Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 15, Number 33, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 7 February 1885 — Page 2

THE MAIL

A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

TEKKE HAUTE, FEB. 7 1886.

fOommenoed In The Mall Dec 8th. Back BBtnbeni can be bad on application at pubBsatloa offlcs or of newa agent*.]

iWjllard

's Weird.

BT KISS M. K. Bit ADDON.

of"Lady Audlay'a aoarst," "Aurora Fiord,** "Ttte Outeaat," *&, M.

-W CHAPTER XN. LEOVIS'S MISSION. The report of the interrogatory before the Judge d' Instruction was followed by a page of notes written by the police officer Drubarde.

The child Leonie Lemarque was not again in a condition to give her evidence. A violent attack of brain fever succeeded her second appearance before the Judge d' Instruction, and on her recovery from the lever it was found that her mind had suffered seriously from the shock she had undergone. Memory was a blank. The Judge d' Instruction visited her in her own home when she was oonvaleseent, and triod to recall the impression made upon her at the time of the murder, in the hope of identifying the murderer but she bad forgotten the whole circumstances of her aunt's death, yet suffered agonies from a vague terror associated in her enfeebled mind with the very name of that aont.

As scon as she was well enough to travel, she was taken to the convent of Din an by a good priest who had befriended her grandmother for many years. After this transference to the convent the police lost sight of the child Le mar que.

Throughout the evening, and in the wakeful intervals of a somewhat, disturbed night, Edward Heathcote brooded over the details of the evidence which he bad read—not once, but several times, before he dosed the volume of reports.

The detective instinct, which is a characteristic of every well-trained lawyer mind, bad been suddenly developed into almost a passion. He no longer limited his desire to the unraveling of the web of Leonie Lemarque's fate he ardently longed to discover the mystery of Marie Prevol's murder—to succeed where one of the most accomplished Parisan detectives had Ignomlnously failed. His eagerness to hear more about Drubarque's efforts and failures in this particular case led blm to the Quai den Grand's Augustins at an early hour, in time to surprise the worthy Andre in the act of breakfasting temporarily upon cafe au lalt and boiled eggs.

Monsieur Drubarde gave bis new friend a obeery welcome. It was a lovely morning, balmy as midsummer, and the little garden on the leads was bright with gaily colored asters, nasturtiums and agreeably perfumed with mignonette.

Do you perceive the exquisite odors?" asked Drubarde. "Your mignonette t"is delicious." "My mignonette!" cried the police officer scornfully. "Why, when the wind blows straight from the flower market, as it does to-day, I can sit in my garden and enjoy all the perfumes of the Riviera. I can revel in orange blossoms, drink my All of tuber roseB and stephanotis, Marechal Neal and Jacqutline roses. And look what view! Not a touch of the sculptor's chisel tbat I cannot see yonder on the old kings of Notre Dame not a cornice or oolumn in the new hospital that does not stand clear in the morning light 1 And yet Paris is peopled with fools who do not make gardens on their housetops." "Perhaps every landlord would not be so complaisant as yours, Monsieur Drubarde, nor every housetop so adapted to horticulture." "True, your Parisan landlord is churl and a niggard, and a good many of our housetops are no doubt impracticable. But the inventive mind, th6 love of the beautiful is more often wanting. 1 see you have been good enough to bring back my volume. You have read the report. I suppose." "Every line, every syllable, the throe times over." "And you are interested "Deeply. I was never more intensely interested in any case that has come within my knowledge, and as a lawyer I have become acquainted with many strange stories. Yes, I am more interested than I can say in the fate of that unhappy aotress, In the character of her mysterious lover and yet I doubt if this former crime has any bearing upon the murder of Leonie Lemarque." "It would certainly be going somewhat far to suppose a link between the death of a girl traveling alone in Cornwall—a death which may after all have been accidental—and the murder of an aotress ten years before in thefrestof St. Germain. However, it is only by the miuutest scrutiny of Leonie's past life that you can arrive at the motive which took her to England, and discover whether she had an enemy in that ooun try—that is to say, if she was lured across the Channel in order to be made way with by that enemy. A very wild ana and far-fetched supposition I think you will admit, monsieur, ^nd which our talented friend, Mr. Distin, would not entertain for five minutes." "Professional acumen like Mr. Dls tin's is apt to run in grooves—to be too iuleut upon following the practical and the possible, to shut out the romantic element, to strangle the Imagination, and to forget that it is very often oy following the seemingly impossible that we arrive at the truth." "I see you are an enthusiast, mon sieur." "I have never tried to subjugate my imagination. As a lawyer I found ideality tne most useful faculty of my brain. Now I have been thinking about Leonie Lemaique's fate from every possible point of view, from the standpoint of my modest imagination as well as from the standpoint of common sense and it has occurred to me that if the murderer of Marie Prevol is living he would be Leonie's natural enemy." "Whvso?"

