Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 15, Number 36, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 28 February 1885 — Page 2

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rHE MAIL

A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

TERRE HAUTE, FEB. 28 1885

JOommenoed in The Mail Dec 6tb. Back numbers can be had on application at pnbvsl ttsutlon offlice or of news agent*.]

Wyllard's Weird,

3R MISS M. K. BBADDON.

ymfbMr ot "Lady Audley'a Secret, "~£v* Floyd," "TNS

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Outcast," Ac., Ac.

CHAPTER XIV.- CONTINUED. Dora was tired after her journey, for she had been too fall of thought to sleep in the train, and even now her brain was too active for the possibility of sleep. So, after dressing and breakfasting, she accompanied ber husband to the great Parisian salesrooms to look at $ the Rcchejaquelin collection. ,, The inspection of tbepictures lasted over two hours. Mr. Wyllard was an ardent connoisseur, and his wifesympathized with him in bis love of art. Together they criticized the gems of the collection, and stood in silent admira lion before the famous Raffaelle. "It will fetch thousands," said Wyl lard. "Why not bay it, if you really wish to possess it?" said Dora. "Why should we hoard our money There is no one to come after us. Penmorval may be a show place when ysu and I are gone, and your picture gallery will givep easure to hundreds of tourists." "Ah, there is the rub," sighed her husband, conscious of the latent melancholy in his wife's speech. 'No son of mine succeeding.' When you and I are gone there will oe one to care for Penmorval—no one to cherish your garden, and say, my mother planted those roses —or planned these walks—no one to treasure the pictures I have collected, for any reason except for their intrinsic value." "Will you take me to see the house in which yon lived and worked a9ked

Dura, as they were leaving the auction room. "My dear Dora, I can show you the euttide of that historic spot," answered her husband, lightly, "but I doubt if I •an in trod ace you to the rooms i:* wbicb 1 worked. The present occupant may not be inclined to sympathize with your hero worship." "Ob, but I should so like-to see those rooms, and I am sure if the

present

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cupier is a gentleman he will not refuse such a natural request. Here comes Mr.

Heatbcote," she exclaimed,as they turned into the Boulevard. "I was coming to the Hotel Drouot in quest of you," said Heatbcote, as they shook bands. I called at your hotel and was told you had gone to the auction room. How well you are looking, Mrs. Wyllard—as if Paris agreed with you.'' "Your letter took a weight off my mind," she said. And now I hope you will be kind to Bothwell and Hilda, and sot insist upon too long an engagewent." "It seems to me that Bothwell and Hilda have taken their lives into their own hands, and don't want anybody's kindness," he answered "I have a treBiendous letter from Hilda telling me her lover's plans. They are the most Independent people 1 ever beard of. And pray what brings you to Paris? Are you going on any where "No, we have only come to look at ltoohejaqueiin pictures," answered Wyllard. "1 have some two or three business calls to make in the neighborhood of the Bourse. Wyllard and Morrison have still some dealings in Paris." "And I am going to look at my husband's old apartments," said Dora '*1 have never stayed in Paris since our marriage. My only knowledge ot the dty dates from the time when I spent a month at Passy with my dear mother. What a happy time it was, and how much we oontrived to see. It was in sixty-nine, and people were beginning to talk about war with Germany. How little did any of us think of the ruin that was coming when we saw the emperor and empress driving in the Bois." "Come back to the hotel and lunch with us, Healboote, asked Wvllard. "A thousand thanks, but I aui too Parisian to eat at this hoar. I breakfasted at eleven o'clock." "And we breakfasted less than three hours ago," said Dora. "I am sure we neither of us want luncheon Let us go and look at your old home, Julian." "It is not to be called a home, Dora," answered her husband, with a touch of impatiennce. "A business man's life has only one aspect, hard work. However, if you want to see the offices in which I made my fortune you shall be gratified. The street is not very far off. Will you walk there with us?" he added, turning to Heathcote. "Gladly, I am a free man to-day." "Indeed. Then your criminal investigation, your ameteur detective work, is at a standstill for the moment, I conelude," said Wyllard, with something of a sneer. "For the moment, yes," answered the •tber, quietly. "Ana you have made "ome startling discoveries, no doubt, since you crossed the channel "Yes. my discoveries have been startling, but as they relate to the remote past rather than to the period of that poor girl's death, they are of no Iparticufar value at present." "The remote past? What do you mean by that asked Wyllard. v. "Ten years ago." "May we ask the nature of these discoveries." "I'd rather tell yon nothing at present.

