Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 15, Number 34, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 14 February 1885 — Page 2

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THE MAIL

A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

TERRE HAUTE. - - FEB. 14 1885

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(Commenced in The Mail Dec 01 b. Buck numbers can be bad on npplication at pubBautloa office or of news agent».]

Wyllard's Weird.

-mV

By MISS M. F. BRADDON.

Author of "Lady Audley's Secret," Aurora Floyd," "The Outcast," &c., &c.

^ifcsta

CHAPTER XIII. A STUDENT OF MEN AND WOMEN. There was a silence of some minutes, during which Mademoiselle Beauville wept quietly. And then Heathcote and the ex-police officer rose to take leave. "I thank you sincerely, mademoiselle, for having given me the information in your power to give, and I must beg you to accept some small compensation for the time I have wasted," said Mr. Heathcote, slipping a couple of twenty franc pieces into tbe dressmaker's hand.

The poor creature's eyes shone with a feverish light as her skinny fingers closed upon the gold, it was like manna dropped from heaven. Long and weary weeks had passed since her robes et modes bad brought her so much money. Her chief customers of late had been grisettee, who had dribbed out their payments by two or three francs at a time, and who had exacted the maximum of labor for the minimum of pay. Mademoiselle's hollow cheeks ware flushed with the warm red wine, her heart glowed with the thought that she could now pay her last term to the Har-

Eaps,

pagon landlord, not much worse, perthan the rest of his species, but all lannlords seem Harpagons when they claim their due from the penniless.

"Monsieur is too good, too generous," murmured the spinster "I should refuse all remuneration, only work has been so slack of late —" "Not one word, mademoislle, Stay,

I have one more qrestion, and that an important one, to ask before I take my leave. Can you give the the exact date upon which Leonie Lemarque left Paris for Dover?" "Assuredly, monsieur. It was on the fourth of July." "The fourth! And it was on the evening of the fifth she met her death. You say she carried a small handbag containing linen." "Yes. Her clothes were of the fewest,

dear child, but everything she had was neat and nice of its kind. She had a change of linen with her."

Had she uotliiug else in tbe bag "Yes. I went into the room while she was packing, and I saw ber put in a small packet sealed up in paper, which •e took from under her pillow. 1 had 1 the same packet under her grand*er's pillow before she died. It likes parcel of letters or papers jtnekind." ''Do you know what station Leonie was to arrive at

Yes. It was the terminus of Charing." "Cbaring-CroH's "Precisely. It was a double name like that." "Good. Adieu, mademoiselle my friend and I may come to yous again perhaps to make further inquiries." "You shall be very welcome, rnon-

sieur. And if you discover the secret of my poor young friend's fate you will teil me— •*,«,- », "Assuredly." "One word, monsieur. Where is poor Uttle Leonie buried Has she a decent grave in your English land "She lies in a rustic churchyard under great yew tree. There is a stone upon her grave with a briel record of when and how she met her death. Her name and age shall now be added to the Inscription.' "Indeed, monsieur! But what kind friend was it who placed a stone over the grave of a nameless stranger?" "That was my care. It was a very small thing to do." "Ah, monsieur, it is in doing these small thing* that a great heart show* itself."

Mr. Heathoote and his companion made their adieux, accompanied to the landing by the spinster, who lelfc as if she had entertained angels unawares but when the sound of their footsteps had died away upon the stairs went back to her room and wept over the fate of her young friend. "I have nothing left in this world to love but you," she said, plteoasly addressing the cockatoo, which screeched sympathetically.

It was one o'clock by the time Mr. Heatbcote and Monsieur Drubarde left the dressmaker's apartment, so the Englishman suggested alight luncheon at the Restaurant Lapercusse, within a stone's throw of Drubarde a apartment and the suggestion being received favorably by the ex-policaman, they were soon afterwards seated at a little ble in a private room with a window overlooking the river, ready to do justice to the plat du jour, a foicandeux aux epinarda and a bo't'n of mon^n. Th- winebibblng at th drJissmsk.-r's apartment had tx-m merely a