Bfcause she was the only witness of his crime. She alone would have the papor to identify him as the murderer."

Y.'U forget that it is just that power which the poor girl lost in consequence of the horror of that scene of which she wan the solitary witness. The fever deprived her of memory. "The effect of the fever may not have been permanent. The agitation which ttbovred at the mention of her aunt's name—when Sister Godule questioned her about the silk handkerchief

ficateto

iven her by Marie Prevol—would iothat memory was not a blank. Ami again, iT she had forgotten the person of the murderer, and even the murder, he would not know that, and would

regard her existence as a source of danger to himself." Andre Drubarde smiled the superior smile of experience reproving folly. "And you think that after having allowed this one witness of his crime to exist unmolested for ten years, the assassin all at once took it into his bead to murder her, that with this view he carried her to your barbarous country of Coruuailles, and there flung her over an embankment. I am tempted to paraphrase the Scripture, monsieur, and to exclaim 'Are there not viaducts and embankments in this little France of ours, that a man should go to the remote West of England in order to commit murder iu that particular fashion

Mr. Heathcote felt that the police officer had the best of the argument. "I grant that it would have been a clumsy method of getting nd of the girl," he said, "but murder has been clumsily done before to day, and imagination can conceive no crime so improbable as not to be paralleled by fact. However, it is perhaps too soon to speculate that the murdeier of Mare Prevol was also the murderer of Leonie Lemarque. What we have to do is to find out the reason of the girl's journey to England. But before we set about on that ta-k, I should like you to tell me what steps you took in yonr endeavor to trace the murderer, after the examination before the Judge d' Instruction." "I looked over the case in my note book last night, as I was prepared for yoo to ask for those details,'' replied Drubarde. "It was a case tfcat interested me profoundly, all the more so, perhaps, because I made so little headway in my investigations. My first endeavor was to trace the murderer's proceedings immediately after the crime. He must have made his escape from that Saint Germain somehow, unless be bad killed himself in some obscure corner of the wood. Even then the fivding of the body would have been a question of so many days, weeks or months. Alive, it would have been impossible for him to lemain in hiding in the forest for a week, as the wood was searched thoroughly during the three days immediately succeeding the murder. On the third daj a hat was found in a boggy bit of ground ever so far from the scene of the murder. The hat was a gentleman's bat, but it had bean lying there three days and nights in a bog. It bad been rained upon for two days out of three—there was no maker's nameno indication by which the owner of the bat could be traced. That it bad been found so far off ssemed to me to prove that the murderer bad been roaming the wood in a wild and disordered frame of mind, and walking at a tremendous pace, oi he could never have got over the distance between the time when be was seen by the waiter at the Henri Quatre to turn the corner of the terrace and the period of the murder." "You believe, then, that the man seen by the waiter was actually the murderer." "I have no doubt of it. That spasmodic walk, that hesitancy, the looking back, and then hurrying on all these indicated a mind engaged upon some agitating theme. The man was seen watching the window inside which Marie Prevol and her admirer were seated. He moved away when he saw himself observed. He had disguised himself as much as be could, by turning up the collar of his coat. 1 new are all de tails that point to one conclusion. The finding of the hat induced me to visit every shop in St. Germain, where a hat could be bought. It was dear that the murderer could not have gone far from the forest bare headed, without attracting attention. He must have got himself a hat somehow and it was not long before I ascertained that a bat had been got. At the principal shop I was told that a boy a gamin, had come in on the night of the murder, and had asked for a doth traveling cap. He had chosen one with flaps to protect the ears, a form