Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 15, Number 30, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 17 January 1885 — Page 2

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Tou.

oouTa»,/»K~ BotJa^HryV

THE MAIL

A Paper

People.

for the

TERRE HAUTE, JAN. 17 1886

[Commenced In The Mail Dec 6th. Back numbers

chu

be had on application at pub

lication office or of new* agents,]

t&sM

Wyllard's Weird.

By miss M. E. Braddon.

yuthor of "Lady Audley'a Secret," Aurora Floyd," "The Outcast," Ac., Ac.

CHAPTER IX. FEVER DREAMS. Mr. Heathcote left Waterloo Station for Southampton witbin an hour of leaving Mr. Distin's office, dined hastily at the Dolphin Hotel, and started for St.

Malo in the Southwestern steamer at seven o'clock in the evening. It was still early on the following morning when he landed on the long stone quay at St. Malo, and the picturesque old granite walla were still flushed with the rosy light of a newly-risen son. The quaint Island citadel, with its exquisite bay and golden sand*, had been familiar to Edward Heathcote in the past. He bad lingered here to rest after a long ramble in Brittany, and be had an affection lor the steep, narrow streets and quaint old houses, with their all-pervad-ing aspect of the seventeenth century, the days of Bourbons and Condes, kings and warriors, princely priests and priestly politicians.

Well as be loved the old-world town, Mr. Heathcote had no intention of loitering there on this September morning lovely as the bay and the rocks and the smiling colony of white-walled villas yonder at Parame looked in the early sunlight. He onlv waited to get his

portmanteau through the custom bouse order to carry it to the little office attached to the Dinau steamer, where he ascertained the hour for the boat's departure.

Chance and tide favor him. The steamer was to leave at eleven o'clock. This afforded time lor a leisurely breakfast at the Franklin, and would enable him to reach Dinau early in the afternoon. He breakfasted briefly and ternpetately, as became a man whose mind was full of anxious thought, and then went lor a stroll in the old streets, aud looked in at the cathedral.

He had reflected seriously upon his interview with the criminal lawyers. The fact that he had found his own original opinion about Both we 11 Grahatne shared by this man, so .deeply versed in the ways of criminals, in the science of circumstantial evidence, was to the last degree startling and disconcerting. He felt that he was netting out upon a task which he could but perform in a halfhearted manner, struggle as he might against that ttrst conviction of hi?. He had undertaken this task for Hilda's sake, for Dora's sake. What misery must result if George Distin were right after all, and in an ill judged attempt to gratify these two trusiiug women he should bring about the actual discovery of Both well's guilt. That guilt was at

Eardlv

resent but a dark suspicion which men dared hint to each other but if George Dlstiu's judgment was correct, an unlucky discovery might make the suspicion a fact.

But he haa promised, and the pledge must be kept.- &e must follow bp the clue which he held till it led him toother links in the chain of the victimjs history and the chances were that i» the victim's history he would liud a clue to the murderer's identity.

It was a lovely autumnal noontide, And the gay little town of Dinard, with its gardens rising stage above stage agaiust the hillside, its quiet little buys aud recesses of golden sand,

the

whs

smil

Ing in sunlight as the "Isle of Ranee steamed across the broad bay of St. Malo to the mouth of the Ranee. There are few prettier rivers thau this little Rhine of Brittany, and Edward Heathcote had loved it well In days gone by. But today he sat upon the bridge smoking his cigar, and gazing at the green hills and craggy elifts and ever-varying shore, without seeing the objects upon which his eyes of investigation, the more irksome became his duty. His heart failed him as he took out the silver locket, ami read the name upon the paper inside. It was the name of the woman who was perhaps to put in his band the clue which would lead him straight to the murderer.

And yet who could say he would And Sister Gudale d» la Mlsericorde at Dinan He did not even know the name of

convent in which she lived. She might be dead. And yet the date of the Inscription was but two years old. There was every chance that the Sister •till lived, and he must be dull if he failed to find her.