b"iuH-oir.fc0xt-)iso

for

providing the spins witu a little good Bordeaux. "Now, nsi ur Drnharde, are alone and .u our 'U ha,va. n«w all the S.tv'» of well wiilrin y...r ktiou-H'^n, and now yougiv-1 iv y-ntr ••u-.m/' "A vrrv which to come to & divided Ii »ibarde. "A .aye -o- a«,d youtfl are antagonistic. Sty nice® wrote O'.i* a .v'"',ntal *. r.»n»i i*! of y-Mjr I'T*p.ijvr ivport. b*n- munition in my pook ibook. You tn ok it over if you like, to th i? it fsfthfnify done. 1 h.-ivc re it thn-eor four t:uses With ktvne^i lUonn-'ii, asul I oui s« far see n.»:iui.jr ^-it sit tho co*Uian in Lnie fate. A jTutr g»rl tr.iv in^ si common ruiTl vo, a ...owuaiwa. iuux« "And yoa no link bt'wpen «tu:ie it f---rtnvr UKtr.l.'trt*' "Not 'i i-.'vr. A d'»ed don© ten yfnrs ag»-~r. Munihod, the murder^r M!'"r.1.-1 "D v**ij -.-t it Lwnte unit to

Jjrtndoo"ivith cr^ic-ntisU to a -rf thU verv mU 'l" ". |''rh^ so devoted, nt* i-.-umito "h^ cm ty nun that be ro. :',t, not r^csvtl frotn a murder to rid

ot

trir hnrr

wilufeiS

La*

friend's erimm,'* "T Jan»i Ia- *'jnt ti iniJKWtiiiuJ \4«i iwt ri^k tWr tieek-* .now.iuivs, ih.-»y

at f'y ii: K'' »-rx von s«e not'r.og ctxtmordinarv or la

?:n

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tbl* t"'"I, '.v:?hln tn'f-'i'v '.i f•«• n» of

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'"*im. wirrvH'ith hedoe*

Hi!~s

vv!i

mv

^aa® rnswinej

l»:ivc the of the double nuraer. rterhaps a lover to his mis-

I tress, a letter written by a man maddened by jealousy, threatening to do the deed which was afterwards done. Yon see no sufficient ground for connecting one crime with another, for seeking the secret of tbe second crime in the history of the first." "Honestly, I do not," replied Monsieur Drubarde, who bad fastened his napkin under his chin, had nibbled a radish or two, and destroyed the symmetry of a dish of prawns, by way of preparation for tbe fricandeau. "I only wish I could see my way to snch an opinion. It would make as pretty a case as ever I was concerned in. However, there is no knowing wbpt new discoveries we may make, if we go to work patiently. My present view of the case is that Leonie Lemarque, being young, pilly and inexperienced, and not knowing a word of English, altogether a wrong person to make such a journey alone, got into bad bands at the very beginning. I believe that, instead of metting this who was to havo befriend ed her, and who must have been a man of standing and respectability, or tbe old grandmother would not have sent her to him, she fell into the bands of a scoundrel and was lured into your train for Cornwall." "You must remember that Paddington station is some miles from Charing

Cross," said Heatbcote "the girl could not be smuggled from one train to the other unawares. She must have traversed balf London on foot, or in a conveyance otsouie kind." "Possibly. But, as likely as not, she was in the companionship of tbe wrong man. Consider her ignorance, her helplessness. What an easy prey for a villain

Edward Heatbcote was nnconvinced. "I cannot imagine a crime so motiveless as that which you Buggest," he said thoughtfully.

He begau to loose faith in the old sleuth-bound. He began to think that Andre Drubarde was worn out that scent, and peace, and tongue were thiugs of the past. He began to think tbat the work of finding tbe link between tbe two crimet must bs done by himself rather than Drubarde. "What became of the girl's bag?' asked Drubarde, after be had eaten a liberal portion of veal and spinach. "There is no mention of a bag in your newspaper." "There was no bag found. If theie had been tbe victim might have been identified earlier." "And the sealed packet?" "There was no packet. There was notaing but a little basket containing a few cherries and a biscuit bag. There was no clue to identity. The murderer had done his work well." "The best thing you can do is to put Mr. Distin iu possession of the details you heard from Mademoiselle Beauville He can make inquiries at the Charing Cross Station, where it is just possible (he girl may bo remembered by some of the porters. A girl traveling alone, and meeting a gentleman on the platform. The meeting may bave been observed even there, where crowds meetaud part every hour. Railway officials are observant and keen-witted. It is witblu tbe limits of the possible that this poor «irl may not have passed altogether unrema* ked." "I will write to Distin this afternoon," said Heathcote. "And there is another thing I can do. If your theory is correct, Leonie Lemarque missed the person who was to bave met her at the station and fell into bad bands. If that I* so, the fact ought to be arrived at easily by an appeal to the person whom she should bave trjet."