of cap inteuaed to give the utmost protection from cold. He paid for his purchase with a napoleon, and seemed in a great hurry to lie gone, not even stopping to count his change. The shop keeper bad wondered at such a little ragamuffin being intrusted wltb a purchase of the kind. The man was on the point of closing bis shop, and was therefore quite positive as to the hour. It was his invariable habit to put up his shutters at nine oclock, and the clock was striking as the boy came to the door of the shop, breathless and heated, as if he bad been runing for some distance." "And you conclude that this traveling cap was bought for the murdertr?" "Hear the sequel, and judge for yourself. 1 went from the natter's to the railway station, and there, after having been bandied about from pillar to post, I succeeded In finding a tolerably intelligent official who remembered the night of the murder—now ten days past—and who could recall most of the passengers who bad left for Paris by the halfpast nine o'clock train upon that particular night. The news of the murder had not been brought tc the station before the starting of thetraiu. a most criminal neglect on the part of the local police. No suspicious-looking person had been observed to enter the trains, but upon my questioning him closely the man remembered having noticed a traveler who wore a cloth cap with flaps over the ears —a seemiugly needless protection upon a mild September evening. *There is one who takes care of himself,' the railway official had thought. For the rest, this passenger had looked like a gentleman, tall, erect and well built, a Digger man than the majority of Frenchmen— what the railway official permitted himself to call un bel hotnme. Had he appeared agitated, breathless, in a hurry? No, the official had noticed nothing extraordinarv in his manner. He had a return ticket to Paris. The train was scarcely out of the station when the police came to make inquiries. The murder bad been known of at the police station at a quarter past eight, and It was not until after half-past nine that the police thought of setting a watch upon the railway station. That is how your rustic police favor the escape of a criminal." "Did you trace your gentleman in the doth cap any further?" "Not an inch. No one had observed hitr at Saint Lazare, nor at any intermediate station where the train stopped. I wearied myself during the next six weeks in the endeavor to trace the man called Georges, who must have bad some local habitation in Paris 'besides Marie Prevol's apartment. In vain. In no quarter of the Paris could I tear of any apartment occupied by a manmnswering to the description of this man who called himself Gorges—rich, independent, handsome, in the prime of life, could trace no such man among the prosperous dasses of Paris, and my machinery for tracking any individual In the wilderness of. Parts bad hither to proved almost infallible. Thi« man baffled me. I 'touched on him' now and again, as

fou

*-it

English say of your bunted fox, but could never get upon a scent strong enough to follow and in the cod I gave up all hope of finding him. He must have aneaked ont of France under the very noses of the police, for I bad act a watch upon every probable exit from this country." I

"No doubt be was clever enough to Chooee the improbable. Did yon see much of Madam Lemarque after- the murder?" "No, my interest in her ceased when I gave up the oase as hopeless. I had fresh cases, new interest, and the murder of Marie Prevol remained In my mind only as a tradition, until you recalled the story of the crime." "1 telegraphed yesterday to the prindpal of the Ursuline Convent at Dinan," said Mr. Heathcote, "and I have obtained from her the address at which Madam Lemarque was living two years ego, when her niece was sent back to Paris in company with other pupils. After leaving you I shall go to that address and try to find Maaam Lemarque. I may have the painful duty of informing her of her granddaughter's death and yet I can but think that were the granimother still living she must have heard of the girl's death, and would have communicated with the Cornish police." "That is to suppose her more intelligent than the average Frenchwoman," said Drubarde, as if be belonged to another nation. "Suppose I accompany you in your search for Madam lemarque. That ought to be interesting." "I shall be delighted to secure your aid."