He stopped at the first church to which he came after leaving the boat—an old church in the lower part of the town. Here he asked his way to the Presbytery, and called upou the priest, who told him that there was only one educational convent in or near Dinan, the Convent of Saint Elizabeth, of Hungary, an Ursuline convent, situated two miles from town, in the direction of the fam ous monastery madhouse.

Mr. Heathcote left his portmanteau at one of the hotels in the market place, and drove at once to the convent, which was beautifully situated amidst the wooden hills on the western side of the town, and commanded a noble view of the valley, and the river, and the gray old town with itsquaint roofs and many towers. It was a large white building, with plastered walls, far from beautiful iu itself, and showing every sign of poverty but the gardens were neatly kept, the rooms were exquisitely clean, and the clumsy old Breton furniture was polished to the highest degree.

Mr. Heathcote was received in the convent parlor bv the Reverend Mother, a homely little tub-shaped personage, in a black serge habit and picturesque white cap which concealed every vestige of hair upon her broad, intelligent forehead. She bad kindly black eyee and a frank, benevolent smile, and Heathcote felt at once at his ease with her. She looked a little disappointed when, In answer to her preliminary question he told her he had not come to offer a new pupil. The pupils were the chief source of revenue for the convent,albeit the pension was the smallest.

Have you ever seen that locket before. Madame Tn he asked, laying the «Uv«r medalion before the reverend

seen many such," she answer'7** Holv Father allow as to disP05* fir the benefit of the qpnvent~* "There paper inside with some writing. WuiyoVlook «t it, please?"

Sbe opened locket and unfolded the paper, "Yes, thlais it in I krown it very wen io*^ the sua, looking at her ^Ato*

with a

curi

ously puzzled air, as if wondering whether the gentleman had not gone a little astray, his real destination being the gieat monastic madhouse yonder on the crest of an opposite hill. "Sister Gudule is still living—still with you, perhaps?"

"Yes," interrogatively. '"And you remember Leone, to whom that little picture was given

The reverend mother smiled her mod-

mil ft.

"Leone is not an uncommon name," she replied. We have had many pupils so called from time to time. Oar school numbers over a hundred and fifty pupils,you must remember." "Do yon recall any pupil of that name who left you two years ago?" asked Heathcote. "We have from thirty to forty pupils leaving us every year. Will you permit me to ask the

object

of your inquiry

"It is a very serious one or I should be sorry to give you so much trouble," answered Heathcote, courteously, in that polite language which be spoke almost as fluently as his native English. "The poor girl to whom that locket belonged met her death in my neighborhood less thau two months ago. She fell from a railway carriage as the train was crossing a viaduct. Whether that death was accidental or the result of a crime remains as yet unknown. But there are those in my country to whom it is vital that the whole truth should be known. If you can help me to discover the truth you will be helping the cause of justice." "Sister Guddle will remember," said the reverend mother, ringing a bell. "Sbe is one of our lay Bisters, a great favorite among the children. She nurses them when they are ill, and takes care of them when they go out for a holiday, and playa with them as if sbe were a child "herself."

A lav sister, the portress answered the bell, and went In quest of Sister Gudule. "She has a very nnproposing appearance," said the reverend mother. *'1 fear you may be little shocked at first seeing her, but the is so amiable that we will adore her. She has been the victim of misfortune from her cradle. Her deformity is the consequence of a unrse'scarelessness. It turned the heart of her mother from her, and she was a neglected and unloved child. Her family was noble, but the husband speculated in railways, and the wife was silly and extravagant. By the time Gudule was a young woman poverty had overtaken her father, ana he was only too glad to acquies in the girl's resolution to

fnter

a convent. She came to us penniless thirty years ago, and has worked for her bread ever since. I do not think I exaggerate when I say that she is the most valuable member of our commu' uity."

The door was opened softly and Sister Gudule appeared. This little preface from the Reverend mother had not been unnecessary to lessen the shock of her personal appearance, which was startling iu its unqualified ugliness.