My knowledge is altogether fragmentary. Directly I have reduced it to a definite form—directly I have a clear and consecutive story to tell—yon and Mrs. Wyllard aball beer that story. In the meantime I had rather not talk •boat the ease." "I see. Yon have all the professional reticence. And I see that you and Distin are working together," said Wyllard.

How do you mean "We saw your adveitisement In yesterday's Times."

How did yon know that I had inserted that advertisement?'' "The girl's name was conclusive— Leonie Lemoine—that was the name of the girl who was kilted." "Yes. Bat I did not think it was known to any one exoept Distin and myself." "Yon mentioned the name In your letter to me," said Dora. I "Did I really? Then it was unconsciously. I meant to have told nothing

Oil I could tell the whole story."

I CH AFTER XV.

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3

BOMB or TBS PAST.

They walked on to the Madeleine, and to a quiet street near the Madeleine, one ot the older streets of Paria-a street of ttoleaale traders.

The house in which Mr. Wyllard bad occupied the ground floor was one of the best in tbe street, a large stone fronted bouse, with a high doorway and carved columns—not a* richly decorated as those

Earis,

Aurora

ilatial dwellings of Haasmannized bat a handsome and somewhat florid style of house notwithstanding. It stood at tbe corner of a narrow court, leading no one cared where. Doubtless to some obscure back slum in which tbe working classes bad one of their nooks —those bidden colonies which lurk here and there behind the palaces of all great cities.

The ground floor was no longer tbe home of finance and grave transaction*-. Tbe bouse in which Julian Wyllard bad schemed and labored was now occupied by a wholesale dealer in foreign goods of sll kinds—from china to toys, from traveling bags to tea trays, cbinoiseries, on breakable glass, German lamps English electro-plate. Tbe house bad be come one huge bazaar, which a stranger might enter without much ceremony albeit there is a strict etiquette in such establishments, and no retail pur chases were permissable. Only tbe trade were allowed to buy anything in that dazzling chaos of small wares.

While all the upper floors bad been made into warehouses, tbe lower floor bad been in some wise respected. The rooms iu which Julian Wyllard had worked were used as offices by tbe Messrs. Blumeniein, while one of tbe brothers had made bis nest in Julian's old rooms at the back of the offices. "Upon my word, Dora," said Mr. Wyllard, pausing en the threshold of his old abode, "I feel that we are going into this bouse on a fool's errand. 1 don't know what excuse to make "Why make any excuse at all replied bis wife. "Leave the whole business to me, Julian. I want to see your old home, and I am determined I will see it. I am not at all afraid of Messrs. Blumeniein." "In that case I will leave yon and Heatbcote to manage the matter between you," said Wyllard, with a sudden touch of impatience, of anger even, bis wife thought. "I have a business call to make near here. Mr. Heatbcote w'll take you back to your hotel." •He turned on his heel and was gone before Dora could make any objection. Again she bad seen that dark look in bis face which had so startled and shocked her in the yew tree arbor. Was it indeed jealousy of ber lover which so changed him Her pride revolted at the idea of such want of faith In one to whom she bad given so much.

She allowed nu sign of disquietude to escape her, but wont quietly into the office of Messrs. Blumeniein, followed by Mr. Heatbcote. "Pardon me for intruding upon you, gentlemen," she said in French to tbe two clerks who were seated at a desk in this outer room. "These offices were some years ago occupied by my husbend, and I should esteem it a favor if you would allow me to see the rooms on this floor."

A gentlemanly looking man who was standing near a window looking over some papers looked up at the sound of her voice and came over to ber. "With pleasure, madam," he said. "Have I the honor of speaking to Mrs. Wyllard?" "Yes, monsieur, I am Mrs. Wyllard. You were my husband's immediate successor in these rooms, I conclude?" "Yes, madam, there was no other occupation. My brotberand I bought this bouse in '71, almost immediately after tbe war, but Mr. Wyllard was the occupant of this floor for some years after we were in possession." "Exactly two yefcrs," said a second Mr. Blumeniein, appearing from an inner room. "Is it possible that madam has not before seen these rooms in wbicb her distinguished husband transacted so much important business?"' "No, monsieur, this is my first visit to Paris since my marriage. I am much interested in Beeing these rooms." "It will be an honor and a pleasure to us to

Bbow

r°"w'bat,

them," said tbe elder ot the

two brothers. "Gustav, there, say younger brother, enjo38 the possession of tbe private apartments almost exactly as Mr. Wyllard left them. He bought tbe furniture and fittings, pictures, bronzes, everything except the books, en bloc, when* Mr. Wyllard gave up his Parisian establishment. Hardly anything has been altered. These offices can have little interest for you, madam. They are tbe fac simile of a thousand other Parisian offices. But the private apartments have a certain individuality. Gustav, show madam the rooms which were ber husband's home."

