfy a quarter of them and left him without funds to work tho business. That was foreseen by Evans & Evans, who told the. obstinate old fellow that he was only throwing his money away and postponing the evil day." "So that alter all lie had to close the works and declare himself insolvent?" "He would have had to do so to a dead certainty, but just at the last moment Mr. Kavanagh pmc forward and lent liim a sum of money to clear off the debt, rebuild the kiln and start afresh." "Did Mr. Kavanagh advance the money without security?" "Not exactly, sir—lie took a mortgagcon the estate." "I don't see any great generosity, Mr. Brett, in ad wincing money on a mortgage." "There was in this case, sir. Evans .": EvanJi had thought of raising money by a mortgage, but on looking into the deed of partnership they found an impediment in the way. .Mr. Gordon could repudiate any obligation inane without his consent." *'l see. Mr. Kavanagh relies upon Mr. Gordon fulfilling the obligation when he returns?" "Just so, sir, and considering all things that's not very good security." "Supposing Mr. Gordon should not trouble himself to return, what then, Mr. Brett?" "Then Mr. Kavanagh will come out all right. Every farthing tho gallant old colonel can screw out of the affair is made over to Mr. Kavanagli's account toward the payment of the mortgage, and if he only has time he will certainly clear it off. The business is looking up at the pottery now. Three kilns are in working order." •'I think you said that Mr. Kavanagh has invested capital in other potteries." "Two or three small ones. Ho snapped them up the moment he heard thatHintons were going to turn their business into a company, knowing that the first object of the company would be to extend the works, which could only be done by buying up these potteries. And the result proved the justice of his forethought. The company would give him a check for the whole lot at a day's notice." "And transfer the mortgage on Bell & Gordon's pottery?" "Oh, yes they would take tberisk of pull ing that through all right. A young company, yon know, sir,doesn't stick at trifles." "And if the company chose to forecloseas I suppose they would—Mr. Bell would be forced to abandon everything and go in the workhouse?" "Oh, of course, as a man of honor, Mr. Kavanagh would indemnify him out of the lhandsome profit he must make on the speculation." "Just so, as a man of honor, he would," assented Mr. Pelham, and then turning to me, with the slightest indication of a wink, he said in a tone of assurance: "Well, madame, you see your money is quite safe. Thank you, Mr. Brett. If any one i^lls, you can say that I shall be back in an hour."

The cab which had brought me from

Waterloo stooa at me noor. we got in, and Mr. Pelham, having directed thedriver, said, aa he took the seat beside me: "I conclude the persons referred to by Mr. Brett are the same that you are acquiuted with, madame?" "Yes, they are the same." "Well, you see how matters stand." "I think 1 understand what he said."

Of course .a great deal was less dear to mo then than- 1 have, tried to make it in this narrative. 9 "It's pretty clear that. Kavanagh is get/ting all his eggs in one basket for the- convenience of selling out and bolting at a moment's notice. All those arrangements are clearly made with a view to die possibility of Mr. Gordon's return. I need not impress upon you i,he tremendous importance cl' secrecy. Tnu merest, suspicion on his part that you are here will involve a catastrophe. There's one thing I can'i quite make out," he continued reflectively, ifter a pause of some minutes, "and that •a why he has not made bis position still

more secure by accepting at once tho offer made by this company. He know -, as well as most people the value of a bird in the hand. It isn't likely that a man who has shown himself devoid of principle and feeling should be' restrained by consideration for an old man—that ho should jeopardize his own future, though only in a slight measure, merely to keep Colonel Bell out of the workhouse. I think wo shall find that he has some stronger motive for this delay."

When tiie cab stopped, Mr. Pelham left me and took the check into the bank. In a few minutes he returned with a jubilant expression on his face. "It is perfectly correct," he said, stopping briskly into the cab. Then he directed the cabman to drive to Iloundsditch, and as we rattled on proceeded to 'count over the buudle of notes caressingly, as if the touch of the crisp paper was a real pleasure to him.

