Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 17, Number 25, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 11 December 1886 — Page 6

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THE,MAIL.

A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE

TERRE HAUTE DEC. 11, 1886.

THE

Haunted Chamber.

BY "THE DUCHESS." m#

Author of "Monica"Mono, Scully," "Phyllis," etc., etc. CHAPTER VII—COjrnwuKD.

Not until her return to her room does Dora remember that she did not get back the false letter from her cousin. In the heat of the conversation she had forgotten it, but now, a fear possessing her lest Florence should show it to any one. she runs upstairs and knocks at Miss Delmaine's door. "Come in," calls Florence slowly.

It i* three hours since she went for her unhappy walk to the lime-grove, and now she is composed again, and is -waiting for the gong to sound before descending to the drawing-room, •where she almost dreads the thought that she will be face to face with feir Adrian. She is dressed for dinner, has indeed taken most particular pains with her toilet, if only to hide the ravages that these past three hours of bitter weeping have traced upon her beautiful face. She looks sad still, but calm and dignified. l)ora is dressed too, but is looking flurried and flushed. "I beg your pardon," she savs "but my letter—the fetter I showed you today—have you it?"

JNo."

replies Florence simply "I

thought I gave it back to you but, if not, it must be here on the table"— lifting a book or two from the gypsytable near which she had been sitting -when Dora came to her room early in the day.

Dora looks for it everywhere, a somewhat nervous, frightened manner, Florence helping ner the while but nothing comes of their search, and they are fain to go down-stairs without it, as the gong sounding loudly tells them they are already late. "Never mind," says Dora, afraid of having betrayed too much concern. "It is really of no consequence. I only wanted it, because—well, because"— witli the simner that drives Florence nearly mad— lie wrote it." "I shall tell my maid to look for it, and, if she finds it, yon shall have it this evening," responds Florence, with a slight contraction of her brows that passes unnoticed.

To Florence's mortification, Arthur Pyneeourt takes her in to dinner. On their way across tho hall from the drawing-room to the dining-room, he presses the hand that rests so reluctantly upon his arm, and says, with an alTertation of the sincerest concern— "You are not well you are looking ale and troubled, and—pardon me if am wrong, but I think you have been crying."

I must beg sir," she retorts, with excessive

hauteur,

removing her hand

from his arm, as though his pressure had burned her—"I must bog, you will not trouble yourself to study my countenance. Your doing so is most offensive to me." "To see you in trouble, and not long to help or comfort you is impossible to me," goes on Dynecourt, unmoved by her scorn. "Are you still dwelling on the past—on what is irrevocable? Have you had fresh cause to remember it to-day?"

There is a gleam of malice in his eyes, but Florence, whose gaze is turned disdainfully away from him, fails to see it. She changes color indeed beneath his words, but makes him no reply, and, when they reach the dining-room, in a very marked manner she titkes a seat far removed from his.

There is a sinister expression in his eyes and round his mouth as he notes this studied avoidance.

CHAPTER. VIII.

It is now "golden September," and a few days later. For the last fortnight Florence has been making strenuous efforts to leave the castle, but Dora would not hear of their departure, and Florence, feeling it will be selllsh of

her to cut short Dora's happy hours with her supjMsed lover, sighs. and gives in, and sacritlces her own wishes on the altar of friendship.

It is flvo o'clock, and all the men,

Sawn.

un in hand, have been out since early Now they are coming strag-

Stie

ling home, in one or twos. Amongst first to return are Sir Adrian and his cousin Arthur Dynecourt, who, having met accidentally about a mile from home, have trudged the remainder of the way together.

On the previous night at dinner. Miss Delmaiue had spoken of a small gold bangle, a favorite of hers, she was greatly in the habit of wearing. She said she had lost it—when or where she eould not tell and she expressed herself as being very grieved for its loss, and had laughingly declared she would irive anv reward claimed by any one who should restore it to her. Two or three men had. on the instant, pledged themselves to devote their lives to the search but Adrian had said nothing. Nevertheless, tine bangle and reward had remained in his mind all that night and all to-day. Now he can not refrain from speaking about it to the man he considers his rival. "Odd thing about Miss Delmaine's bangle," he remarks carelessly. 'Very odd. I dare say her maid has put it somewhere and forgotten it.' "Hardly. One would not nut a bracelet anywhere but in a iewel-ease or in special drawer. She must have dropped it somewhere." "1 dare say those Indian bangles are very liable to be rubbed off the wrist." "But where? I have had the place searched high and low. and still no tidings of it can be found." ®There may have been since we left home this morning."

Just at this moment they come within full view of the old tower, and its strange rounded ivv-grown walls, and the little narrow holes fan the sides they show at its highest point that indicate the position of the haunted chamber.