He too'4 out his pencil and pocketbook, and wrote the rough draft of an advertisement. "Tbe person who was to have met Leoine Lemoine at Charing Cross Sta^ tion on the morning of July 5 last is earnestly requested to communicate immediately with Messrs. Diston ASon, Furnival's Inn."

He read a tree translation of this adveriisement to Monsieur Drubarde. "Yes, that is a wise test," said tbe police officer, "I se« you have tbe tru»tlair. If the man is innocent h8 will answer that advertlsemeut—always sup posing that it come to bis knowledge.' "I will repeat it so often in the Times that it willnot be easy for the appeal to escape his lruowledge,' answered Heatbcote. "Then if there is no sign we shall say guilty." said Drubarde.

Aud in that case, we have to find the villain." "You may add a postscript to your letter to Monsieur Distin, advising him to inquire at the cloak room of Cbaring Cross Station for *n unclaimed hand bag, and in our civilized condition it is not easy to get rid of even a haudbag."

After having made this suggestion Monsieur Drubarde devoted himself entirely to the pleasures of the table. Mr. Heathcote ate very little, and was too troubled in mind to know what be eat. He saw himself no nearer a solution of the problem which he h*d pledged himself to solve. Yet this he felt, that the sky was growing clearer round Bothwell-Grabam. The secret of the girls death soemed to lie between the man whom she was to have met at Charing Cross and the phenomenal villiain of Drubarde's imagination, who had lur^d her into the Cornish train with the darkest intent.

He left Andre Drubarde directly after ii.ncheon, and walked back to the Hotel Bade, where he devoted the afternoon to his correspondence. He wrote at fullest length to George Distin, inclosing the advertisement in tbe Times, with check and an order for its daily apfH '.rance until further notice. He wr .:- a cheery letter to Hilda, telling her to be hopeful and b? u-- ta to Mrs* WyHard, telling her thet result of his invest uioh np to the present hour .i ft far to dispel his suspicion of tier n'satuilt. "lam stili groping in th* dark," he p-.riiiuded, "and am vrry far from bavi.)!4 a hiev' I any rp-n'.:, but I •4U1 working with- all CD miri'1 and all iuystr^ntrth. ftnd I Providence will nut I nr»o until have fa*:-

TT A TTTTEP .Q1

ut my task

1

tho mystery of

at n. "i'Misiy, forget-n-it :iOW o:-.rn, -iUu.

He wrote hn*. on tint,- fv V.\v even Liiti ui of c^very of th

uirl's ideniity, rB'ia thro Plnnn. wn-d Mti an Ui- Vvl his mind 'lr: iti 'hi tiial

dweii npon this onrTYViTir-- of Tb^f peri mu-' Vv a nev^r -struck him.

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Hp din-vi *l.»ne In ton room.

wlvt

the

Dora

at a'JV oth«*r tinv won!.th- and l.'V

H-r. «vir.i in all il* fwnu-srfcrilMnnu.v. h, wantii to !v fr**? from ail ^m»*d itnd

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tiistur h'-nm And his pock tr. marshal«' each deta

In the time of Diwoh

TERRE HAUTE SATURDAY EVKSIXG MAIL.

h*mi a Bohemian in his habits, a man who could live in any country. Hardly possible that such a man would remain within a narrow radios of the ecene of his crime—not to be looked for assuredly in Paris, or even in France For more likely that he had crossed the Atlantic and sunk his destiny ih that wilder, freer society of

United States, where

money and cleverness out weight a mans antecedents, where no one ®fks what a man has been, only what he is, or is worth in the present. Or it might be that such a man as this Georges, a night bird, a man of fervid temperament, a lover of pleasure rather than work, unanimous, a voluptary, would turn bis face to Southern America and dream away the after stages of an exhausted life in some romantic city upon the seaboard of the Pacific. Not in Europe—or not in the accessible quarters of Europe —should he be sought for.