There was a touch of German sentimentality abut Mr. Blumeniein, in spite of bis Parisian training. He was full of sympathy for the affectionate wife. He ha* lofty ideas about the sanctity of home.

Tbe younger brother, Gustav, opened a padded door and admitted tbe two visitors into his bachelor nest.

Tbe first room which tbey entered was the library, lined from floor to ceiling with book shelves and lighted by a large skylight. It was a room that bad been built out into a yard. It was furnished with carved oak, in tbei Henri Deux style, rich, antique, solid. Tbe clock upon the cbimney piece was a gem of old metal work. Tbe covers ot chairs and sofas were of old tapestry, sombre, genuine, artistic.

Adjoining this was the salon and din-ing-room in one, plainly furnished in modern style. The walls were decorated with etchings of the most famous France pictures of the second empire. It was a small room an almost severe simplicity was its chief characteristic. Nothing here assuredly of the sybarite or tbe voluptuary, thought Edward Heatbcote as be comtemplated tbe home of his rival's solitary manhood.

Bedroom and bathroom completed tbe suite of apartments, and even to these Mrs. Wvllard and her companion were admitted.

Tbe uedroom was spacious, lofty, handsomely famished in a solid and nookbre style. But it was not a cheerful room. It was situated at the back of the house, and its windows, deeply recessed and heavily muilioned, derived their light from a narrow court. The lower part of each window was of ground iclasa, the upp*r sashes were of violettinted glass, and gave an artificial color to the daylight. Tbe curtains were ot dark brown damask, the heavy armchairs and sofa were upholstered in dark brown velvet.

By the fireplace there was the secretaire at which Julian Wyllard had worked, the targe shaded lamp which had lighted his evening toil. Mr. Blassenlein showed these thiuge with pride. Nothing had been altered. '•I am a man of somewhat studious habits, like Mr. Wyllard," he said, "and I often work late into the nUbt. This room is a delightful room, for none of the Paris penetrate here. The court is very little used after dark—a passing footstep perhaps once in half an hour. It Is an almost monastic repose."

The bed was in an alcove in a corner, entirely shrouded by brown damssk curtains like tboee which draped tbe tall nafow windows. "There is a door leading into tbe court, I see," said Heatbcote, whose keen eyes

TERKE HAUTE SATURDAY EVENING- MAIL

bad scrutinized every feature of the

you have perceived that?" ex­

claimed Mr. Blumeniein, with s8"™ surprise. "I thought it was quite hidden by the curtains." "No, the top of the upper hingeisjMt visible above the curtain rod." "Strange, no one ever before noticed that door." ,, "It is not a secret door, I suppose, said Heathcote. "Certainly pot. But it has never been used in my time, aod I doubt if Mr. Wyllard ever used it," said Mr. Blumeniein, drawing back tbe curtain. "The bed stood in bis time just where it stands now, with tbe head against the door. "The bedstead is light enough to I moved easily if the door were wanted, suggested Heathcote.

It was a small brass bedstead of English make. The volnminous curtains made a kind of tent, independent of the bedstead. "No doubt it could," replied Blumeniein, "but I fancy it could have bean no more wanted in Mr. Wyllard time than it has been in mine. I believe it must have been made by some former inhabitant of these rooms, who wanted free ingress at any hour of the night, without exciting the curipsity of the porter." iif "You conclude then that tnedoor was an afterthought," said Heathcote, "and not in tbe original plan of the house. "Decidedly. You will see how'rutlr lessly it has been cut through dado and mouldings. .An afterthought, evidently."