Monsieur Drubarde and his guest de scended the ladder. The detective put on a gray overcoat, which concealed and subjugated the airiness of his Summer attire. He put on a hat of sober com-mon-place existence, that altogether contrived to make himself almost patriarchal before he left bis lodging.

Tbe street in whieh Madam Lemarque had been living when tbe nuns of Dinan last beard of her was a narrow and shabby little street between St. Sulpice and tbe Luxembourg. The house was decently kept and had a respectable air, anfl was evidently not one of those caravanserais where lodgers come and go with every term. It had a settled, sober air, and the brass plate upon tbe door told of permanent residents with res pec table avocationa. One of these plates informed sodety that Mesdames Lemarque and Beauville, Robes et Modes, occupied the third floor. The staircase was clean and quiet, and the first sound* that saluted Mr. Heathcote's ears as he went upstairs was the sureeeh of a parrot, which became momentarily louder as tbe visitors approached the third floor.

On the door on the left of the landing appeared another brass plate—Mesdames Lemarque et Beauville, Robes, Modes, Chapsaux.

Mr. Heathcote rang the bell. He felt curiously agitated at the thought that in tbe next minute he might be face to face with the dead girl's grandmother.

The door was opened by an elderly woman in blaok, very sallow, very thin, with prominent cheek-bones and hungry black eyes. She was neatly clad, her rusty silk gown fitting her fleshiest* form to perfection, her linen collar and cuflfe spotlessly clean, her iron-gray hair carefully arranged but poverty was stamped upon every fold of her gown, and written in every line upon her forebead. "Madam Lemarque?" inquired Mr. Heathcote, while tbe ci-devant police officer looked over his shoulder. "No, I am not Madam Lsmarque, but I am her business representative. Any orders intended for Madam Lemarque can be executed by me. I am Mademoiselle Beauville.' "Alas, mademoiselle, it is not a ques tion of orders," replied Heathcote, in bis most courteous tones. "I have come on a painful errand. I have to impart very sad news to Madam Lemarque."

Madam Beauville sigbedand shrugged her thin shoulders. "Madam Lemarque is lying at rest in a place where all tidings of this earth are alike Indifferent," she raid. "Take the trouble to enter my humble apartment, gentlemen. Madam Lemarque was my partner and my friend."

Heathcote and his companion followed the dressmaker into her little saloon, where a very old gray cockatoo was clambering upon a perch, seemingly in danger of doing himself to death bead downwards at every other minute. The saloon was like tbe appearance of Mademoiselle Beauville, scrupulously neat, painlully pinched, and spare. A poor little old-fashioned walnut table, polished to desperation, a cheap little cbiaa vase of common flowers, a carpet which covered only a small island in an ocean ef red tiles, an old itoahogany secretaire with materials for writing, and, by way of decoration, the fashion plates of LeFollett neatly pinned agaiuBt tbe dingy wall paper. There was a "Work-basket on tbe table, and Mademoiselle Beauville had apparently been busily remaking a very old grown of of her own. in order to keep her hand in during the dead season.

Mr. Heathcote discovered later that Mademoiselle Beauville cherished one bitter and unappeasable hatred, and that was against Messrs. Spricht Van Korb and the whole confraternity of men milliners. "Then Madam Lemarque is dead, I apprehend, mademoiselle "Madam Lemarque died last June." "Suddenly "No she had been ailing for some time. But tbe end came more quickly 1ban she expected. My poor friend had but a short time to arrange certain affairs." "Was her granddaughter, Leonie, living with her at the time of her death?" "She was. But what do you know about Leonie

Tbe ex-detective laid his band hastily upon Mr. Heathcote's wrist before he could answer. "Answer nothing until we have heard what she can tell us," be whispered." "I know very little about her, but I am anxious to know more and if yon should be a loser by the waste of your time in answering my inquiries, I shall be most happy to recompense you for that loss," said Heathcote.

