Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 9, Number 20, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 16 November 1878 — Page 6

Wm id?

I'HE MAI I. A

PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

A SIMILAR CASS.

Jack. I hear you've gono ard done It, Yes, I know: most follows will Went and tried itonoe myttelf, »tr. Thonghyonsee I'm single still.

Ana ym met h#r—«tid you tell me. Down at Sewp«rt Uit July. And resolved 10 auk the question At a soiree? Ho did 1.

1 suppose you left the ballroom With its music and .'a light For they say live1* flame I* brightest In the darknewiof the night.

Well, you walked along together. Overhead the starlit sky, And I'll bet—old man confess It—

You were frightened. Ho was I.

«o you strolled along the terrace, Haw tht* summer moonlight pour All Its radiance on the waters A* they rippled on the share.

Till at length you gathered courage. When you saw that none were nign^: Did you draw her close and tell her That you loved her? Ho did L. Well, I nwsdn't ask you further. «*,, And I'm sure I wish you Joy, Thiuk 111 wander Mown and see you When you re married—eh, my bby

When the honeyn oon Is over And you're -ettled down, we'll try— What? The deuce you way? Bejected, J'ou rejqpted So was I! —,Acla Columbiana.

The Haunted Hotel

OR,

A Mystery of Modern Venice,

BY WILKIB 00LMN3.

l«The Haunted Hotel," Wllkle Colllns's 1 ast and best story, was commenced in The Mall, August 24, 1878-Vol. 9, No. 9. Back .numbers, five cents each, can be had at The

Mall office, or of news agents in thijcity .and neighboring towns.]

4

[CONCLUSION.]

'The Countess now occupies the stage alone, and indulges in a soliloquy which develops her character. 'It is at once a dangerous and attractive character. Immense capacities for

gy

ood are implanted in her nature, side side with equally remarkable capacities for evil. It rests with circumstances to develop either the one or the other. Being a person who produces a sensation wherever she goes, this noble Jady is naturally made the subject of all aorta of scandalous reports. To one of these reports (which falsely and abominably points to the Baron as her lover instead of ber brother) she now refers with just indignation. She has just expressed ber desire to leave Horn burg, as the place in which the vile calumny first took its rise, when the Baron returns, overbears ber last words, and says to her, Yes, leave Homburg by all means, provided you leave it in the character of my Lord's betrothed wife 'The Countess is startled and sbooked. She protests that she does not reciprocate my Lord's admiration for ber. She even goes the length of refusing to see him again. The'Raron answers, "I mast positively have command of money. Take your choice between marrying my Lord's income In theinteiest of my discovery, or leave me to sell myself and my title to the first rich woman of low degree who is ready to bay me.' •The Countess listens in surprise and dismay. Is it possible that the Baron is _in earnest? "The woman who will buy me," he says, "is in the next room to us

Ht this moment. She" is the wealthy widow of a Jewish usurer. She has the money I want to reach tbe solution of the great problem. I have only to be that woman's husband, and to make myself master of untold millions of gold. Take five minutes to consider what I have said to you, and tell me on my return which of us is to marry for 'the money I waut,you or I." 'As he turns away the Countess stops 'talm. 'All tbe noblest sentiments in ber tiature are exalted to tbe highest pitch, "where is the true woman," she exclaims, "who wants time to consummate the sacrifice of herself when tbe man to whom she is devoted demands it

She does not want five minutes she does not want five seconds—she holds out her hand to him, and she says: "Sacrifice me on the altar of your glory! Take as stepping stones on the way to your triumph, my love, my liberty, nnd my life!" 'On this grand situation the curtain falls. Judgiug by my first act, Mr. Westwick, tell me truly, and don't b® afraid of turning my head. Am I not capable of writing a good play?"

Henrv paused between the first and second acts, reflecting, not on the merits of the play, but on the strange resem blance which the incidents so far pre seated to tbe Incident* that had attended tbe disastrous marriage of the first Lord Montbarry.

Was

it

the

possible that ths» Countess, In

present (condition of ber mind, supposed herself to be exercising her invention, when she was only exercising her memory?