Mr. Blumeniein pulled aside the bedstead and showed Mr. Heathcote the door. It was a low, narrow door, of plain cak, witbont paneling or ornamentation of any kmd. The fastening has a latch-lock, and a strong bolt secured the door on the inner side^., "A convenient door, no donbt," said Heathcote, "for a persou of secret habits.'*

Dora looked lingeringly round the room. Ite gloom oppressed her. The opaque windows, the tinted light from the upper saches, the sombre coloring, the heavy furniture—all contributed to that gloomy effect. The only spot of brightness in the room was the writing table, with its brass fittings, its handsome brans lamp and large green shade. There her husband sat night after night when the rest of Paris was gyrating in the whirlpool of fashionable pleasure, light as withered leaves dancing in the wind. There he had sat brooding, calculating, plotting in the race for wealth. It was for money he had toiled, and to make a great fortune—not for science, or art or fame—not to be useful or great —only to be rich. It seemed a sordid life to look back upon—a wasted life even—and Dora Wyllard thought regretfully of those long eveuings spent in this gloomy room. The idea of that monastic life had no charm for her. She would rather have heard that her husband had been the light of an intellectual circle—thy favorite of fashion even. The picture of these studious nights spent in brooding over the figures in a share list, the pages of a bank book, chilled her soul.

And yet, in the maturity of his days, her husband had seemed to ber the most generous and high-minded of men, setting bat little value upon his wealth, caring nothing for money in the abstract. "At the least he has known how to use his fortune nobly," she told herself, as she turned to leave that gloomy bedchamber. "I, who was born with good means, can hardly understand the eagerness of a poor young man to win fortune. It is a foolish idea ot mine, after all, that there is auytfltog ignoble in working for riches." •Well, Mrs. Wyllard has your heroworship been sat sfied Have you seen enough of the temple which once enshrined your god?" said Heathcote, lightly. "Yes, I have been very much gratified and I must thank Mr. Blumeniein for his extreme courtesy."

The' merchant protested that be bad rarely enjoyed so great a privilege as that which Mrs. Wyllard had afforded him, and with exohaage of courtesies, they parted on the threshold of the outer office.

Mr. Heathcote and Mrs. Wyllard walked to the aotel together. It was not along walk, and it took them only by crowded streets and bnsy thoroughfares, where anything like earnest conversation was impossible. Ann yet Edward Heatbcote could but remember that it was the first time tbey two had walked together since Dora bad been hi* plighted wife. Ah, how cruel a pang it gave bim to recall those old days, and to remember all sbe bad been to bim, all she might have been, had Fate used him more kindly.

He stole a look at the beautiful face as they walked slowly across the Place Vendome. Yes, she was no less lovely than of old her beauty had ripened, not changed. There was a more thoughtful look, there were traces even of care and sorrow, but these indications only heightened the spirituality of the face.

Oh, what worship, what devotion he could bave given her now in the bloom of her womanhood, in the maturity of bis manhood—such whole-hearted, thoughtful love as yonth can never give And it was not to be. They were to be apart forever, tbey two. Tbey were to be strangers since the assumption of friendship, to which be bad tried to reconcile himself, was after all but a mockery. Chivalrous feeling might keep his thoughts pure, bis honor unspotted but in bis heart of hearts he loved his first love as passionately as in the days of his youth.

And to-day, for the first time, he heard Ler husband address her coldly and curtly with a touch of anger even.

He was not likely to forget that curt, impatient tone, and the frown that had accentuated it. "I was very glad to get your letter," sbe said, presently. "Tell me ones more with your own lips that you have ceased to suspect my cousin." "Ceased to suspect would perhaps be too strong an expression. Bat in tbe discoveries 1 have made relating to that murdered girl there is certainly nothing that in any way points to Mr. Grahams." "I wish yoa would tell me all you have discovered—how near you are to clearing up the nrystery." "I fear ana still very far from that. It Is tbe history of a remote crime which occupies me at the present, and I hope in that history of the past to find the cine to poor Leonie's death. I shall know more in a few days." "How so?" "You saw my advertisement in tbe Times. If that advertisement be not answered witbin a week I shall conclude that tbe man who was to bave met Leonie Lemarque on tbe morning of July 6 has some part in tbe gnilt of her death." "And then?" "And then It will be my business or Mr. Distin's business to find that man/*

Tbey were at tbe door ef tbe hotel by this time, and here Mr. Heatbcote bade Dora adieu. "Weshall meet again before you leave Paria, I dare say," be said. "If Wyllard

wants me be will know where to find me." •'You are not going home yet "No—I am likely to stay here some little time." "And peor Hilda is longing to bave you back at the Spaniards. Sbe will not see Bothwell while you are away. 8he is bound by the promise you exacted from her. Their future borne—everything, is in abeyance till yon return," pleaded Dora. "Tbe home must remain in abeyance a little longer. It is hard, no doubt but when 1 go hack I may be able to give Bothwell some substantial help in the matter of that future home." "He will need only your sympathy and your advice. He can manage everything else for himself." "1 see he has baen helped already." "Bothwell has always been to me as a biother, and he can never be poor while I am rich," answered Dora, as they shook hands.