The spinster's hungry eyes sparkled. Deoend poverty has deptbB

1TERKE HAUTE SATURDAY !EVE1SIING MAIL.

on

know to

tbe professet pauper. Mademoiselle's larder would have exhibited a touching spectacle to tbe eye of tbe philosopher or physiologist. The philosopher would have wondered that women can endure with such patience, tbe physiologist would have been surprised that humanity can sustain life on so little. For weeks past Mademoiselle Beauville's most luxurious idea of dinner bad been an egg. For tbe last week her dsily ra tion bad been two halfpenny rolls. "Tell me all you can about your friend and her grandchild," asked Heathcote, eagerly. "I am particularly interested icknowing everything but as it is dry work talking, and as neither my friend nor I have lunched, it might be a good idea to get a bottle of Bordeaux and a few biscuits, if mademoiselle will permit us to refresh ourselves in her apart-

His keen glance bad noted the hollow cheeks and glittering eyes of the dressmaker, and he wanted an excuse for giving life and warmth to that impoverished form. Drubarde caught at tbe Idea thinking that tbe client's design was to loosen the lady's tongue by the agency of Bacchus. It was altogether an amateur's notion—crude, wanting in stability bat the genial Drubarde was

feeling his way in the dements of a great art. "I'll fetch a bottle of wine myself," he ssi*1,cheerily "I know where I can get one dose by, and of the best.'* "Bring two," said Heathcote, "Mademoiselle will accept the second by way of a souvenir." "Monsieur, do you wish to make me a drunkard I have not tasted wine since my poor friend's death," said Mademoiselle Beauville, but there was a look in her face which told Heathcote that bis gift would not be unwelcome.

Drubarde ran downstairs like a boy, and was back in five minutes carrying a couple of sealed bottles, labeled St. Estnephe, and a large bag of biscuits.

Mademoiselle had set out a tray in the meantime, with ber poor little stock of glasses, three in all, and one of these cracked, and an old china plate for the biscuits. Again her eyes glistened when she saw the bigness of the biscuit bag. "Let melook at the name on the bag," said Heathcote.

Strange, it waa the very name upon the b'scuit bag which he carried at this moment, neatly folded in bis pockethook, the bag which had been found in the second-class carriage from which tue girl feel. "And now, mademoiselle, tell me all you can about your deceased friend and her grand daughter. Yon had known Madam Lemarque for some time, condude?" "I had lived with her for nearly ten years." "For nearly ten years? Then you muat have joined yonr fortunes with her soon after the murder of her daughter, Marie Prevol "Yoo have heard of the terrible eveat, then, monsieur?" asked the dressmaker. "It is ao long since it happened that 1 thought it had been forgotten by all the world except me." "No, mademoiselle, a tradgedy so terrible as that can never be forgotten by those who study the mystery of crime. I am keenly interested in tradng the murder of Marie Prevol." "After ten years?" exclaimed Mademoiselle Beauville, with incredulous smile. "Only a dreamer could think of such a thing, monsieur." "Then I am such a dreamer, mademoiselle, and I hope you will help me to realise my dream." "Does monsieur Mardoche, one of the most distinguished Judges d' Instruction, loon up this case warmly that the police were never more earnest in their endeavor to find poor Marie Prevol's murderer? Does monsieur know that it was double murder, and that Monsieur de Maucrslx, a young man of high family and large fortune, was also a victim Does Monslenr suppose that bis friends were idle—that no inducement was offered to the police "I am aware of all this, mademoiselle and, I know that tbe cleverest police in tbe world—" "Except Russia we must always bow to tbe superior genius of the North," interjected Monsieur Drubarde. "I am aware that the police failed. But you must consider, mademoiselle, that when tbe police force of Paris were keenest in the pursuit of the assassin the assassin was most upon bis guards The consciousness of bis crime, the horror of his position, intensified bis intelligence. He bad but one thought, to escape detection. His whole life was planned with that purpose. But now ten years have, gone by—ten years of security—the murderer may be less guarded, more open to detection. He will have grown, careless—foolhardy even—believing that after such an Interval detection must be impossible. If mademoiselle will do me tbe honor to touch glasses, we will discuss this question at our leisure."