But in the meantime, here in this city Paris, there was something to be done. Vain to look for the man himself, perhaps but those who had known the man, his chosen friends the companions of his midnight "orgies, might still be found. From them tbe man antecedents might be learn ad and possibly some glimmer of light could be obtained as to his adventures and whereabouts after the murder.

Edward Heathcote reviewed his Parisian acquaintance in search of such men as might be likely to have known this Monsieur Georges. It was almost impossible for a man, spending his money iavishly, tbe favored admirer of a beautiful actress, not to be in some measure a man of murk and very widely knowu to the faster section of Parisian society

Mr. Heathcote knew his Paris well and loved it well. After that bitter loss which bad changed the current of bis life he had found hard work in his office his first best cure, and next best to hard, mental labor he had found rohef of mind in the society of the artistic and the keen-witted idlere of the Boulevard and tne Bohemian club. He bad found a week in Paris—a week of Boulevard idleness and Boulevard soeiety—the best remedy for the dullness and the depres sion that comes from an unsatisfied heart and an overworked brain and in these occasional plunges into Parisian society he had made a winter acquaintance with the artistic classes than is often granted to a provincial Englishman to make.

He ran over the names of the men he knew best in Paris, trying to hit upon the likeliest person to suit his purpose. It mus* be a man who had been well to the fore ten years ago, when Marie Prevol was a famous beauty, and her lover was spending bis nights and bis fortune on the Boulevard. Ic should not be difficult, he thought, to hit upon such a man. "Volney Dugarge, Bize, Pontruche, Trottier. Yes, Trottler. That is the man a thorough-going Bohemian, a haunter of supper tables and gambling dens, a banger-on of lorettes, steeped to the tips of his nails in the atmosphere of the demi-monde, a friend of Gauiier, and Nerval, and Rochefort, a habitue of the Boulevard theatres poor, keen witted, a member of the band of paragraphias, the men who invent scandals, political, social, litera»y, theatrical, according to the prevailing demand, who write amart paragraphs for the most audacious of tbe newspapers, puffs for enterprising tradesmen."

Trottier, thus humble in his pumuits, a man utterly without pride, or, as his enemies said, without self-respect, was one of the most agreeable men In Paris. He has been a Boule«ardier for the last thirty years, had s«e#fieboulevard extend its glittering length into the regions which he remembered as a dreary wilderness of darkuess and poverty. He remembert-d tbe time when the Palais Royal was tbe focus of Parisian gaiety, the" very temple of fashion aud taste. "If this uian Georges bad any status iu Bohemian society Sigismond Trottier must have kpown him," thought Heatbcote.

The next thing was to find Trottier. He was a man who only began to live after dinner. He might be looked for on tbe Boulevard between nine o'clock and mid night. He might be found at a club much favored by actors and journalists, a club which had taken foritself a name from the history of the mediaeval drama, and rejoiced in the title of Les En fants Sans Souci, more briefly known as tbe Sans Souci. The Sans Soucia had its nest on an entre sol in the Hue Vivienue, six low ceiled rooms opening one out of another, three of them furnished with divans in true Oriental style. The*e were the smoking rooms. Then came a fourth and much more spacious apartment, provided with numerous small tables, writing materials and tbe newspapers. Tapestried portieres on the right and left of the fireplace in this reading room opened into tbe sanctuary of the olub, two medium sized rooms, furnished veith green cloth tables for baccarat, thickly curtained, thiculy carpeted, lighted only from the courtyard of tbe h«ouse, Whicb was like a dry well. Edward Heatbcote strolled along tbe Boulevard, looking for his Mend as he went. It was nearly ten o'clock, a delicious night, balmy, starlit, Summer-like, a night upon which Sigismond Trottier might naturatly have been found seated amidst the idlers grouped on tbe asphalt in front of a popular cafe. Bntiu the groups whicb Heatbcote passed between tbe Hotel de Bade and the corner of the Place de la Bourte there was no sign of Trottier's keen, ferret face and long gray hair. So tbe Englishman continued bis walk to the Rue Vivienneand entered tbe lamplit ball which led to the mysteries of tbe Sans Souci.