The question involved consideration too serious to be made the subject of a hasty decision. Reserving bis opinion, lleury turned tbe page, and devoted himself to the reading of the next act. Tbe manuscript proceeded as follows: •The second act opens at Venice. An interval of four months has elapsed since the date of the scene at the gambling table. Tbe action now takes place In the reception room of one of the Venetian palaces •The lUron is discovered alono, on the stage. Ho reverts to the events which bave happened since the close of the First Act. The Countess has sacrificed herself, the uiercinary marriage has taken place—but not without obstacles, oansed by difference of opinion on tbe question of marriage settlements. 'Private inquiries, imtltnUed in England, have Informed the Baron that my Lord's income is derived chiefly from what is called entailed property. In esse of accidents, be is surely bound to do something tor the bride? Let him, tor example, iusure his life, for a sum proposed by the Baron, and let him so settle the money that his widow shall bave it, if he dies first. 'My

Lord hesitate*. Tb#Baron wastes

no time in useless discussion. "Let as by all means," be says, "consider the marriage iw broken off." My Lord shifts bis ground, and pleads for a smaller sum than tbe sum proposed. Tbe Raron briefly replies, "i never bartrain." Mv Lord Is In love tbe natural result follow*—be give® way. 'So far the Baron has no cause to com­

plain.

Se

Bat my Lord's tarn comes when

tbe marriage has been celebrated, and when the honeymoon Is over. The Baron has joined the married pair at a

Uace which they have hired In Venice. is still bent on solving the problem of the Philosopher's Stone. Ills labors* tory Is set up in tbe vaults beneath the palace—«o that smells from chemical,

experiments may not incommode the Countess, In the higher regions of the house. The one obstacle iu the way of bis grand discovery Is, as usual, tbe want of money, ills position at the present time has tieaome traly eritlcal. He owes debts of honor to gentlemen in his own rank of life, which must positively be paid and he proposes, in bis own hrlenaly manner, to borrows tbe money of my Lord. My Lord positively refuses, in the rudest terms. Tbe Baron applies to his sister to exercise her qonjuaal influence. 8he can only answer that ber noble buaband (belog no longer distractedly in love with ber), now appears in bis true character, as one of tbe meanest men living. The ssorifioe of the marriage has been made, and has already proved useless. 'Suah is tbe stats of affairs at tbe opening of tbe second set. 'The entrance of tbe Countess suddenly disturbs tbe Baron's reflection. She is in a state bordering on frenzy. Iuooberent expressions of rage burst from ber lips His some time before she can nuffloleutly control herself to apeak plainly. She has been doably Insult ed—first, by a menial person in her employment secondly, by her husband. Her maid, an English woman, has declared that she will serve the CoHntess no longer. She will give up her wsges, and return at once to England. Being asked her reason for this strange proceeding, she insolently hints that tbe Countess' service is no service for an honest woman, since tbe Baron bad entered tbe house. Tbe Countess does wbst any lady in her position would do she indignantly dismisses the wretch on the spot 'My Lord, hearing his wife's voioe raised in anger, leaves tbe study in which he Is accustomed to shot himself ap over his books, and asks what this disturbance means. The Countess in forms bim of the outrageous language and conduot of her maia. My Lord not only declares his entire approval of the woman's oonduct, but expresses bis own abominable doubts of his wife's fidelity, in language of such horrible brutality that no lady could pollute ber lips by repeating it. "If I had been a man," the Countess says, "and if I bad bad a

Weapon in my band, I would bave struck him dead at iny feet 1" 'The Baron, listening silently so far now speaks. "Permit me to finish tbe sentenoe for you," he says. "You would have 8trnck your husband dead at your feet and by that rash act you would have deprived yourself of the insurance money settled on the widow—the very money which is wanted to relieve your brother from the unendurable pecuniary position which he now oooupies!" •The Countess gravely reminds the Baron that this is no joking matter After what My Lord bas said to her, she bas little doubt that he will communicate his infamous suspicions to his lawyers in England. If nothing is done to prevent it, she may be divorced and disgraced, and thrown on the world, with no resource but tbe sale of my jewels to keep her from starving. •At this moment, the Courier who bas beeq engaged to travel with my Lord from England, crosses the stage with a letter to take to the post. The Countess stops bim, and asks to look at the address on the letter. She takes it from him for a moment, and shows it to her brother. The handwriting is my Lord's and tbe letter is directed to his lawyers in London. 'The Courier proceeds to the postofflce. The Baron and the Countess look at each other in silence. No words are needed. They thoroughly understand the position in which they are placed they clearly see the terrible remedy for it. What is the plain alternative before them? Disgrac^and ruin—or, My Lord's death and tbe insurance money! •The Baron walks backwards and forwards in great agitation, talking to himself. The Countess hears fragments of wbst be is saying. He speaks of my Lord'B constitution, probably weakened in India—of a cold which my Lord has caught two or three days since—of tbe remarkable manner in which such slight things as colds sometimes end in serious illness and death. 'He observes that the Countess is listening to him, and a*ks if sbe has anything to propose. She is a woman who, with many defects, has the great merit of sneaking out. "is there no such thing as a serious illness," she asks, "corked up in one of those bottles of j-ours in the vaults down sCftl rat" 'The Baron answers by gravely shaking bis head. What is be afraid of?—a possible examination of the body after death? No he can set any post mortem examination at defiance. It is the process of administering the poison that he dreads. A man so distinguished as my Lord cannot be taken seriously ill without medical attendance. Where there is a doctor there is always danger of discovery. Then, again, there is the courier faithful to my lord as long as my Lord pavs him. •Even if the doctor sees uothing suspicious the courier may discover something. The poison, to do its work with tbe necessary secrecy, must be repeatedly administered in graduated doses. One trifling miscalculation or mistake may rouse suspicion. The insurance office may hear of it, and may refuse to pay the money. As things are, the Baron will not risk it. and will not allow bis sister to risk it in his place. 'My lord himself is the next character who appears. He lias repeatedly rung for tbe courier, and tbe bell bas not been