Wtiat is there at this moment in a mere glimpse of this old tower to make Arthur Dvneeourt grow pale and to start so strangely? lite eyes grow brighter, his Bps tighten and grow bant "Do you remember* he says, turning to his cousin with all the air of one to whom a sudden Inspiration has come, "that day when we visited the haunted chamber? Miss Delmaine accompanied QS. did she not?"

'Could she have droppeO it there?" cs Arthur lightly. By Jove, it would be odd if she had—eh? Uncanny sort of place to drop one's trinkets." "It is strange I didn't think of it before," responds Adrian, evidently struck by the suggestion. "Why, ft must have been just about that time when she lost it The more I think of it the more convinced I feel that it must be there." "Nonsense, my dear fellow don't jump at conclusions so hastily! It is highly improbable. I should say that she dropped it anywhere else in the world." "Well, I'll go and see, at all events," declares Adrian, unconvinced.

It is some lingering remnant of grace, some vague human shrinking from the crime that has begun to form itself within his busy brain, that now induces Dynecourt to try to dissuade Sir Adrian from his declared intention to search the haunted chamber for the lost bangle? With all his eloquence be seeks to convince him that there the bangle could not have been left, but to no effect. His suggestion has taken firm root in Sir Adrian's mind, and at least, as he frankly says, though it may be useless to hunt for it that uncanny chamber, it is worth a try. It may be there. This dim possibility drives him to his fate. "Well, if you go alone and unprotected your blood be on your own head," says Dynecourt lightly, at last surrendering his position. "Remember, whatever happens, I advised you not to gol"

As Arthur finishes his speech a sinister smile overspreads his pale features, and a quick light, as evil as it is piercing comes to his eyes. But Sir Adrian sees nothing of this. He is looking at his home, as it stands grand and majestic in the red light or the dying sun. He is looking, too, at the old tower, and at the upper portion of it, where the haunted chamber stands, and where he can see the narrow holes that serve for windows. How little could a man imprisoned there see of the busy world without! "Yes, I'll remember," he says jestingly. "When the ghosts of my ancestors claim me as their victim, and incarcerate me in some fiendish dungeon, I shall remember your words and your advice." "You don't mean to go there, of course?" asks Arthur carelessly, whilst watching the other with eager scrutiny. "It is quite a journey to that dismal hole, and it will be useless." "Well, if it distresses you, consider 1 haven't gone." says Sir Adrian lightly. "That is right," rejoins Arthur, still with his keen eyes fixed upon his cousin. "I knew you would abandon that foolish intention. I certainly shall consider you haven't gone."

They are at the hall door as these words pass Arthur's lips, and there thev separate, Sir Adrian leaving him with a smile, and going away up the large hall whistling gayly.

When he has turned one corner, Arthur goes quickly after him, not with the intention of overtaking him, but of keeping him in view. Stealthily he follows, as though fearful of being seen.

There is no servant within sight. No friend comes across Sir Adrian's path. All is silent. The old house seems wrapped in slumber. Above, the pretty guests in their dainty tea-gowns are sipping Bohea and prattling scandal below, the domestics are occupied in their household affairs.

Arthur, watching carefully, sees Sir Adrian go quickly up the broad front staircase, after which he turns aside, and, us though filled with guilty fear, rushes through one passage or another, until he arrives in the corridor that belongs to the servant's quarters.

Coming to a certain door, he opens it, not without some difficulty, and, moving into the dark landing that lies beyond it, looks around. To any casual observer it might seem strange that some of the cobwebs in this apparently long-forgotten place have lately been brushed away, as by a figure ascending or descending the gloomy staircase. To Arthur these signs bring no surprise, which proves that he, perhaps, nas the best right to know whose figure brushed them aside.

Hurrying up the stairs, after closing the door carefully and noiselessly behind him, he reaches, after considerable mountings of what seem to be interminable steps, the upper door he had opened on the day they had visited the haunted chamber, when Ringwood and he had had a passage-at-arms about his curiosity.

Now he stands breathing heavily outside this door, wrapped in the dismal darkness of the staircase, listening intently, as it were, for the coming of a footstep.

In the meantime, Sir Adrian, not dissuaded from his determination to search the tower for the missing ban-

?:le,

runs gayly up the grand staircase, raverses the corridors and galleries, and finally comes to the first of the iron-bound doors. Opening it, he stands upon the landing that leads to the other door bv means of the small stone staircase. Here he pauses.

Is it some vague shadowy sense of danger that makes him stand now as though hesitating? A quick shiver runs through his veins. "How cold it is," he says to himself, "even on this hot day, up in this melan choly place!" Yet, he is quite unconare lh scious of the ears that are listening for his lightest movement, of the wicked eves that are witching him through a chink in the opposite door!