He had been taken there more than once by Trottier, and had been amused and interested by tbe people he met. "Can you tell me if Monsieur Trottier is here this evening?" be asked oi the porter. "Yes, monsieur. He came half an houc ago. Monsieur generally comes here at the same hour every evening to write his article for the Ton."

The rooms were almost empty. Neither journalists nor actons mastered strong before midnight. In a comfortable corner of the writing room, at a in Us tablo brilliantly lighted by a green £h*ded lamp. Edward Heathoote found the man he came to seek.

He was at sixty years of age, tall, spure to attention, with long narrow face of almost livid pallor, and long ar ty hair, f^iii.vg- over a greasy olive srr '*r Hjiiar, choice ornament of a

-v,r~

or

RT5d faded olive green frock

efctt, HI* j-*w was nartow and projecting, hi1*lip* thin and pinched, his nose !ng and iu^'p, his eyehrows gray and

The on' Vafare that saVe life

:4-r

Uli-d -nld v.--.- anthe probif befci art

".hat 1 np

hi% solitarrCd '^5, wi?h )k Ci»a J' hi«», be .s and upon

The murder of Marie Prevol and Gustave Maucroix had escaped and in all probability was still living. He appeared to have been rich, independent of all

to the face the restless and

briihant biacit eye, si tall, keen, obaerth* eye of creature always on h- watch. Ah, how many of the i«rlre-t myst*ri,'s of Paris bad that keen glance tit«-nvered, how

mmhf

a loaih-

s*«tee depth had that ruthless gsca explored, bow many a wound of heart and ii'Wir, how many an atrophy of parw* bfi that eve pierced and scrutiniied, while ail the rest of the world wat. still blind to the coming ruin, the inevitable disgrace! Sigismond Trottier was a student of society, it was his boast

WHNINOMAIL

that he knew this Paris of tbe Republic as well as Saint Simon knew the Paris of the great LouiB knew it in all ita strength, and in all its weakness.

Needless to say that such a man waa invaluable as a paragraphia^ He had the same keen scent for a scandal that the well-trained detective has for a crime. A whisper, a shrug was enough to put him on the right track. He was a genius at that modern style of hint and inuendo which just stops short of libel. He bad killed more reputations than any man in Paris, and he bad never been to prison. Hi» safety lay in tbe keenness of his perception, which never allowed him to fall into such mistakes as have rniued other society gossips. Whatever Sigismond Trottier wrote was true. He had an extraordinary power of winnowing the chaff from the corn in the floating-scandals of tbe Boulevard. He knew what to accept and what to reject. His judgment was infallible. When Parisian society saw tbe hint of an elopement, tbe suggestion of a marital wrong signed by Sigismond'a hieroglyphic—an Egyptian beetle—the thing was received as a fact. The pen of the unerring recorder had proclaimed a truth. Happily he was not a cur, though a professional assailant of man's honor and woman's reputation. He bad given good proof of his courage on several occasions, bad stood up before famous swordsmen, had faced marksmen of repute. That deep dint in his lean and livid cheek was the mark of a bullet from tbe Duke of Midlothian's pistol— that famous viveur who expired suddenly amidst the fading flowers and flaring tapers of a Boulevard supper100m—the very spirit of reckless gayety and wildest dissipation extinguished in a breath. That long, slanting scar upon the left jaw, a shade more livid than tbe normal lividity of the complexion, was the result of a little sword play between the Boulevard chronicler and the Mar quis Bois-Cbaufonds, the reminiscence of a duel which set all Paris thinking twenty years ago, when the Walewska was in the zenith of her charms. From scalp to sole the paragraphist could bave shown the scars of past battles. He had never been known to refuse a challenge.