"What does this mean?" he exclaims

^^heCountess (speaking with quiet dignity, for why should ber infamous husband bave the satisfaction of knowing how deeply be bas wounded ber?) reminds my Lord that tbe Courier has gone to the post. My Lord asks suspiclouslv If she has looked at the letter. Tbe Countess Informs bim coldly that •he has no curiosity about bis letters. Referring to the cold from which be is suffering, she inquires if be thinks of consult) itg a medical man. My 1/ird answers roughly that be quit© old enough to lie capable of doctoring bim-

•As he makes this reply, the Courier appears from the post. My Lord gives him orders to go out again and buy some lemons. He proposes to try hot lemonade as a means of inducing perspiration In bed. In that way he bas formerlv cured colds, and in that way ho will "care tho cold from which be is suffering now. •Tbo Courier obeys in silence. Judg ing bv appearances, be goes very reluctantly on this second errand. 'My Lord tarns to ths Baron (who haa thus far taken no part in tbe conversation) and asks him, in a sneering tons, bow much longer he proposed to prolong bis stay In Venice. The Baron an* swers, quietly: "Let us speak plainly to one another, my Lord. If you wish me to leave your boose, yon bave only to say the word, wid I go." 'My Lord turns to his wife, and asks If sbe «jan support tbe calamity of ber brother's absence—layinj a grossly insalting emphasis on the word "brother." Tho Countess preserves ber impenetrable oomposure nothing in her betrays

TERRE HAUTE SATURDAY EVENING MAIL.

tho deadly hatred with which sbe regards the titled ruffian who bas insalted ber.