He had filled the three glasses, but he bad perceived that tbe dressmaker had a delicacy in drinking the wine be bad provided, and be took up bis glass and offered tbe edge of it to hers, and, embolded by this friendly movement, the spinster clinked her glass against the rim of bis, then against that of tbe patriarchal Drubarde, while the cockatoo, wondering at this unwonted revelry, screeched bis loudest. "To your good health, gentlemen," faltered tbe dressmaker, before she slip­

"To tbe speedy discovery of ^darie Prevol's murder," said Heathcote. "Did you know our poor Maria monsieur, that you are thus interested in her dark fate |"1 "No, mademoiselle." "Ob. if you bad but known her I should understand your desire to revenge her death. She was so lovely. To know her was to adore her. Even a soured old maid such as I could but yield to her charm. She was as loving as she was lovable a clinging disposition, a poetical nature. Her life was not blameless perhaps, who knows? We will not scrutinize too closely. She was as different from those harpies, whom one bears of in Paris as a wild rose in the hedge is different from a jewel that has gone the round of every Monte de Plete in that city. Her heart was true to tbe last. She had no ambition but to love and to be loved. Tbe man who absorbed ber life for along time, whose band, perhaps, slew her, was rich, lavish. He would have loaded ber with gifts if she bad let him—but to tbe last she preserved tbe same modest Ideas— generous to others, careless to herself." "Did you ever see the man who called himself Georges?" "Never. He was a man of curious habits. He loved tbe night better than the day. Nothing delighted blm more than a moonlight drive in tbe Boisafter midnight. He patronized tbe restaurants that keep open half tbe night. Mario and he used to-sup, together at the Cafe de Paris, sometimes with oue or two chosen friends—but mucb more often alone. I was not Msdara Lemarque's partner at that time but I *cupied a room in tbe roof of this house, and I used to work by the day for madam and for Marie. I have spent many days working for ber in the Ruoi de Lafitte. I made all ber gowns, and I proud that she should challenge comparison with actresses who squandered their thousand* upon such impostors as 8prlcht and Van Korb. Imagine, monsieur, a man—a stern rugged nature which can bave no true feeling for tbe beauty of woman's dress—a being of angels and bard lines—a creature without grace or fl«»u. No wonder that square shoulders and pointed elbows bave come into fashion since men bave dictated tbe dress of women."

Mademoiselle bad mounted her hobby and was riding furiously— Doubtless, it is a mistake in art, and one tbat must he discovered before lrng,' said Heatbeo*e, soothingly, "but tell me mademoiselle, in all your visits to tbe Roe de Lafitte did you never encounter this Monsieur G«orgei» •Never."

Strange! And did your friend Mademoiselle revolt talk much of this Monsieur Goonies?"

willing to indulge a beginner who waa that wounded Marie's generous nature.

Yea, she used to talk to me a great deal about bi»n at one time, poor child I tbink she talked even more freely to. me than to her mother. Madam Le marque was just a little too fond of money, too eager for gifts from ber child, and

'You value people only for what they! can give you/ she said once to her) mother, "if Georges were Satan you would like him just as well—provided you got enough of his money." And then there was a quarrel, as you nray suppose, monsieur. There were excuses to be made for Madam Lemarque, poor soul. She bad been rich once—an atelier in the Rue de la Paix—a country house at Asnieres—but these man milliners had spoiled her trade, and at this time she was very poor, living in these rooms which you see, and working for half a dozen shabby oustometa who ground her to the very dust by thdr meanness. And then when Marie gave her money she spent It recklessly—she eat and dran like a princess—she took a voiture de place, whenever she went out she thought that Marie could never do too much for her or her son's orphan child, Leonie." "Leonie lived with her grandmother, did she not?" "Yes, Madam Lemarque had kept her aince she was three years old. It was a dull life for a child. She