Sister de la Dieericorde was the very type in the wicked fairy in the dear old child stories. She was short and squat, with broad shoulders and a derided butnb. She had a nose like a potato, and a lower lip like that of the lady who moisteued the spinster's yarn she had an undeniable moustache and beard,, and in spite of all there was something pleasant, conciliating, reassuring in her face. The low, broad forehead suggested intellectual power there was a humorous twinkle in the small grey eyes as of one who could revel iu a joke the thick underlip aud proming under-jaw were the indications of a boundless benevolence. 'The fNferend mothefr handed the 1 octet and Its enclosure to Sister Gudule.

I must tell you that the sister has a moat miraculous memory," she said confidently to Heathcote. "I have never knowu her to forget the most trivial event in the history of our lives. She is our uuwntten calendar." "It Is Leonie Lemarque's locket," said Sister Gudule, "How comes it here Is my Utile Leonie in Dinau "Leonie Lemarque." How gibly She pronounced the name, and bow strange it seemed to Edward Heathcote to hear it. Like a name out of a tomb. "The owner ot that locket is dead, he answered gently. "Deadl Leonie Lemarque! Dead at nineteen vears old! Why there was not a healthier child in tne convent after we had once built up her constitution She was in a sad way when she came to us." "Leonie Lemarque," repeated the reverend mother "I never thought of her wheu monsieur showed me the locket. Leonie Lemarque! Yes, she left us in 1879 to go to her old grandmother in Paris. And now she has met with a violent death in England. Monsieur will tell you."

Monsieur repeated his story, this time with further details, for Sister Gudule questioned him closely. She would have every particular. Tne tears streamed down her cheeks, hung upon her bristly mustache. Sbe was deeply distressed "You don't know howl loved that child," she said, excusing herself to the Superior, and then to Heathcote. "Ah. monsieur, yon could never understand how I loved her. I saved her life. From the weakest, frailest creature, I made her a sound and bealthy child. Indeed, I may say that I hid much more than this. WUb the help of God and His saints I have saved her mind." "It is quite true," said tbe reverend mother. "Tbe child came to as under most peculiar circumstances. Sister Gudule took entire charge of her for the first six months." "And she rewarded me for my trouble," added Gudule "shegave me love for love, measure for measure." "Will you tell me all about her every detail—the knowledge may help me to avenge her death," said Heathcote, eagerly. "It is my belief, and that of others, that she was foully murdured."

He was intensely agitated. He felt as if he had taken into bis band the lever which worked some formidable machine —an instiument of doath and doom, and that every movement of his hand might bring destruction. Yet the pro cess once begun must go on. He was no longer an Individual working of his own free will he was only an agent in the hands of Fate. "Willingly, we will tell you all we can," said the reverend mother, "bat you must allow us to offer you a little ooffee. Yen have traveled, and you look white and weary/'

The convent was proud of its coffee, almost the only refreshment ever offered to visitors. The portress brought a little oval tray covered with a snow white napkin, a little brown earthen pot, a white cup and saucer, all of the humolest. but spotlessly clean. "Leonie was with us seven years," said the reverend mother, while Sister Gudule dried her eve* and tried to regain her composure. "Sbe was fast ten years old when she was brought to as bv her grandmother, a person who had been at one time a dressmaker in one of the most fashionable quarters of Paris, bat who had fallen upon evil days and lived in a very bumble way 1b a small lodging on tbe left bank of the Seine, was an orphan, the daughter of