Now he stem forward again, and, mounting the last flight of stairs, opens the fatal door and looks into the room. Even uow it occurs to him how unpleasant might be the consequences should the door close and the secret lock fasten him iu against his will. He pushes the door well open, and holds it so, and then tries whether it cau fall to again of its own accord, and so make a prisoner of him.

No it stands quite open, immovable apparently, and so, convinced that he is safe enough, he commences his search. Then.. swift as lightning, a form darts from its concealed position, rushes up to the stone staircase, stealthily creeping still nearer, glances into the room.

Sir Adrian's Mck Is turned h& 'is stooping, looking in e\ery corner for the missing prize. He sees nothing, hears nothing, though a treacherous form crouching on the threshold is making ready to seal his doom.

Arthur Dynecourt, putting forth his hand, which neither trembles nor falters on its deadly mission, silently lays hold of the door, and drawing It toward him the secret lock clicks sharply, and separates the victim from the world!

Stealthily even now—his erfl deed accomplished— V' Dynecourt retreats down t» M-, and never indeed relaxes until at length he stands panting, but rentie«,inthe servant's corridor again.

TERRE HAUTE SATURDAY EVENING MAIL.

Remorse he knows not. Hut a certain sense of fear holds him irresolute, making his limbs tremble and bringing out cold dews upon his brow. His rival is safely secured, out of all harm's way as far as he is concerned. No human oeing saw him go to the illfated tower no human voice heard him declare his intention of searching it for the missing trinket. He—Arthur —had been careful before parting from him to express his settled belief that Sir Adrian would not go to the haunted chamber, and therefore he feels prepared to defend his case successfully, even should the baronet be lucky enough to find a deliverer.

Yet he is not quite easy in bis mind. Fear of discovery, fear or Sir Adrian's displeasure, fear of the world, fear of the rope that already seems to dangle in red lines before his eyes render him the veriest coward that walks the earth. Shall he return and release his prisoner, and treat the whole thing as a joke, and so leave Adrian free to dispense his bounty at the castle, to entertain in his lavish fashion, to secure the woman upon whom he—Arthur— 'has set his heart for his bride?

No a thousand times no! A few short days, and all will belong to Arthur Dynecourt. He will be Sir Arthur" then, and the bride he covets will be unable to resist the temptation of a title, and the chance of being mistress of the stately old pile that will call him master. Let Sir Adrian die then in his distant garret alone, despairing, undiscoverable! For who would think of going to the haunted room in search of him? Who will even guessthat any mission, however im-

Eaving

ortant, woula lead him to it, without mentioned it to some one? It is a grewsome spot, seldom visited and gladly forgotten and, indeed, what possibly could there be in its bare walls and its bloodstained floors to attract any one? No surely it is the last place to suspect any one would go to without a definite purpose and what purpose could Sir Adrian have of going there?

So far Arthur feels himself safe. He turns away, and joins the women and the returned sporstmen in the upper drawing-room. "Where is Dynecourt?" asks somebody later. Arthur, though he hears the question, does not even change color, but calmly, with a steady haud, gives Florence her tea. «Voa- ia sif Adrian?" asks les

Yes where is Sir Mrs. Talbot, glancing up at the speaker "He left us about an hour ago, Capt.

Ringwood answers. "He said he'd pre-

fer walking home, and he shoveled his birds into our cart, and left us without another word. He 11 turn up presently, no doubt." "Dear me, 1 hope nothing has happened to himl" says Ethel Villiers, who is sitting in a window through which the rays of the evening sun are stealing, turning her auburn locks to threads of rich red gold. interposes seem this." Then, true to his determination to so arrange matters that, if discovery ensues upon his scheme, he may still find for himself a path out of his difficulties, he says quietly, "I met him about a mile from ncnae, and walked here with him. We parted at the hall-door I dare say he is in the library or the stables." "Good gracious, why (lidn't you say so before?" exclaims old Lady FitzAlmont in a querulous tone." I quite began to believe the poor boy had blown out his brains through disappointed love, or something equally objectionable."

Both Dora and Florence color warnly at this. The old lady herself is five to speak as she thinks of Sir Adrian, having no designs upon him for Lady Gertrude, that young lady being enistinguished and titaged to a very distinguished and Tea botanist, now hunting for ferns in the West Indies. "Markham," says Mrs. Talbot to a footman who enters at this moment, "go to the library and tell Sir Adrian his tea is waiting for him." "Yes, ma'am."

But presently Markham returns and Sir Adrian is not in the library. "Then try the stables, try everywhere," says Dora somewhat impatiently.

Markham, having tried everywhere, brings back the same answer Sir Adrian is apparently not to be found! "Most extraordinary," remarks Lady FitzAlmont, fanning herself. "As a rule I have noticed that Adrian is most punctual. I do hope my first impression was not the right one, and that we shan't find him presently with his throat cut and wallowing in his blood on account of some silly young woman!" "Dear mamma," interposes Lady Gertrude, laughing, "what a terrible old-fashioned surmise! No man nowadays kills himself for a false love he only goes and gets another."