UBed

But a supposition

to sit on

a little atool in that corner, and thread needles for her grandmother. When she waB eight years old she could work very neatly: she ran errands tco. She earned her daily bread, poor child. But her happiest days were those she spent with her aunt." "Mademoiselle Prevol was good to her "Good to her Yeif and to every one who came in her way. I tell you she was a creature all sweetness and love." "And waa she devoted to this Monsieur Georges "At one time, yes. It was an adoration on both sides. Marie used to tell me of their journeys in romantic countries, under a southern sky. Of their happy life, far away from the crowd of his round less love for ber, his generosity, his devotion. She bad a fever in Venice, and he nursed her, and watched beside her bed day and night?—thirteen days and thirteen nights—till she was out of danger. It was a love such as one reads of ii poetry 1" "Have you any reason to think that she was his lawful wife "J cannot tell. His constancy and devotion were those of the best or husbands. She wore a wedding ring, and she was always called by his name when they traveled, as well as in ber lodgings. It was almost at the bsglnningof their attachment tbat he took her to England. I have sometimes thought that they were married in England." "Did he introduce her to his friends in Paris "Only a few artists and writers whom she used to meet at sapper. They were some of the wildest young men in Paris." "But he introduced her to no ladies— to no families of good standing?" "I doubt if be could bave bad any such friends. He lived too eccentric a life to cultivate what you call respecta ble acquaintance." "Waa be himself an artist "I tbink not. He waa too rich for a painter or an author." "And you have never heard of him aince Marie Prevol's death "Never." "What became of tbe jewels and other property which had belonged to Mademoiselle Prevol "They were sold by her mother, who lived upon tbe proceeds of the sale for some years. She paid for Leonie's schooling out of the same fund. It was only in the last years of her life tbat she again beoame poor. She took me into partnership very soon after ber daughter's death. She bad sent the little girl to a convent and she felt lonely and nervous in these rooms. Her Bplrits never recovered from the shock of that terrible murder—tbe borror of tbe night in which Leonie was brought home to ber by the police from St. Germain, who told ber the history of the murder. She invited me to share her apartment, and to work for her, taking baljf tbe profit of tbe business. Tbe profits of the business were tbe smallest, but I had my board and lodging, and I waa too fond of Madam Lemarque, and of Jacko," added the spin iter, looking fondly at tbe cockatoo. "That is Madame Lemarque's parrot. I conclude." "Yes. He belonged to poor Mari6. Ah, he could tell us a great deal if he would but talk sense instead of repeating foolish songs. She bought him from a sailor'at Marseilles, and brought him home with her after one of ber Autumn holidays. She used to teach him lines from the songs she sang at tbe theatre." "Moijesuisle radis noir," shrieked tbe parrot. "You were living with Madam Lemarque wLen her granddaughter returned from Dinan, I suppose," said Heathcote. "Ah, you seem to know all about it. Yes, I was with madam when she went to Saint Lazare to meet the child. Sucb a bright, pretty girl she bad grown—so amiable, and clever, and industrious. I never thought she would act towards me as she has done." "In what way has she acted badly "She went to England directly after ber grandmother's death—that is more than two months ago—and she has not written to me once since then. No doubt she has found powerful friends —rich friends—and has no need of a poor old woman like me." "There may be som'i other reason for her silence," said Heathcote, gravely. "What other reason "Some misfortune an accident, perhaps. She bad to travel by steamboat and by railway. Might not something hsve happened "I bave thought of tbat something," said tbe dressmaker, with a distressed look, "and if 1 bad bad a friend in England—one single friend—I should have written to ask tbat friend to make inquiries. But I bave so few friends— bardly any one in Paris, no one outside Paris," sbe concluded, dejectedly. "But surely you knew Leonie's errand You knew to wbom sbe was going? You might have witten to tnat person." "I know nothing. The girl's errand was a secret from me. On her death bed Madam Lemarque gave her granddaughter some commission. There were letters or papers of some kind, I tbink, which sbe was t# take to somebody in England, and that person was expected to befriend ber. Tbe grandmother was very secret about it. She would not speak to Leonie on the subject wbile I was in the room, but on reentering rather suddenly I saw some papers on tbe bed. I overheard a few words—something about a friend of Monsieur George, rich, powerful." "And it wa» this friend of Georges, tbe murderer, that Leonie waa to appeal for protection and belp?" "Remember, we are not certain that Georges wis tbe murderer. It is only a supposition."