The paragraphist was so absorbed in his task wheu Heathcote approached his table as to be quite unconscious of any one's presence. Heathcote seated himself upon the other side of the table, and took up a newspaper, to wait till the journalist came to the end of a sheet.

He had not Ion is to wait. Before he bad read more than half a dozen paragraphs in the Taon, each signed with the familiar beetle, Sigismond paused to blot a page, looked up, and recognized his English acquaintance. "Good evening," he said. Then, with a vast effort be burst into English and exclaimed, "Owderyoudo," all as one word, having achieved which feat he laughed long and loud, surprised at his own talent for foreign tongues. "We begin to talk your language of horses, we others," he said, triumphantly. "We have taken all your words for the sport, and now we begin to take your greetings and salutations, your shake-hand, your 'owderyoudo. And wnat brings you to Paris, Monsieur Effcott, at the dead season?" "1 should rather ask what yon, chosen chronicler of fashionable society, can find to record in the dead season "My* dear friend, the worse scandals are those tbat happen iu the dead season when Paris is a desert and a man thinks he can murder his neighbor's wife with equal impunity. Ah, my friend, for the development of intrigue, for the ripening of social mysteries, tbe working out of domestic tragedies, there can be no better time than this dull, blank interval of the year, when there is no one in Paris. What stolen meetings, what lit tie suppers in closely sealed cabinets, when madam is at the seaside and mon sieur is shooting wild boar in Auvergne. Heaven only forbid that monsieur and madam should happen to take their supper in adjacent cabiuets, and that monsieur should recognize the voice of madam on the other side of the lath and plaster. Yes, there is no richer harvest time for the chronicler than the season when there is not a mortal in Paris." "Cvnic," exclaimed Heathcote. "And so you live still by exposing the faults and follies of yourfellow creatures/' "I try to reform them by proving to them that sooner or later all social secrets are known. I am about the only preacher whose sermons scare them nowaday." "Then you consider vour trade a strictly honorable one, no doubt." "in French 410 doubt means perhaps," replied Trottier, "vide Michelet. No, I will say nothing for my calling, except that a man must live. You may not see the necessity of my living, but the existence of the lowest of ns has its value to the man himself. The world might get on very well without me, but I can't get on without the world." "A man of your talent might have done well in any other line—" "Pardon mine is not a talent. It is a speciality. I should have succeeded in no other line. If I bad been rich and high placed, like St. Simon, I should have kept my impressions to myself while I lived, and should bave left a big book behind me when I died. But I am poor and a nobody, so I have had to live upon my impressions." "You put the case neatly," said Heatbcote, "and you are right we are most of us the thing whicb circumstances make us. The man who will not allow himself to be moulded by circumstance, who wiirstrike out into tbe empyrean of ideal good, Is one man in a thousand."

I should not care to aspire to such eccentricity," said Trottier. "Yon have not finished your evening's work, I suppose?" "No, I am in for another hour." "Good," said Heathcote then at midnight you will be free. Will you sup with me at tbe Cafe de Paris when your work is done? I believe it is^ in your power to do me a material service, merely by calling upon your memories ot tbe past. Will you meet me at the Ciife de Paris at twelve?" "With pleasure, and if my poor memor ies of men and events can help you, the record is at your service." *-A thousand thanks. I will go and order supper, and stroll on tbe boulevard till It i« read. Au revair!" "Until midaigbt!" a

Sigismond Trottier was a man who kept his appointments. He was not neat in his person, or punctual in his payments. He never went to church, and he did not always wash. But if he promised a page of copy to a newspaper, the page was delivered in due time. If he offered to frank a friend to the theatre, In bis quality as critic, he was waiting in the vestibule at tbe appointed hour, mad? to keep his word. If be accepted an invitation to supper, be never kept his host waiting. An invitation to dinner he always declined. "A dinner party *s an an ti-climax,, he protected. "A man «ets drunk too soon, and spoils his evening."

At midnight Monsieur Trottier** even in* began, and be was ready for the feast.