You are .naster in this house, my Lord»" I* shu says. "Do as you please." •My Lord looks at his wife looks at the Baron—and suddenly alters bis tone. Does he peroeive in the composura of the Countess and ber brother something lurking under the sarfaoe that threatens bim? This is at least csr tain that be makes a clumsy apology for tbe language he bas used. (Abject wretch!) •My Lord's excuses are interrupted by the return of the Courier with tbe lemons and hot water. 'The Countess observes for the first time that tbe man looks ill. His bands tremble as be plaoes tbe trsy on the table. My Lord order tbe Courier to fol low bim, and mske the lemonade in tbe bedroom. Tbe Countess remarks that tbe Courier seems hardly capable of obeying his orders. Hearing this, the msn admits that be is ill. He, too, is suffering from a oold he has been kept waitlugln a draught at the shop where he bought the lemons he feels alternately hot and oold, and he begs permission to lie down for a little while on his bed, 'Feeling her humanity appealed to, the Countess volunteers to make the lemonade herself. My Lord takes the Courier by the arm, leads him aside, and whispers these words to him: "Wstoh her. and see that abe pats nothing into the lemonade then bring it to me with your own bands and then, go to bed, if you like," •Without a word more to bis wife, or to tbe Bsron, my Lord leaves the room. 'The Countess' makes the lemonade, and the Courier takes it to his master. 'Returning, on tbe way to his own room, he is so weak, and feels, he says, so giddy, that he Is obliged to support himself by tbe backs of the chairs as be passes them. The Baron, always considerate to persons of low degree, offers bis arm. "I am afraid, my poor fellow," he says, "that you are really ill." .untTOUiiioiwj •The Courier makes this extraordinary answer "It's ali over with me, sir I bave caught my death." 'The Countess is naturally startled. "You are not an old man," she says, trying to rouse the Courier's spirits. "At your age, catching cold doesn't surely mean catching your death?" •The Courier fixes his eyes despairingly on the Countess. "My lungs are weak, my lady," he says. "I havo already had two attacks of bronchitis. The second time, a great physician jeined my own doctor in attendance on me. He considered my recovery almost in the light of a mlraole. •Take care of yourself,' he said. 'If you have a third attaok of bronchitis, as certainly as two and two make four, yon will be a dead man.' I* feel the same inward shivering, my lady, that I felt on those two former occasions—and I tell you again, I have caught my death in Venice." 'Speaking some comforting words, the Bsron leads him to his room. The Countess is left alone on the stage. •She seats herself and looks towards the door by which the courier bas been led out. "Ah! my poor fellow," she says, "if you could only change constitutions with my lord, what a happy result would follow for the Baron and for me! If you could only get cured of a trumpery cold with a little hot lemonade, and if he could only catch his death in your place!" •Sbe suddenly pauses—considers for awhile—and springs to her feet with a cry of triumphant surprise tbe wonderful, the unparalleled idea has crossed her mind like a flash of lightning. Make the two men change names and places, and the deed is done! Where are tbe obstacles? Remove my lord (by fair means or foul) from this room, and keep him secretly a prisioner in the palace, to live or die as future necessity may determine. Place the courier in the vacant bed and call in the doctor to see him—ill, in my lord's character, and (if he dies) dying under my lord's name.'

The manuscript dropped from Henry's hands. A sickening sense of horror overpowered him. The question which had occurred to him at the close of tbe First Act of the Play assumed a new and terrible interest now. As far as the scene of tbe Countess' soliloquy, the iu cidents of tbe Second Act bad reflected the events of his late brother's life as faithfully as the incidents of the First Act. Was the monstrous plot, revealed in tbe Countess' morbid imagination? Or had she. in this case also, deluded herself with the idea that she was inventing, when she was really writing under the infiueuce of her own guilty remembrance of the past? If the latter interpretation were the true one, he bad just read tbe nsrratlve of tbe contemplated murder of his brother, planned in cold blood by a woman who was at that moment inhabiting tbe same house with him. While, to make the fatality complete, Agnes herself had innocently provided the conspirators with the one man who wm fitted to be the passive a to he

Even the bare doubt that it might be go, was more than he could endure. He left the room, resolved to force tbe truth out of tho Countess, or to denounce ber before the authorities as a murderess at large.

Arrived at ber door he was met by a person just leaving the room. The person was the manager. He was hardly recognizable be looked and spoke like a man in a state of desperation. •Ob, go in

if

you like!' he said to Hen­

ry. 'Mark this, sir! I am not a superstitions man but I do believe that crimes carry tbeir own carse with them. This hotel is under a curse. What happens in tbe morning? We discover a crime committed in the old days of the palaca. Tbe night comes and brings another dreadful event with it—a death a sud den and shocking death in tbe bouse. Go in and see for yonrself! 1 shall resign mv situation, Mr. Westwick I cannot contend with the fatalities that pursue me borel'

Henry entered the room. The Countess was stretched on ber bed. The doctor on one ride and tbe chambermaid on tbe other, were standing looking at her. From time to time she drew a hesvy, startorons breath, like a person oppressed in sleeping. •Is sbe likely to die?' Henry asked. •She is dead,' tbe doctor answered. 'Dead of the rapture of a blood vessel on tbe brain. Those sounds that you hear are purely mechanical—they may go on for hours.' ..

Henry looked at the chambermaid. Sbe bad little to telK Tbe Countess had refused to go to bed, and had placed herself at her deak to prooeed with ber writing. Finding it osel«» to iranrnstrata with her, the maid bad left the room to speak to tbe manager. In tbe shortest possible time tbo doctor was summoned to the {total, and found tho Cottntess dead on tbe floor. There was this to toll and no mora.

Looking at tbe writing table as be went out, Henry saw the sheet of paper on which tbe Coaatess had traced her last lines of writing. Hie characters were almost illeg'Hp. Henry could just

distinguish tbe words 'First Act,' and 'Persons of tbe Drama.' The lost wretoh bad beeu thinking of her Play to the last, and had begun It all over again.