Mr. Lazarus received us with unctuous civility, and having counted over the notes in his turn opened a drawer and brought, out the letter from Peter Schemyl, which he carefully read through once mora. "You have come only just in time, my dear lady," said lie as he began to fill up a telegram form. "Mr. Schemyl leaves Moscow tomorrow." "But my friends are not Moscow," 1 said. "No they are at Vorontjikaya, I suppose. It would never do for Mr. Schemyl to l-e-ceivo a telegram there from London. Do you know whom lie left in charge of tho posthouse when ho came away?" -v"His brother Borgis, 1 think." "Ah, a clever man, Mr. Borgia Schemyl, very clever. I congratulate you—one of the cleverest men inthu business. Jle will "get a telegram from his brother at Moscow tomorrow in all probability and put your friends well on tho road before Mr. Schemyl returns." "You thiuk they will get away safely?" I asked anxiously. "There's every hope if Mr. Borgis has tho management. Tho only difficulty will bo in crossing the frontier, but if you have no enemies hero who are likely to warn the police you may reasonably expect to see your friends in three or four weeks' time."

Commenting on this interview as wo left Carter street, Mr. Pelham said: "Everything points to the necessity—the vital ueccssity—of keeping Kavanagh in ignorance of your escape. Even when Mr. Gordon returns, Kavanagh ought not to know it before wo have obtained an order for his arrest. At tho first intimation of danger ho will try to slip through our fingers. Now, where is Mr. Gordou likely to go when lie readies London?" "ToLambeth," 1 replied without hesitation. "Why, that is the very place lie ought to avoid. Can you think of uo means of communicating with him before bo arrives here?"

After a moment's consideration I said that it was probable lie would call upou the peoplu who bad helped uio in Berlin, Mr. Hoffman and his wife. "Considering cuings— Excuse me. madam," he broke off, with an apologetic cough, "but your hair behind has worked a little to one side. Considering all things, as 1 was about to remark," he continued, when I had replaced the false hair, "do not you think it would be advisable to goto Berlin aud wait therewith theso friends until Mr. Gordon comes?" "No," 1 said, "I could not do that. 1 must bo in England. I will write to Berlin that will answer tho same purpose."

He shook his head doubtfully and glanced nervously at my treacherous knot. I, too, felt that it would be wiser to go away, bur, I could not reconcile myself to tho idea of going so tar from Taras, even for a few weeks, little as I had to hope in stavinir near hinij

TO BE CONTINIIKI).

iu ito'£ scuooi. HOUSE.

Wheat looks thin. Measles are on all corners. School closed last EMday. Chas. Abbott has moved to Darlincton.

Elmer Hall has returned from Frankfort. Tom Sutton is going- to move to Crawfordsville.

Buster Elmore will farm for Jesse Moore this summer. Elmore has made about 75 gallona of molasses this Spring.

There are a few farmers in this neighborhood that have sowed their clover seed.

Several of our young folks attended the surprise on Miss Daisy Dickerson Saturday night.

Carper Crowder will move to the Albert Cox farm, two miles ea^t of Darlington, about the 16th of this month.

NUHBBK TUIKY-FIVE. ,»•

Gravel road is the sub ect here. Wm. Grubbs lost a good cow last Friday.

Wm. Weir is building a new house on his mother's farm. C. Lawellen has commenced to dig a well at the school.

Henry Davis is happy nvor the advent of an «r'glit pound girl. R. Harwood has a new well 78 feet deep drilled by Steve Stump.

Wm. Lewellen is going to move on Mr. Martin's farm east of New Market this week^

v"

Wm. Tyler is going to begin housed keeping on the Cooper farm across the creek this week.

Mr. Beck has moved to' Fountain $ounty. Wm. B. Hardee has moved in. the place vacated by Mr. Beck and Mr. .Stingley has moved in where Mr. Hardee vacated, ...

FOB pamphlets see ThJS JoUBHAL Co.. PBIKTXBS.