Mr. Heatbcote received him in one of

the cosiest little rooms in the cafe. The Englishman's first act on euteriug had been to light all the wax caudles on the mantelpiece which the waiters had left unligbted. This established bim at once as man who knew bis Paris, and his choice of winea strengthen his position, everything was ready when Trottier's shabby olive green coat came meekly into the radiaLce of tbe wax candles. Trottier was known at the Cafe de Paris, and "his shabby coat commanded the reverence of the waiters. Was he not a man who as it were carried reputati n« in his pocket, who oould make a head waiter famous by a stroke of bis pen.

The supper was delicate, recherche, Parisian the wine was Jobannisoerger of princely quality, and a magnum of Heidseck appeared with tbe late course. Tbe two men talked of general topics during supper. It was ouly when the waiters bad withdrawn, and when Sigismond Trottier bad thrown himself back in his chair and lighted bis cigarette, tbat Mrl Heathcote approached the business of the evening. It" was half past one o'clock, and the roll of wheelB upon the asphalt below the open window bad been gradually growing rarer. TI ere was no longer the roar of the boulevard to disturb tbe speakers. "If 1 can be of the slightest use to you —as an embodied chronicle of Paris— command me," said Trottier. "Here am at your service—an open oook. You bave only to turn tny leaves." "Do you remember a double murder— tbe murder of an actress and her lover —whicb happened ten years ago in the forest of St. Germain "Do I remember Yes, as if the thing had happened last week and for a good reason. Tbe man who was susjiecied— the lover, or, as some thought, the husband of the actress—was my familiar friend." "Great heaven exclaimed Heathcote almost starting from his chair. "Then my instinct was right. It told me that I should get ou tbe track of that man— it told me that you must have knowu him."

The man wa well known to me and to a chosen iew, but ouly a few," replied Trottier. "He was a man of eccentric habits—a man of talent and large Intellect, who could afford to live his own life, and lived it. What be did with himself in the day none of us knew whether he slept away balf bis daylight life, or shut himself in his den and smoked, and dreamed and read The latter hypothesis seemed likely enough, for he was a man who bad read widely. He was a delightful com pauioti —brilliant, genial, lavish to his friends —a splendid host. I have supped with him and Marie Prevol many a night in this house—sometimes a cosy trio, sometimes with that small choice circle with wb-ch he occasionally surrounded him self." "Then I take it tbat he was known in general society, either the uppermost or the middle circles "Not the least in the world. He was a man who scorned society, bated ceremonies and conventionalities. I never saw him in a dress suit. I doubt if be possessed one. When he went to a theatre it was to sit in a shadowy corner, where he could see without, heineseen. He had nothing to guin from the great world, and could afford to outiugeali its rule- aud regulations." "Was he a thoroughbred Parisian "Far from it. He was au American— a French Canadian, I believe uut bad lived so long iu Paris as to be almost ac a citizen born and bred." "Had he made his money or inherited it?" "Iiih*ltedrlt/.,without doubt. His nabits were those of the spender, not tbe worker. He was one of tbe lillies of the field who toll not, neither do they spin. I take it that his father bad been one of those daring speculators who in America become millionaires in a year or two. As for the man himself, be bad no trioie idea of business or finance than one of those dressed-up dolls of the Qusrtier Breda. He took not the faintest interest in the transactions of the Bourse, and in that point alone revealed himself as no trne Parisian." "Do you believe that he committed the murder?" asked Heathcote. sigismond Trottier shrugged his shoulders, and shook his long gray hair, as he slowly puffed bis seventeenth cigarette. "Who knows he said. "I liked tbe man so well that I should hesitate at saying I believe in his guilt. And yet the fact of his disappearance from tbe hour of the mnrder is almost conclusive evidence. And I know that he was savagely jealously of Maucroix. "You judged him a man of strong passions, a man capable of a great crime?" "Yes, he was a man of intense feeling —strong for good or evil. A volcano glowed under that calm outward aspect —that easy-going, devil-may-care manner of his. I was very sorry for him. If Marie had been true—" "You believe tbat she was bis wife?" "I do. His manner to ter was in all respects the manner of one who esteemed as well as loved ber. He introduced ber to his friends as bis wife. He loved ber too well to have refused ber tbat titl©." "But for a man who scorned convenalltles, what reason could there have been for concealment? Why should he not have introduced bis actress wife to society Why should he not have established a home? "Tbe first question is easily answered. As he loathed society for himself be would hardly cou.*t it for bis wile. Tbe second can only be answered by tbe fact that the man was an eccentric. He preferred the freedom of an actress's lodgings to the restrictions of a rich man^s house: His happiest days were spent wandering southward with the swallow yet so strange was the man's temper that be never stayed more than a fortnight or three weeks away from Paris. The city seemed to draw him back like a magnet. "Yet he had no business here. "None tbat I ever discovered. He must have loved the city for bis own sake. He was here all through thenege and tbe Commune. I have heard bim say that tbe happiest days of hip life were those on which tbe roar of tbe Prussian guns made bis mosic, and when Marie aod he used to crouch and shiver over a handful of charcoal and eat a supper of dry bread and French plums." "He must have had some pled a terre of bis own, I conclude. "He must bave had his den somewhere in Paris, but none of os knew where it was. Hie only address be ever gave was that of Mane Prevol, alias Madam Georges, in tbe Rue Lafltte. He met bis friends on the boulevard when the theatre* were over. He was a man who enjoyed life to the foil—after his own fashion. He was tbe very lile of bis liure circle—® daring wit, bold poll tician, a trenchant critic. Paris is tbe city of brilliant talkers, yet I bave known few who surpassed Georges as a conversationalist. Jf can see bim n«w, with bis long fair hair falling over his flashing eyes, his sarcastic Hp and tbe proud carriage of tbat leonine bead. Not a common man by any means, and ith a laugh tbat was like mu-lc—a man for a woman to adore—and yet Marie