CHAPTER XXVII.

Henry returned to his room. His first impulse was to throw aside the manuscript and never to look at it again. The one chance of relieving bis mind from tbe dreadful uncertainty that oppressed bim, or obtaining positive evidence of tbe truth, was at once annihilated by the Countess's death. Wbat good purpose oould be served, what relief oould be anticipate, if be read more?

He walked up and down tbe room. After au luterval bis thoughts took a new direction tbe question of the manuscript presented itself under another point of law. Thus far his reading bad only informed bim that the conspiracy bad been planned. How did be know that the plan bad been put in execution?

Tbe manuscript lay just before him on the boor. He hesitated—then pioked it op and, returning to the table, read on as follows, from the point at which he bad left off: 'While the Conntess is still absorbed iu tbe bold yet simple combination of circumstances which sbe has discovered, the Baron returns. He takes a serious view of tbe case of the oourier It may be necessary, he thinks, to send for medical advice. No servant is loft In tbe

Eer

alace, now tbe English maid bas taken departure. Tbe Baron himself must fetch the doctor, if the doctor is really needed. "Let us have medical help, by all aaeans," bis sister replies. "But wait and hear something that I have to say to you first." 'She then eleotrifies tbe Baron by communicating her idea to him. What danger of discoverv bave they to dread? My Lord's life in Venice has been a life absolute seclusion nobody but bis banker knows him, even by personal appearance. He bas presented his letter of credit as a perfect stranger and be and bis banker have never seen each otber since that first visit. He bas given no parties, and gone to no parties. On the few occasions when he has hired a gondola or taken a walk be bas been alone. Thanks to the atrocious suspicion which makes him ashamed of being seen with bis wife, he bas led tbe very life which makes the proposed enterprise easy of accomplishment. 'The oautious Baron listens, but gives no positive opinion as yet. "See what you can do with the oouri er," be says, "and I will decide when I hear the result. One valuable bint I may give you before you go. Your man Is easily tempted by money—if you only offer him enough. The otber day I asked him in jest wbat he would do for a thousand pounds. He answered, 'Anything.' Bear that in mind, and offer your highest bid without bargainlog*" •The scene changes to the courier's room, and shows the poor wretch with a photographic portrait of his wife in his hand, crying. Tbe Countess enters. 'She wisely begins by sympathizing with ber contemplated accomplice. He is duly grateful ne confides bis sorrows to his gracious mistress, Now that be believes himself to be on his deathbed, he feels remorse for his neglectful treatment of his wife. He could resign himself to die but despair overpowers him when be remembers that he bas saved no money, and that be will leave his widow without resources to the mercy of tbe world. •On this bint the Countess speaks. "Suppose you were asked to do a perfectly easy thing," she says, "and suppose you were rewarded for doing it by a present of a thousand pounds, as a legacy for your widow?" •The Courier raises himself on his pillow, and looks at the Countess with an expression of incredulous surprise. She can hardly be cruel enough (he thinks) to joke with a man in his miserable plight. Will she say plainly what this perfectly easy thing is, the doing of which will meet with such a magnificent reward? •The Counter answers that question by confiding ber project to the courier, without the slightest reserve. •Some minutes of silence follow when she has done. The courier is not weak enough yet to speak without stopping to think first. Still keeping bis eyes on tbe Countess, he makes a quaintly insolent remark on wbat he has just beard. "I have not hitherto boon a religious man, but I feel myself on the way to it. Since your ladyship has spoken to me I believe in the devil." •It is the Countess' interest to see the humorous side of this confession of faith and she takes no offense. She only says: "I will give you half an hour bv yourself to think over my proposal. You are in danger of death. Decide, in your wife's interests, whether you will die worth nothing, or die worth a thousand pounds." 'Left alone, the courier seriously considers his position—and decides. He rises with difficulty writes a few lines on a leaf taken from his pocketbook, and with slow and faltering steps leaves the room. 'The Countess, returning at tbe expiration of the half hour's interval, finds the room empty. While she is wonderlug, the courier opens the door. What bas be been doing out of bed? He an8W6fS' "l have been protecting my own life, My Ladv, on tbe bare chance that I may recover from tbe bronchitis for the third time. If you or the Baron attempt to hurry me out of this world, or to deprive me of my thousand pounds remard, I shall tell the doctor where he will find a few lines of writing which will describe Your Ladyship's plot.. I may not have strength enough, in the case supposed, to betray yon by making a oomplete confession with my own lips but I can employ my last breath to speak the hair do7.?n words which will tell the doctor where he is to look. Those words, it is needles.- to add, will be addressed to Your Ladyship if I find your engagements towards me laithfully kept.' 'With this audacious preface he proceeds to state the conditions on which be will p'ay his part in the conspiracy and die, if he does die, worth a thousand pounds.