Heathcote walked slowly back to tbe boulevard, thinking over this unexpected arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Wyllard1 in Paris. Why had they eome? Thatal ledged reason of tbe picture sale seemed1 rather more like an exeuse for a journey than a motive. True that Mr. Wyllard had been known to* ge up to London* on purpose to attend a sale at Christie and Manson's, and there might, therefore, be nothing extraordinary in his going still further on tbe same errand. But it was strange- that the picture sale should coincide with Heathcote's presence in Paris. Could it be Dora's eagerness to know the result of bis researches that had brought ber and her husband to the Hotel Windsor? Was her impatience the motive of the visit?

Hardly, he thought, for be knew tbe candor of her nature, and he told himself that sbe would not bave misrepresented the reason of her journey. She had told him that the visit was a sodden inbim of ber husband's arising out of his passion for art.

Could it be that Julian Wyllard was so deeply interested in the question of Both well's guiltor innocence as to make an excuse for being on the scene of' the investigation. He had seemed indifferent almost to unktndness. He had wounded his wife's feelings by his coldness upon this question. And now it seemed to Edward Heathcote that

hiB

real motive in coming across the channel must be to watch the case with his own eyes. His manner to-day when he inquired about Heatbcote's progress had been seemingly careless, but beneath that apparent indifference the lawyer bad noted a keen expectancy, ftn intent watchfulness. Yes, it was something of deeper moment than a picture sale which had brought Julian Wyllard to Paris post-haste at a day's notice. His angry manner to bis wife an hour ago bad indicated nervous irritation, a mind on tbe rack.

Yet, looking at the question from a worldly point of view, and Heathcote considered Julian essentially a man of the world, there seemed but little reason why he should be deeply concerned as to whether Bothwell was or was not suspected of foul play in the matter of the French girl's death. The evidence against the young man was of far too slight and vague a character to endanger his life or liberty. It was only enough to cast a cloud upon bis reputation, and that his cousin's husband should put himself out of the way on this account seemed to tbe last degree unlikely. Julian'Wyllard's life, judged as Heatbcote judged it, was that of a man who had lived always for himself and his own happiness. An excellent husband to a wife who be adored, a good master, a liberal landlord yet a man whom self had ever been paramount.

CHAPTER XVI.

A FACB FROM THE GRAVIS.

A week passed. Mr. Wyllard attended the sale at the Hotel Doruot, bought three of tbe smaller gems of tbe Rochejaquelin gallery, and allowed the Raffaelle to pass into a national collection. His wife and be had gone about Paris and its environs in tbe meanwhile Dora very happy in revisiting the spots she baa admired in her youth.

The week had gone, and there had been no reply to Heatbcote's advertisement. But there had been a letter from George Distin. "The last few days have not been entirely barren in results." he wrote. "Leonie Lemoine's handbag has been found at tbe Charing Cross 8tation it was left in the closk-room on the morning of tbe 5th of July, immediately after the arrival of the mail train from Dover. The bag is now in my office. It contains some linen marked L. Lemoine, slippers, brush and comb. But no document of any kind. Nothing to afford the slightest clue to the girl's business in London. The polioe have found a hansom cabman who drove a tall, gen-tleman-like man and a French girl from Charing Cross to Paddington Station on the morning of the 6th of July in time for the Penzance train. They had no luggage. Tbe cabman believes that he should recognize the man if be saw him again, but can give no clear description of his appearance, except that he was a handsome looking man in the prime of life. He talked French to the girl, and tbe cabman supposes bim to bave been a Frenchman. He and the girl appeared to be on very good terms. The cabman saw them go into tbe Paddington Station together, and about five minutes before tbe starting of the train. The photograph of the dead girl has been shown to this cabman, ana he has identified it as tbe likeness of the little French girl he drove in his cab."

This was all the progress that Mr. Distin's agents bsd made at present. Tbe facts looked dark against the man who bad taken Leonie Lemoine from station to station. If he bad been innoesnt of all wrong in relation to that helpless stranger, surely he would bave replied to the advertisement he would have come forward to ssy wbat part he bad taken in the history of Leonie Lemoine.