wavered in her fidelity directly an aristocrat dandy made love to her." "You have no idea what became of Georges alter the murder "If 1 had I would not tell you. NoJl have not the faintest inkling. He vanished asa bubble tbat bursts upon tm surface of a stream. As a mere guess should Bay that he went back to tK couutry ol his birth—that if he is stii liviug he is to be found in America under another name.'' "He was a rich man, yon say. It i' easier for a man to betake himself fron one couutry to another than to transfy his ortu ne.

W

hat became of this man'

French investments?" "He may never have had any such Hi vestments. His fortune may nave beei invented solely in America. He was man who declared that he valued libert aoove all other blessings—be woul scarcely bave fettered himself by inveq* ing any portion of bis wealth in a com: try where he was leading a life of pleat ure, living as a pure Bohemian. Hi utter indifference to all rumors aboi the Bourse would show that he bad French investmeets. His wealth, 1 tak it, came from some secret source on th other side of XBe~Atlantft£" "Did you ever hear him talk of ar EuKllsb friend, or a friend who reside* in England?" IT'V, "No?' "*8*** w' "And yethe must have had some sm friend," said Heathcote.

He related the story of Leonie La marque's death, and the inducementhat had taken her to England, wherf sbe was to bave met a friend of hex aunt's long-vanished lover. Sigismond Trottier listened with keenest interest. All social mysteries, whether criminal or not, bad charm for him. "It is a very strange case," be sain, "and I don't wonder that you are Allowing it up earnestly. No, I never beard Georges mention any Englte friend. It was a bold stroke for th grandmother to send the girl to a ma: who was a friend to the murderer of her daughter. A drowning man will catch at a straw, says you proverb, and this poor woman, peuulless and frieudless on her deathbed, may havo caught at the name of the only rich man upon whom fhe could advance the faintest claim. Aud what was the nature of that claim? A packet of Georges' love letters. Compromising love letters, per-' haps, to be oflered to Georges' friend as tbe price of protection and aid for the orphan girl. A very strange story. Aud no one knows what become oi those letters?" "No one, as yet. No letters were fouuH upon the girl. Even tbe handbag she carried wUh ber had diBuppeared."

A strange story. 1 wish I could help you to read the' riddle. Your interest in it I imagine to be something beyond the mere artistic interest in a curious

"Yes. I am concerned in arriving ai the truth for the sake of one whom honor and revere. I shall be deeply grateful if yon can help me." "Then I will help you," answered th paragraphist quietly, and Ed ware Heathcote felt that in this amateur de tective he bud a stronger ally than in thL old police officer of the left bank. [to bbcontinued.]

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