Madam Lemarque's only son, who had died yoking, broken-hearted at the death of hisT young wife. The child was broughr.to us by a priest, who eame all tbe way from Paris with his little charge. She had but just recovered from along illness, which was said to be brain fever, caused by avvery terrible mental shock, which she bt*l endured two monthB before." "Were you\toli the nature of that shock T" "No the priest did not offer any information upori. that point, and I did not presume to question him. He assured me that the case was one which merited the most Benevolent consideration. Madam Lem&rque had no means of educating the ehilc\ herself, nor could she afford the pension demanded by a Parisian convent. The cure though that our fine air would do much to restore the child to health and strength, and he knew that our system of education was calculated to develop her mind and character in the right direction. He guaranteed the legular payment of the child's pension,5and we never had occasion to apply for it a second time." "Did Madam Lemarque ever come to see her granddaughter?" "Never. Leonie remained with us from year's end to year's end till after her seventeenth birthday, when, at Madam Lemarque's desire, we made arrangements for her traveling to Paris with other pupils who were returning to tbe great city." "Then you never saw Madam Lemarque?" "Never." "Nor ever heard from her directly?" "Oh, yes, we had letters—very nicely written letters—full of gratitude for what Madam Lemarqne was pleased to call our kindness to Leonie. The child used to write to her grandmother monthly, and her letters were the best evidence that she was fairly used and happy." "She was a sweet child," said Gadule, "and deserved every indulgence." "Did she ever tell you anything about tbe shock which caused her illness?" asked Heathcote of the lay sister." "In her right mind never one syllable," answered Gudule. "I would not have questioned her upon that subject for worlds, for I believed that she hsd narrowly escaped madness. But during the six months in which I nursed her— for her health was completely broken, audit required all that time to build op her strength and calm her nerves—she used to sleep in a little bed close to mine, and in her troubled dreams I used to hear very strange things. How far the dreams were inspired by the recollections of real events I cannot venture to say, but there were phrases that recurred so often, a horrible vision which so continually repeated itself, like a scene in a play, that I can but suppose it to have been tbe representation of some event which had really happened before the child's waking eyes." "Can you recall the naturfc of that vision?" inquired Heathcote, breathlessly.

It seemed to him that he was on the threshold of anew mystery—as terrible as tbe old one, and even darker, as a tragedy hidden in tbe past, reflected only in a child's fever-dream. "You should ask me if I can forget, monsieur!" said Sister Gudule. "I wish with all my heart that I could. 1 have prayed many a prayer for forgetfulness. The poor child used to be slightly feverish every night—a low fever which only came on in the evening, but some nights were worse than others—and in her most feverish nights this dream seemed almost inevitable. I used to lie awake expecting it, dreading it." '•Sfffi uped to talk injier sleep, then '"K talk, yes! Aiftrto scream^a terrible shriek sometimes, which would disturb every sleeper in the great domitory adjourning my little room. She would start up on her pillow, and stare straight before her with wide open eyes, beiug fast asleep all the same, you understand. 'Don't kill her, don't kill her,' she would cry 'don't shoot hor.' And then she would rock herself backwards and forwards and moan in a low voice, 'the forest—tbe dark, dark forest —she is there, always there, with the oiood running down her face. Take her away, take away the dark forest—take away the blood!' Her words varied sometimes, but those words never. •Take away the dark forest—Cfake away the blood!" "And did she never tell you what the dream meant—yon, her nurse and comforter, with whom she must have been on such confidential terms?" "No. dear child. She loved me and trusted me with all the strength of her Innocent heart, I believe but she never told me the cause of that awful dream. And I never dared to question her. I was only anxious that she should forget the past—that if her nights were fevered and restless her days should be peaceful and bright. I did everything I could to amuse and interest her, in studies, needlework, and play, and to help her forget the past. "And you succeeded, sister," said the head of the convent, approvingly. "I never saw a more wonderful cure. From a nervous hysterical child Leonie Lemarque grew into a bright, merry girl." "Yes, with God's help sbe was cured, but the cure was very slow. The shock which shattered her health and for a time impaired her mind must have been an awful one. Never'before had I seen gray hairs upon the head of a child, but the thickly curling hair upon Leonie's temples when she came to us was patched white, and it was years before tbe hair resumed its natural color. For the first year her memory was almost blank. It would have been useless for anyone to attempt to teach her in class with tbe other children. She would have been despised as an idiot, laughed at perhaps, and her heart broken. I obtained tbe reverend mother's permission to keep her in my room, and to teach her In my own way, and little by little I awakened her memory and her mind. Both had been as it were benumbed, frozen, paralysed, by that awful shock which we know so little." "But you would guess ttu)t she had witnessed some dreadful scene, perhaps the. death of one she loved," speculated Heathcote. "Bid she never talk to you of her childhood in Paris," her relatives." "Rarely of any one except her grand* mother,"answered Sister Gudule,"and of her she told me of very little, whether her illness had blotted out the memory of her childhood, or whether sbe shrank from any allasion to tbe past, I can not tell. One day I asked her who had

fiven

her a blue satin neckerchief which found in her trunk—a costly neckerchief, and much too fine for a child to wear. She told me that it was a New Year's gift from her aunt, bat at the mention of the name she turned deadly pale, her eyes filled with tears, and her whole body shook like an aspen leaf. I changed the conversation that moment, and I never heard her mention her aunt-" "You would infer from her agitation that the aunt was connected with the tradgedy of the childs's life tn