BO

drenmstantial evidezoe mean "Don't talk to me about it," muttsrsd Drubarde, impatiently. "Georges wan the murderer. The police were at fault in their search for him, but they wers never in doubt as to his guilt." "And it was to a friend of hor daughter's murderer tbat Madam Lemarqtw sent ber granddaughter "What other resources had she, dn you think exclaimed the dressmaker. "She was dying penniless, friendless leaving her grandchild to tbe mercy ox strangers. She knew that Monslenr Georges was a rich man, and that any friend of Monsieur Georges was likely to be well off, 1 dare say she knew

I

HAVE BEEN

well grounded

as to be almost certainty. An adoring lover, who disappeared immediately after the murder of bia mistress—a lover wbo had good ground for jealousy, 'and Is known to have been madly jealous, mark you. A murder tbat could only be inspired by madness or by jealousy. If the*© facts are not strong enough to condemn Monsieur George, what does

BO

more tban the name of this friend." "Did you hear the name?" "Never. I heard ber tell Leonie that tbe gentleman was in London. She would find bim at some hotel, the naMn of which I forget." "Would you recognize it if you heard it asked Heathcote. "Perhaps. I am not sure."

He went over the names of the principal hotels, without success. Mademiselle Beauville could not remember Is bave heard any one of tbem. "You are sure that Mademoiselle Lsmarque was to go London inquire# Heathcote, "and no further than London. You heard no mention of Cornwall or Plymouth

He repeated the name of county ant town—giving each tbe true Gallic intention—but tbey suggested nothing t* Mademoiselle Beauville. "She was to go to London—nowbsm else. But why do you ask "I will tell you that presently. Did Leonie Lemarque leave Paris immediately after ber grandmother's death ?'r "She left tbe evening after tbe funeral. She did not even wait to get a mourning gown made. Sbe had worn a black gown belonging to roe at the funeral, and she ohanged it for her little gray gown before she left." "Did she take no luggage 1" "Only a change of linen in a handbag." -. $ "How did she travel

in&,yournot,

v-

-*y

"Sbe went from the Station du Nord at eight o'dock. I walked to the statioa with her, poor child. We were both very sad, and very tired. She waa tm cross from Dover to Calais in tbe night, and she would arrive in London early next morning. Sbe promised me ts write on tbe day of her arrival. 1 told ber tbat I thought it was a dangerous thing for a young girl to go alone t* meet a stranger, a man whose face shs had never seen. She said her grandmother had tola her that be. was a good and honorable man, and she was to trust him. She begged me not to ask her any questions. Her grandmother had warned her to say nothing worth telling mew When I pressed ber to give me her confidence she began to cry, but I managed to find out tbat sbe was going to London with the idea of being placed in some rich and aristocratic family whem she would be a companion to tbe children and teach tbem her own language. Sbe was not accomplished enough to sn a governess of a superior kind.'' "How did she get the money for hev journey?" "Her grandmother gave it her on her deathbed, but as there had been bardly any money in tbe bouse for tbe last week of Madam Lemarque's illness, I concluded tbat this money bad been sent from tbe person in England In reply an application from Madam Lemarque.** "Did you post any English letter durfriend's illness?"

I did but Leonie may bave don* so. She went out every day on some errand or other. And now, monsieur, nray tell me how you came to know all about Leonie, ana if you have any bad news for me?" "Alas, mademoiselle, I have the worst possible news. Your young friend is dead." "Dead! And there -was no one to tell me. Tbe gentleman who was to befriend her, to whom sbe went as ton protector and benefactor, be did not even take the trouble to tell me her fate." "She may never bave found bim, poor child. She may have been lured away from her destination aild from London by a villain. She met ber death more tban two hundred miles from London. She fell from a railroad bridge, and was killed instantly but whether that death was an accident or a murder no one. yet knows except the Great Judge of all human actions." "You believe it was "Muider. Iam here to discover thn motive of tbat crime." [CONTINUED NEXT WEEK.]

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a

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