Either the Countess or the Baron are to taste the food and drink bronghtto his bedside, in his presence, and even tbe medicines which the doctor may prescribe for bim. As for the promised snm of money, it is to be produced in one bank note, folded in a sheet of paper. on which a line is to be written, dictated by the courier. Tbe two inclosnres are then to be sealed op in an envelope, addressed to his wife and stamped ready for the port. This done, tbe letter la to be placed under bis pillow the Baron or the Countess being at liberty to satisfy themselves day by day at tbeir own time, that the letter remains in its place, with the seal unbroken, as long as tbe doctor has any hope of his patient's recovery. The last stipulation follows. The oourier has a conscience, and with a view of keeping it easy, insists that be shall be left in ignorance or that part of the plot which relates to the sequestration or My Lord. Not that he caree particularly what becomes of his miserly master, but he does

dislike taking otber people's responsibilities on bis own shoulders. •These conditions being agreed to, the Conntess calls In the Baron, who has been waiting events, in the next room. 'He is informed that tbe Countess bss yielded to temptation, but be is still too cautions to make any compromising remarks. Keeping his oack turned, on the bed he shows a bottle to tbe Countess. It is labelled "chloroform." She understands that My Lord Is to be removed from bis room in a convenient state of insensibility. In wbat part of the pslace is be to be bidden? As they open tbe door to go out tbe Countess whispers that question to tbe Baron. Tbe Baron whispers back: "In the vaults!"

On those words tbe curtain falls.'

CHAPTER XXVIII.

So tbe Second Act ended. Turning to the Third Act, Henry looked wearily at tbe pages as he let them slip through his fingers. Both in mind and body ha began to feel tbe need of repose.

In one Important respect tbe later portion of tbe manuscript differed from the pages which he bad jast been reading. Signs of an overwrought brain showed themselves here and there as the outline of the Play approached Its end. Tbe handwriting grew worse and worse. Some of the longer sentenoes were left unfinished. In the exobange of dialogue, questions and answers were not always attributed respectively to tbe right speaker. At certain intervals tbe writer's falling Intelligence seemed to recover itself for awhile, only to relapse again, and to lose tbe thread of the narrative more hopelessly than ever.

After reading one or two of tbe more ooberent passages, Henry recoiled from tbe ever-darkening horror of the story. He closed the manuscript, heart sick and exhausted, and threw himself on his bed to rest. The door opened at that moment. Lord Montbarry entered the room. •We have jast returned from tbe opera he said, 'and we have beard the news of that miserable woman's death. They say you spoke to ber in her last mo ments, ana I want to bear how It happened.' 'You shall bear how it happened,' Henry answered, 'and more than that. You are now tbe bead of tbe family, Stephen, and I feel bound, in tbe position which oppresses me, to leave you to decide wbat ought to be done.'

With those introductory words he told his brother how the Coantess' Play had come into his hands. 'Read the first lew pages,' he said, am anxious to know whether the same impression is produced on both of us or not.'

Before Lord Montbarry bad got half way through the First Act, he stopped and looked at his brother. 'What does sbe mean by boasting of this as her own invention?' be asked. 'Was sbe too crazy to remember that these things really happened?'

This was enough for Henry the same impression had been produced on both of them. 'You will do as you please,' be said 'but if you Will be guided by me, spare yourself the reading of those pages to come which describe our brother's terrl ble expiation of bis heartless marriage.'

Have you read it all, Henry?' •Not all. I shrank from reading some of the latter part of it. Neither you nor I saw much of our elder brother after we left school, and for my part I felt, and never scrupled to express my feel ing, that he behaved infamously to Ag nes. But when 1 read that unconscious confession of tbe murderous conspiracy to which he fell a victim, I remembered with something like remorse that tbe same mother bore us. I have felt for him to-night wbat I am ashamed to think I bave never felt for him before.'