Mr. Heathcote stopped tbe first advertisement and inserted a second, WQrded thus: "Monsieur Georges, who resided in Paris in tbe year 71, and for some years previously, or any friend of Monsieur Georges now residing in England, is earnestly requested to communicate with Messrs. Distin A Son, solicitors, FurnlvaPS Inn."

He bad not much hope of getting a reply to this advertisement, after the failare of tbe previous appeal, i»at be thought it was well to advertise this name of Georges. Some insignificant person, some busybody who bsd known the man Georges at some period of his existence, might reply and any information so obtained might be a link in tbe chain of that strange story of Marie Prevol and ber mysterious lover.

Mysterious Heatbcote felt this man to have been, despite TroUier'sideathathe was only a rich American who lived a Bohemian life as a matter of choice. It seemed to Heathcote as If there must bave been some stronger ground than mens wblm for an.existence so secluded, so exceptional, epent in-such a city as Paris, where tbe delight of tbe rich and idle Is to spend their days and nights before the eyss of an admiring crowd, and

to have every movement and every caprice recorded in the newspapers. And this man had been In the prime of his manhood, good looking, clever, spiritual, the lover of a beautiful actress. Hardly the kind of a person to hide his light under a bushel, unless there was some strong reason for concealment.

What could that reason be. Heathcote wondered, as he brooded over tber imperfect story of Marie Prevol and her niece. Was this Georges a swindler, who had come by his wealth in a criminal manner, and dared not show hrimIn the light of day Was he one of the many tricksters and schemers of Paris— the birds of prey wbo live upon carron, and wbo know themselves the scorn ot their fellow-men. Or had he a wife from whose jealous eye be was obliged to hide bis devotion to Marie Prevol? Heatbcote believed tbat there must bave been some guilty reason for tbe life which shrank from tbe light of day.

He bad been in Paris for a fortnight, and he began to ask himself how long this investigation to which he had pledged himself was likely to last. At the beginning bin progress bad seemed rapid, triumphant almost. Starting in utter ignorance ef tbe name and position of the dead girl, he had arrived in a few days at an exact knowledge of ber name, surroundings and past history. Yet he was constrained to confess to himself tbat armed with all these facts be was yet not one wit nearer to finding the man who had murdered her. Given this history of Leonie Lemoine's childhood and youth, it was still possible that Bothwell Grahame bad thrown her out of the railway carriage.

The man wbo took ber in a hansom from Charring Cross to Paddington might have left ber at tbe latter station. She might bave gone alone upon ber way to Penzance, to encounter a villain on tbe road, and tbat villain might bave been Bothwell Grahame. Thetbing was within the limits of possibility, though in Heatbcote's preseqt mood it seemed to bim altogether on-likely. Yet firmly to establish tbe fact of Botbwell's innocence, he must find the man who was guilty.

It seemed to him that the man who met Leonie Lemoine at the station, who was known to have conducted her to another station, had in a measure condemned himself by bis silence. It be had not had'some guilty secret he would assuredly bave replied to the advertisement. He would have been apprised by that advertisement tbat Bonte evil had befallen Leonie Lemoine, and be would, have been prompt to come forward and tell all he knew of tbe girl wbo bad come to him- for aid, a friendless orphan, a stranger in a strange land.

It seemed clear to Heatbcote that Georges, the murderer, was still living, still in dread of the, gallows and tbat tbe girl who went to- meet tbe friend of the murderer had fallen into a trap. The papers she carried were doubtless of a compromising, character, tbe girl herself was the sole witness of the crime, the only living beinfc wbo could recognize the murderer. Papers and witness had disappeared together.

Heathcote was fond of Paris. It was not irksome to him to stay there even iu tbe dead season. He had tie theatres for bis evening amusement he had two or three friends who had not fled to tbe mountain or the sea, and in whose drawing rooms ho was welcome. He had the National Library in the Rue Richelieu for his club* and he had the ever varying life of tbe boulevard for his recreation. Time, therefore, did not hang heavily on his hands,and be knew that while he watched aud waited in Paris, George Distin would not be idle in London. Every clue, were it the slightest, would be patiently followed by that expert investigator.

In his saunterings-iti tbe Rue de Rivoli and on the boulevards Mr. Heathcote had hunted assiduously for a photograph of Marie Prevol, but—so fleeting is tbe fame of beauty, which leaves nothing behind it save a tender memory— for some time he- had failed utterly in his quest. Her name was hardly rememoered by the people who sold photographs. And yet twelve or thirteen years ago the portrait of Marie Prevol was in every shop window. It had been sold by thousands, bad adorned every album in Paris, and had been hung over many a bachelor's mantlepiece, worshipped by half tbe beardless boys in France and Belgium.