Yes, Monsieur." Was perhaps the person whom she «aw assailed when she cried oat, 'Don't kill her don't shoot her.'"

tven ING S MATT

mu3t

havfe

been so. That, dreadful cry of hers. .'Take away tbe blood—take away the dark forest! ^o°ne who did not hear those cries of hers, no one who did not see tbe awfal expression

of ber

staring, dilated,jfull of horror: no one who had seen arod heard her as I did conld understand how dearful, how real that vision was to me as well as to the sleeper. I used to feel as if I had seen murder done, ana had been powerless to nroiffln t» "In a word, y°° felt, by pure, sympathy, almost ^exactly what the child felt,'- said Heathcote.

Already he had "©gun to adore Sister Gudule, jast as tbexhildren of the convent adored her. xie lorgot her hump, he forgave her 'he potato shaped nose, be accepted her beard as a detail that gave picqaancy tphercountenence. He was subdued, subjugated by that intensely every word and look of the sister.

But he bad a task to perform, and it was necessary that ne should proceed with his inquiries in a business-like manner. He had already taken certain notes in his pocket book "Leonie Lemarque left you into 1879, and she had been with you seven years," he said, with pencil in hand. "She must have come to you in 1872. "Yes, iu

1872,

not long after the trou

bles in Paris.

he as

was early in November

"And1 you were told that she had been ill two months in consequence of a mental shock." "Tes." "Then one may fairly conclude that the even which

eaused

ber illness early

in the September of 1872. "I think so." "Good. I thank you heartily, madam," with a corteous bow to the reverend mother, graciously bestowed upon me. But I would venture to ask a further favor, namely, that you would honor me by a line by way or introduction to the worthy priest who brought Leonie Lemarque from Paris. "Alas, monBiuer, that is impossible. Father Sorbier died three years ago, just a year before Leonie left us. "That is unfortunate. He doubtless knew the mystery of the girls childhood, and perhaps might hav® helped me to unravel the secret of her strange

"Do you really believe that the two events have any bearing upon each other monsieur?'' demanded Sister Gudule, thoughtfully. .. .„ .. "Iknow not, madame," replied Heathcote, "but it is only by working backwards that I can hope to arrive at any clue to the mystery which has puzzled us all in Cornwall. That poor girl must have had some purpose In going to England, iu traveling to so remote a neighborbood as ours. Even if hor death were an accident, or an unpremeditated crime, her presence in that place cannot have been accidental."

Mr. Heathcote asked to see the classrooms and tbe chapel before he left the convent, a request which was graciously accepted, as a compliment to the reverned mother. He was paraded along wide and airy passages, was shown an empty refectory, where plates and mugs and mugs and huge piles of bread and butter were arrayed on long dead tables, covered with snow white linen, in readiness for the afternoon gouter. He saw the chapel with its hamble decorations, its somewhat crude copy of a well-known Guido, its altar rich in gilded paper, home- made lace and cheap china Vaces. All here spoke of small means, but the flowers on the altar were freshly gathered, and tbe neatness and cleauliness of all things in chapel and convent charmed the stranger's eye. He slipped a couple of sovereigns into the boa:-by the door," praised the airy corridors, the spacious whitewashed rooms, and left the principal and the ldy sister alike charmed with his good French and his friendly manners.

The clock of the monastry on the opposite hill was chiming five as he drove away from the convent, a silvery chime to be heard as far as Dinan.