Lord Montbarry took his Brother's hand. •You area good fellow, Henry,' he said 'but are you quite sure that you havo not been needlessly distressing yourself? Because some of this crazy creature's writing accidentally tells wbat we know to be the truth, does it follow that all tbe rest is to be relied on to the end?' 'There is no possible doubt of it,' Henry replied. •No possible doubt,' his brother repeated. 'I shall go on with my reading, Henry, and see wbat iustification there may be for that confident conclusion of yours.'

He read on steadily until he had reach ed tbe end of the second act. Then he looked up. •Do you really believe that the matl lated remains wbiob you discovered this morning are the remains of our brother?' be asked. 'And do you believe it on such evidence as this?'

Henry answered silently by a sign in the affirmative. lxrd Montbarry checked himself—evidently on the point of entering an indignant protest. •You acknowledge that you bave not readi the later scenes of the piece,' he said. 'Don't be childish, Henry! If you persist iu pinning yoar faith on such stuff is this, the least you can do Is to make yourself thoroughly acquainted with it. Will you read the third act? No? Then I shall read It to you.'

He turned to the third act, and ran over those fragmentary passages whlcb were cleatly enough writteu and expressed to be intelligible to she mind of a stranger. 'Here is a scene in the vaults of tbe palace,' he began. 'The victim of the conspiracy is sleeping on his miserable bed, and tbe Baron and the Countess are considering the position in bicb they stand. •The Countess (as well as I can make it out) bas raised the money that is wanted by borrowing on tbe security of ber jewels at Frankfort and the courier ap stairs Is still declared by the doctor to have a chance of recovery. What are the conspirators to do If tbe msn does recover? Tbe cautious Baron suggests setting the prisoner free 1 he ventures to appeal to the law, It is easy to declare that bs is subject to an insane delusion, and to call his own wife as witness. On tbe otber hand, if the oourier dies, bow is tbe sequestrated and unknown nobleman to be put out of tbe way? Passively

by

letting him starve in his prison? No the Baron is a man of refined tastes he dislikes needless cruelty. Tbe active policy remains—say, assassination by the knife of a hired bravo? The Baron objects to trusting an accomplice also to spending money on any one but himself. Should they drop- their prisoner into tbe canal The Baron declines to trust water: water will show him on the surface. Shall they set his bed on fire? An excellent idea iut tbe smoke might be seen. No the circumstances being now entirely altered, poisoning bim presents the easiest way out of it. He has become simply a superfluous person. Poisoned, therefore, let htm be! •Is It possible, Henry, that you believe this consultation really took place?'

Henry made no reply. The succession of tbe questions that had just been read to him exactly followed tbe succession of the dreams that bad terrified Mrs. Nor bury on tbe two nights which sbe had passed in tbe hotel. It was

BPIi

useless to point out this coincidence to bis brother. He only said, 'Go on.' Lord Montbarry turned tbe pages until he came to tbe next intelligent passsge. 'Here,'be proceeded, 'is adoublescene on tbe stage—so far as I can understand tho sketch of it. Tbe doctor is upstairs, innocently writing his certificate of my Lord's decease, by the dead courier's bedside. Down in the vaults tbe Baron stands by tbe corpse of tbe dead lord, preparing tbe strong chemical acids which are to reduce it to a heap of ashes. Sorely it is not worth while troubling ourselves with deciphering such melodrsmstlc horrors ss these! Let us get on! let us get on!'

He turned tbe leaves again, attempting vainly to discover tbe meaning of the confused soenes that followed. On tbe last page but one he found tbe last intelligible sentences. 'The third act seems to be divided,' he said, 'into two parts or tableaus. I tblnk I can read tbe writing at tbe beginning of the seoond part. The Baron and the Countess open the soeae. The Baron's hands are mysteriously conooaled by gloves. He has reduced the body to ashee by bis own system of cremation, with the exception of the head'

Henry interrupted bis brother there. 'Don't read any more!' he exclaimed. 'Let us do tbe Countess justice,' Lord Montbarry persisted. 'There are not half a dozen lines more that I can make out! The accidental breaking of bis jar of acid bas burnt the Baron's hand severely. He is still unable to proceed to the destruction of the head— and tbe Countess iswoman enough (with all ber wickedness) to shrink from attempting to take bis place—when the first news is received of the coming arrival of the commission of inquiry dispatched by tbe insurance offices. The Baron feels no alarm. Inquire as the commission may, it is the natural death of tbe oourier (in my Lord's character) that tbey are blindly investigating. The bead not being destroyed, the obvious alternaslve is to bide it—and the Baron is equal to tbe occasion. His studies in the old library have informed bim of a safe place of concealment in tbe palace. The Countess may recoil from handling the adds and watching tbe process of cromstion, but she can surely sprinkle a little disinfecting powder' 'No more!' Henry reiterated, 'No» more!' 'There is no more that can be read, my dear fellow. Tbe last page looks like sheer delirium. Sbe may well have told you that her invention bad failed ber!' 'Face the truth honestly, Stephen, and say her memory.'