At last Mr. Heatbcote lighted upon an elderly shopman, wbo was a little more intelligent, and bad a much better memory than the men he had encountered hitherto. Tbe man perfectly remembered Marie Prevol and her photo-

KI"We*

have a photograph of her by

Nadar," he said, "a portrait tbat was the rage. It was soon alter her first appearance at the Porte Saint Martain, and it was tbe costume in which sbe made her debut. Sbe was the genius or Evil, In a black satin bodice and a blac* tulle skirt starred with gold- The close fitting black bodice set oil her graceful figure, and her superb shoulders, and her hair, which was positively magnificent, fell down her back in a horse's tail. It was like a stream of gold. I saw her in that character half a dozen times. All Paris rushed to see her, though she was never much of an actress. But ber beauty made ber famous all over Europe. We used to send ber photographs, to St. Petersburg. But there is a fashion in these things, and I dare say almost every oae of those photographs has found its way to tbe rubbish heap. If you call tomorrow 1 may be able to supply you with wbat you want but I shall have to hunt over a good deal of our old stock to get at it." "I shall be beholden to you if you will do so,"answered Heatbcete. "I suppose Mademoiselle Prevol had the weakness of our lovely ladies in Englsnd, and was fond of having herself photographed." "In the first year or so, when she began to be celebrated for ber beauty, there were a good many different photographs of her, in tbis costume and in that, and, you know, in thoee fairy spectacles every, handsome actress wears at least half a dozen costumes. Bat sfter that first year there were no more of Mademoiselle Pre vol's photographs to be had for love or money. Our firm applied to her, offered ber a liberal royalty, five sons upon every photograph, if she would sit to Nadar lb all her costumes and give us tbe sole privilege of selling her portraits. But she declined, bhe was never going to rit not want herself vulgarized by having ber portrait sold for a 'ranc to every cslicot in France. Oar firm felt themselves offended by ber reply, Riven to one of our principles through an Impertinent seamstress, who worked bv the day for Mademoisselle Prevol, and wbo almost shot tbe door on our prindpsl's ncse. Oar firm took tbe trouble to flod out what Mademoiselle objected to tbe fame which photography can alone bestow upon beanty aod we discovered tbat there was a lover In tbe mysterious lover a man wbo kept himself curiously dark—" "Stay!" exclaimed Heatbcote. "I will give you a thousand francs for a photograph of tbat lover.*'

Tbe shopman shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

I "A liberal offer, monsieur, and a very safe one. Except that the man's nam* was Georges I know nothing about bins«.

Tbe police would bave given me twice as much as you offer for bis photograph if I could bave furnished them with one ten years ago. immediately after th* murder of Marie Prevol."

Aod then tbe man who proceeded te/ relate the story of tbe actress' dearth and? tbe impression which it made in Paris at the time. Mr. Heathoote listened and affected ignorance for, even in these* i. recollections, there might be some datail to suggest a clue. There was nothing, bowever. The man told the story as it had been told in tbe papers, and*a* it was already known to Heatbcote. I

He went back to the shop the follows ing day, and the shopman showed hi as three different photographs of ldarie« Prevol.

Two were of the carte de vislte siss, If costume. Tbey bad grown pale withage, and had an old fashioned look. They were fall length portraits, showing the perfection of an exquisite figure, %g as displayed ha tbe scanty draper^ of a burlesque costume, a gracefal, girlish J| form,.delicately fashioned, a perfect face, 1 small4, refined features, ahead crownec with masses of plaited bsir. But ia these small photographs, the soul was 1 wanting. Beyond tbe one fact that the original was exquisitely lovely, they revealed nothing.

Tbe third was of cabinet size, and here the woman herself appeared. Here, ,J in tbe face of the photograph, Edward .Cj Heathcote looked back across ten years, 71 and saw the face of the living wonas, the smile on tbe lips, the light in the eyes. It was ahead vignetted, the head only, carelessly draped with cloud of tuile, which half veiled tbe rich massca of hair. It was an exquisite face, eyes large and dark and dreamy, shadowed by long dark lasbe», an expression of -J pensive tenderness about the perfect lips, the nose small asKl straight, tha chin delicately moulded* It was not tbe bold bright beauty of aa actress accustomed to challenge the adtmiration of the vulgar crowd it was a beanty instinct with tender, womanly feeling and serious thought, an essentially feminineloveliness, and its chief characteristic was purity. It would have been impoa sible to associate sucb loveliness with aa evil life, a dissolute mind*