He dinod at the table d'hote at the Hatel de la Poste, and walked on the terrance on the town walls after dinner. There is no fairer view in Brittany than the panorama of wooded hills from that walk above the town walls. The oool night air, the silvery moonlight soothed

Tward Heathcote's nerves. He was le to meditate upon his afternoon's work, to think over the story he had heard from Sister Gudule, and to speculate upon tbe cbances of bis being able to follow up this thread of a life history until it led him to some point which would throw a light upon tbe mystery of Leonie Lemarque's death.

Reflecting upon Sister Gudule's story he could but conclude that the child Leonie had been the witness of some scene of violence in which a would had been tbe victim—a murder, possibly, or it might be only an attempted murder Blood had been spilt—for that awful cry, "teke away tbe blood, take away tbe dark forest"—a child's appeal to some unknown power to remove an object of terror.

One, and one only, clue bad he obtained from Sister Gudule as to the person of the victim, and even that indication might be a false light leading bim astray

The girl's painful emotion at tne utterance of her aunts name suggested that the victim had been that aunt. The mere mention of that name would conjure up all tbe horror of that scene which haaso nearly wrenched the child's reasone

It therefore seemed plain to Edward Heathcote's mind that a murder or an attempt at murder, had been committed in a dark wood, and that the victim had Leonie Lemarque's aunt. So deeyly interested as he in this mystery of ten year's back, so powerfully moved by this strange story of a child's suffering, tbat he almost forgot that the business which had brought him across tbe channel was to find out tbe true story of tbe French girl's death, and not to unravel the mystery of this old and perhaps forgotten crime in tbe unknown wood. So interested was be that he resolved at any cost of trouble to himself to discover the details of the scene reproduced so often in the child's fevered dreams. "Who knows whether that may not be waj

with himself. "At any rate it is the

only way tbat offers itself at present." He walked late upon the walls of Dinan, enjoying tbe qaiet of the moonlit scene, bearing the bells chime again and again, silver-clear across the vale, from tne monastery where the madmen were dreaming their fervered dreams, on wondering sane and healed in tbe spirit land of the past amid tbe faces of friends long dead. He walked late, thinking of a face that bad looked at him with trusting eyes in the moment of parting, lovely eyes whose every expression be knew, bat most of all tbat "Now exactlj tender pathetic look which had once very month tried to soothe the agony of Iocs. brutal murder,| "To serve her aad work ber, surely a woman, in a that is a man's bliss," he thought, with "Do you a sad, satirical smile. In the good old Prevol, tbe ac days of chivalry her knight would have Saint Germain! cleaned it happiness to bleed and perish I officer, "I was e| for her sake far away in Palestine—glory very strangest and honor enough to have worn heri "And the woi colors in his bemlet. Are we a meaner ed asked He race, we men of the present, that we1 tion.

cannot love without hope of reward Well, I have pledged myself to my crusade. I have put on my lady's colors, and I will work for her as faithfully as if my love were not hopeless. I will prove to her that there is no chivalry still left in this degenate world under the modern guise of disinterested friendship."

He started for Paris by the first train next morning, a fourteen hours' journey a journey of dust and weariness, though the roads lay through a fair country, with freqnent glimpses of the blue sea and then by the broad, widening river, till the tall houses and the many oburchtowers of the great city glimmered wbitely before him under the September moon. He put up at his old resting place, the hotel de Bade, amidst tbe roar aud bustle of the boulevard, and he set out the next morning, after an early breakfast, iu quest of Monsieur Drubrade's apartment, which was situated in that older and shabbier Paris of the left bank.

Monsieur Crubarde's appartment was on the Ouai des Grands Augustins, au cinquieme, a rather alarming indication to infirm or elderly legs, but which did not appeal Edward Heathcote. He ran rather lightly up the five flights of a dark wooden staircase and found herself upon an airy landing, lighted and ventilated by a skylight.

The skylight was half opened and through it Mr. Heathcote saw flowers and greenery upon the roof. He also caught the odor of a very decent cigar, which the soft west wind blew towards bim through the same opening.

On a door opposite the t?p of the steep fifth flight appeared a brass plate, with the name, Felix Drubarde.