Lord Montbarry rose from the table, at which be bad been sitting, and looked at his brother with pitying eyes. •Your nerves are out of order, Henry,' heBsid. 'And no wonder, after that frightful discovery under the hearthstone. We won't dispute about it we will wait a day or two until you are quite yourself again. In tlje meantime, let us understand each other none point at least. You lesve tbe question of what is to be done with these pages of writing to me, as the head of the family?' 'I do.'

Lord Montbarry quietly took up the manuscript and threw it into the fire. •Let this rubbish be of some use,' he said, holding the pages down with tbe poker. 'The room is getting chilly— the Countess' play will set some of these charred logs flaming again.' He waited a little at the fireplace, and returned to bis brother. 'Now, Henry, I have a last word to say snd then I am doae. I am ready to admit that you have stumbled, by an unlucky chance, on the proof of a crime committed in the old days of the

?pith

alace, nobody knows bow long ago. that one concession, I dispute everything else. Rather than agree In the opinion you have formed, I won't believe anything that has hsppened. Tbe supernaturallnfiuence that some of us felt when we first slept in this hotel— your loss of appetite, our sister's dreadful dreams, the smell that overpowered Francis, and the bead that appeared to Agnes—I declare them all to be sheer delusions! I believe In nothing, nothing, nothing!' He opened tbe door to go out and lsoked back into tbe room. 'Yes,' he resumed, 'there is one thing I believe in. My wife bas committed a breach of confidence—I believe Agnes will marry you. Good night, Henry. We leave Venioe the first thing to-mor-row morning.'

So Lord Montbarry disposed of the mystery of Tbe Haunted Hotel. POSTSCRIPT.

A last chauce of decidiog the difference of opinion between the two brothers retnainea In Henry's possession. He had his own idea of tbe use to which be might put the false teeth as a means of Inquiry when he and his fellow travelers returned to England.

The only surviving depositary of tbe domestic history of tbe family in past years was Agnes Lock wood's old nurse. Henry took his first opportunity of trying to revive her personal recollections of the deceased Lord Montbarry. But tbe nurse had never forgiven the great man of the family for his desertion of Agnes she flatly refused to consult her' memory. 'Eveu tbe bare sight of My Lord, when I last saw him in London,' said tbe old woman, 'made my fingernails itch to set tbeir mark on bis face. I was sent on an erraud by Miss Agnes, and I met him coming out of bis dentist's door—and, thank God, that's tbe last I ever saw of him

Thanks to the

nurse's

and

ber

quick temper

quaint way of expressing herself, the object of Henry's inquiries was-n gained already! He ventured on asking If she bad noticed the situation of the house. She had noticed and still remembered the situation—did Master Henry suppose she had lost the use of

senses, because sbe happened to be nigh on eighty years old The same day he took the false teeth to the dentist, and set all further doubt (If doubt bad still been possible) at rest forever. Tbe teeth bad been made for the first Lord Montbarry.

Heury never revealed tbe existence off this last link in tbe chain of discovery to sny living creature, bis brother Stephen Included. He carried bis terrible secret with him to tbe grave.

There was one otber event in the mem-, orable past on which be preserved the

same

compassionate silence. Little Mrs., Ferari never knew that her husband had been—not, as she supposed, the Conn-"

teas'victim—but

marriage

the Countess' acoom-,

plioe. She still believe^ that tbe late Lord Montbarry had sent her the thousand pound note, and still recoiled from making use of a present which she perslated in declaring had 'the stain of her husband's blood on it. Agnes, tbe widow's entire approval, took tbef| money to the Children's Hospital, and. spent it in adding to toe number of tbe beds.

In the spring of the new year tho*

quest of Agnes tbe members of the family were tbe only persons present at the ceremony. There was no wedding breakfast-and the honeymoon wa*\ spent in tbe retirement of a cottage on the banks of the Thames.

During the last few days of the realICbniinued OH Seventh Page.]

..:

WH*-'

took place. At tbe special re­

p. J*

5S^