The color of this larger photograph was almost, as good aB if it had beea taken yesterday the portrait had a living look, which struck Heathcote painfully. It was sad to think tbat lovely face bad been lying in tbe dost for years —that the sweet smile of those eyes was nothing more than a memory. He was to dine at tbe Windsor that evening. Julian Wyllard talked of leaving Paris next morning. He wanted to take bis wife on to Switzerland, perhaps to the Italian lakes. Dora waB pleased at tbs idea of revisiting tbe scenes in *hich: ber honeymoon bad been spent. They seemed far away in the dins past, those days of early married- life, when all the world was decked in the vivid hues of hope and gladness. Her anion with Julian Wyllard, had been a happy one but there bad been sometlliag wanting. There bad been the little rift witbin the lute. That lonely old house at Permorval chilled her sometimes, with its silent corridors, its empty rooms. It would bave been sweet to her to hear baby feet pattering along those corridors —baby voices—tbat glaa-ohUdiBh treble which is like the piping of young birda* In those spacious rooms, there was se much vacant space in tbe old bouse* wbicb only children could have filled. And now she told herself tbat the dreaat was past and done with. Sbe felt as l€ she were growing old and tbat somchow, she knew not bow, sbe and ber husband were further apart than they bad been. It might be that thS disappointment of a childless upon was preying upon her bind—the- burden of a great fortune for which he had toiled! over-much in. his youth', renouncing every social pleasure, friendship, love#,: all things only to heap up wealth fer which there should be no-heir.

Tbe dinner at the Windsor was bright and pleasant, albeit Heathcote was the only guest. Julian Wyllard was in excellent spirits, full of plans for making the most of the bright weather in Switzerland. Dora was pleased at bis gaiety. Sbe bad been going about a good deal! with him, revisiting. aU the places she had seen with her mother—the churches, the galleries, tbe law courts, tbe brand new Palais de Justice, so splendid, se imposing, so uninteresting. They have been so Versailles. "Did you go to Saint Germain asked Heatbcote. "There is not much te see in the chateau where poor old Jamea Stuart shed the light of exiled royalty but tbe old town, and the terrace, and tbe forests are delightful." "No we did not go to Saint Germain. We had arranged to go yesterday, bat Julian mistook the time at wbicb the train started, and we reached tbe station too late for tbe only train tbat would have Buited us." "You have never been to Saint Germain asked Heathcote. "Oh, yes. I was there with my mother years ago," answered Dora. "We stayed at the Henri Qtuatre for a week. I bave ridden and rambled all over the forest. I was charmed with the piaoc. I should like to bave gone there again with Julian." "There may be time when we return from Switzerland," said ber busband. "Why not delay your journey for af day, and let as all go to Saint Germain ,: to-morrow," said Heatbcote. "Suppoas^

fou

din© witb rod at lbs Henri Quatr#., have a morbid interest in that hotels and in the forest." "Indeed 1 Bat wbv asked Dors.

Instead of any verbal answer Heathcote took from his pocket the photograph of Msrie Prevol and banded it to Mrs. Wvllard. Sbe and ber busband looked at it together. Sbe had drawn closer te--him after dinner, as they sat at lhe» small ronad table, and now they were sitting side by side, lovers.

There was a silence as tbey looked at tbe portrait. "What an exquisite face!" exclaimed, Dora, at last. "I don't think 1 ever saw lovelier eyes or a sweeter expression. Wbo la tbe original? Do you knew her?" •'She has been desd ten years. I never saw ber," answered Heatbcote, gravely. "But what has tbis portrait to do witM your morbid Interest in the foreet ef Saint Germsin asked Dora. "It la tbe likeness of a woman wbe was cruelly murdered there just ten rears ago. She was an actress known ss Msrie Prevol. Tbe murder made a great sensstion at tbe time. You must bave beard of It, Mr. Wy lard, for I tbink you were a resident In Paris in 711" "I was a resident in Paris till *73. Yes. I perfectly remember tbe murder ef Mute Prevol and her admirer. But It was one ol those crimes which do net excite any deep or lasting Interest. The ca«e was too eommon, tbe motive toe obvious. An outbreak of jealons funr on the part of a jilted lover. Hud the murderer and fate victims belonged the working classes society would scarcely b»ve beard of tbs crime, em~ talnly would bave taken no notioe of w*

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