He rang, and his summons was answered almost instantly from an unexpected direction.

A large, rouud, rubicund face peered through the skylight and a voice asked if monsieur desired an interview with Felix Drubarde. "I have come here in that hope, monsieur," answered Heathcote, "and I venture to infer that I have the honor of addressing Monsieur Drubarde." "I am that individual, monsieur," replied the rubicund gentlemen, opening tbe skylight to its fullest extent. "Would it be too much to ask you to ascend to my summer saloon upon the leads It is pleasanter even for a busi ness interview than the confinement of four walls."

There was a deep, straight ladder againzt the wall immediately under the skylight. Mr. Heathcote mouuted this, and emerged upon the roof, face to face with Felix Drubarde.

The retired police officer's appearance was essentially realistic. His attire resembled the holiday costume of the station des bains rather than the normal garb of a great, busy metropolis. He was clothed from head to foot In white linen, his garments were all of the loosest, and be wore ancient buff slippers which bad doubtless often trodden tbe bitter biting, foam of tbe beach of Dippe or the sands of Tronville. Altogether Monsieur Drubarde looked the very picture of oomfort and coolness on this warm September morning. He had made for himself a garden upon a fair open space of flat leaded roof, which was belted rouud with chimney stacks of all shapes and sizes, just as a dawn is girdled with good old oakes and beeches. On one side of his garden lie had rigged up a light lattice work from chimney to chimney, and hia nasturtums and Virginia creepers bad clothed the lattice with green and gold. This he called bin alle vertie, and he declared that it reminded him of Fountainebleau in the days of the famous Dinan.

His open garden was gorgtocras with geraniums, roses, and perfumed with migonette and honeysuckle. He had his morning coffee on a little iron table, he had a wicker work easy chair for himself, and another for a friend, and a smart rug, of the usual gaudy pattern to be seien in French lodging-houses, was spread for the slippered feet. He had his cigars, and his newspaper, and above all, ho had a largo and ancient black poodle, of uncanny aspect, which looked as if he were the very dog under whose aspect tbe arch-fiend visited Dr. Faustus.

Before seating himsplf In tbe banket chair which Monsieur Drubarde offered him, Mr. Heathcote took George Distin's letter out of his pocket-book, and handed it to the ex-Police officer, who became convulsive with rapture when he saw the siguature. "Monsieur was welcome on his own aocount as a doubtless distinguished Englishman as the friend of Monsieur Distin he is more than welcome. Hi« visit is an honor, a privelge, which an old member of the Paris police cannot toobightly value," said Drubarde, with enthusiasm. "Ah, Monsieur, what a man is that George Distin what a commanding genius! I

have

bad the honor

to assist in cases where that mighty genius revealed itself with startling force, and where, I am proud to say, he must have inevitably have failed, but for my homble assistance. Yes, Monsieur,old Drubade has a fame which even your great English lawyer envies. What a man, all the same!" Monsieur Drubarde paused for breath, and also to offer Mr. Heathcote a cigar, which was frankly accepted. And then the police officer continued his eulogy of the English lawyer, with which he contrived to interweave a little gentle egotism. "Had he been a Frenchman and lived under the lirtgt Bmperor, he would have been greater than tbe Duke of Otranto, whom my father had the privilege to servo, and whom I remember seeing when I was a child. My father took me Into the great chief's office one day, a little todiing creature, chubby, and, I am told, beautiful, in my little uniform of the old guard a mother's fond fancy, monsieur the mothers of France love to dress their children as toys. The duke ldd bis hand upon my gclden curls. 'What a lovely boy,' he exclaimed, deeply moved by the infantine beau&/1F.?Pfa*y« brilliant future for bim This child will go far.' I hope monsieur that my

a1ter

th?.&reanu!Sn,t

lav

the surest way of arriving at the truth about the girl's death lie arrangned

iile has not belied

prophecy." assures me that you have

won distinction

in vour

calling," replied

Heathcote, wondering how long the old gentleman's recollections of childhood were going to lgLt. "Your narrative takes me back to8 beiiod tbat is classical. at you who so vividents of sixty years

It assures me also ly remember tfae ago—" "More than monsieur. I am past seventy ye*rg

"Tf age I

to you." Mr. Heathp^i

fltfSyaW-

aH oap

who speak

on an

appropriate

expression ofpon^il "With suclS* tnsJttj.y

for

the remote

past, it will bfrdly trfiuble you to recall the events of|tea j,,, ago," he continued, very operto^me to this point. jrs igo, in this iber, there was a ipted murder, of

Paris—" lurder of Marie ijl tbe forest of tbe police that case. A

==€,

He was confounded by the ea^ which the man fixed upon a nt^ crime, upon a given date. Itt have surprised him less to find t& child's vision

murder was ah

lever dream—the repetition of onfe bid hallucination—than to bear (b| reality, here, off-hand, in the light of day. "j "Really murdered yes, and heqrc toe, as dead as the Pharaohs. never was a more real crime, a determined, adacious murder. actress and her lover had gone to German for a holiday jaunt. Vwent by rail,dined at the Hearie Qusl hired a carriage in the cool

the em

ing, drove on the tearace, and then j|the forest. They left the carriage point where there were crosa roads, a pursued their ramble on foot." "There was a child with them into rogated Heathcote, breathlessly. "Yea a little girl, the actress' niei She was tbe only witness of tbe crity It was from her lips that the JudgjB Instruction took down the. historjjo scene. They are walking quietly iUtd twilight, it was nearly dark, tbe cl& said, and she was beginning to ill frightened. The lovers were walkif arm in arm, the child by her aunt's sia Suddenly a man sprung out upop thei from tbe darkness of the wood, and cor fronted tkem with a pistol in band. wore no bat, and he looked wild anr furious. He aiired first at the mai who fell without a groan. The girl hs just time to call out to him not to shoe ber aunt when he fired a second tia* and then a third and a fourth, and the again, quicker than the child cou'A count. It was evidently a six chamber

Maria Pi

coa1 uraa frtW.'

ed revolver. Marie Pribvol was for with her breast riddled with bu'r The driver heard the shot? at his po §,•• the cross roads." r., "And was the murderer never fouL "Never. In spite ot his wild api ance, hia bare head, he gotclein off,! all the police of Paris failed in tracii bim." "But was there no one suspected, the crime "Yes. There was a former lover1 Marie s, her first lover and, apjt» the only man she had eve* for. They had been a dr, —were supposed by some tt ried—and until a sho** murder Marie's cbairx' sldered almost stainle^^eB to1 er admirer appeared on TWi\a| were violcn quarrels. Th^ ed to have lost ber heacLJ^ ed bv this aristocratic ITr1- |j handsomest men in Ko*rel known bim only a fJf »ej they went for this jaunt w^® a stolen adventure. They we ed to have lieen followed by man, and tbat the murder was jealous madness." "And the crime was neve*' home to him? "Never. Beyond tbe fact c. tions with Mademoiselle PrevfJ -Vi disappearance immediately a "A murder, there was nothing tc

hsm with the crime." "I thought it was difficult, most impossible, for any France without the knowl police." "It Is difficult and at that tLg,0t particularly difficult, as the L, ioi the Commune were still of remand the police were more thanT alert. But this man did it. great railway stations and tbe were closely watched for the apn,^ of such a inan among the depl but be was never identified."

Wfi -*, si I

And you have no doubt in yo^ mind that this man was the mure "Not tbe shadow of doubt. tTh fno one else who bkd any motive sailing Msrie and her admirer. E In her relations with these two eh been propriety itself. Unless yoi imagine a motiveless maniac da through a wood and shooting the coi you can hardly conceive any other than jealousy *fqr such a crime as I "Do you remember the name man who was suspected "Not at this moment but I hav whole history of the case in mv shop below, and if yon wouJu 11 read it there are details that migh terest you." "I should like much to read it."

r, [TO BKCONTIKUKD.] -frKi

MEANEST SNEAK IN TOWH

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All

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not

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Diseases of the

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