But, when the dinner%our arrives, and no host presents himself to lead Lady FitzAlmont into dinner, a great fear falls upon the guests save one, and confusion and dismay, and anxious conjecture reign supreme.

The night passes the next day dawns, deepens, grows into noon, and still nothing happens to relieve the terrible anxiety that is felt by all within the castle as to the fate of its missing master. They weary themselves out wondering, idly but incessantly, what can have become of him.

The second day comes and goes, so does the third and the fourth, the fifth and the sixth, and then the seventh dawns.

Florence Delmaine, who has been half-distracted with conflicting fears and emotions, and who has been sitting in her room apart from the others, with her head bent down and resting on her hands, suddenly raising her eyes, sees Dora standing oefore her.

The widow is looking haggard and hollow-eyed. All her dainty freshness has gone, and she now looks in years what in reality she is. close on thirtyfive. Her lips are pale and drooping, her cheeks colorless her whole air is suggestive of deep depression, the resultof sleepless nights and days filled with grief and suspense of the most poignant nature. "Alas, how well she loves him too!" thinks Florence, contemplating her in silence. Dora, advancing, lays her hand upon the table near Florence, and savs, in a hurried impassioned tone—

HFlorence, what has become erf him? What has been done to him? I have tried to hide my terrible anxiety for the past two miserable days, bin now I feel I must speak to some one or go mad!"

She smites her hands together, and, sinking into a chair, looks as if she is going to faint. Florence, greatly alarmed, rises from her chair, and, running to her, places her arm round her as though to support her. But Dora repulses her almost roughly and moq«mh«awiy»-

•"Do not toucn me!B she cries hoarsely. "Do not come near me you, of all people, should be the last to come to my assistance! Besides. I am not here to talk about myself, but of him. Florence, have you any suspicion?"

Dora leans forward and looks scrutinizingly at her cousin, as thougti fearing, yet hoping to get an answer in the affirmative. But Florence shakes her head. "I have no suspicion—none." she answers sadly. "If I had should I not act upon it, whatever it mitjht cost me?" "Would you." asks Dora eagerly, as though impressed by her companion's words—"whatever it might cost you?"

Her manner is so strange that Florence pauses before replying. "Yes," she says at last. "No earthly consideration should keen me from using any knowledge I might by accident or otherwise become possessed of to lay bare this mystery. Dora." she cries suddenly, "if you know anything, I implore, I entreat you to say so." "What should I know?" responds the widow, recoiling. "You loved him too," says Florence piteously, now more than ever convinced that Dora is keeping something hidden from her. "For the sake of that love, disclose anything you may know about this awful matter.'* "I dare not speak openly," replies the widow, growing even a shade paler, "because my suspicion is of the barest character, and may be altogether wrong. Yet there are moments when some hidden instinct within my breast whispers to me that I am on the right track "If so," murmurs Florence, falling upon her knees before her, "do not hesitate follow up this instinctive feeling, and who knows but something may come of it! Dora, do not delay. Soon, soon—if not already—it may be too late. Alas," she cries, bursting into bitter tears, "what do I say? Is it not too late even now? What hope can there be after six long days, and no tidings?" "I will do what I can, I am resolved," declares Dora, rising abruptly to her feet. "If too late to do any good, it may not be too late to wring the truth from him, and bring the murderer to justice "From him? From whom what murderer?" exclaims Florence, in a voice of horror. "Dora, what are you saying?" ''Never mind. Let me go now and to-night—this evening let me come to you here again, and tell you the result of what I am now about to do."

She quits the room as silently as she entered it, and Florence, sinking back in her chair, gives herself up to the excitement and amazement that are overpowering her. There is something else, too, in ner thoughts that is puzzling and perplexing her in all Dora's manner there was nothing that would lead her to think that she loved Sir Adrian there was fear, and a desire for revenge in it, but none of the despair of a loving woman who had lost the man to whom she has given her heart.

Florence is still pondering these things, while Dora, going swiftly down stairs, turns into the sido hall, glancing into library and rooms as she goes along, plainly in search of something or some one.

At last her search is successful in a small room she finds Arthur Dynecourt apparently reading, as he sits in a large arm-chair, with his eyes fixed intently upon the book in his hand. Seeing ner, he closes the volume, and, throwing it from him, says carelessly: "Pshaw what contemptible trash they write nowadays!" "How can you sit here calmly reading," exclaims Dora vehemently, "when we are all so distressed in mind! But I forgot"—with a meaning glance "you gain by his death *ve do not." "No, you lose," he retorts coolly. "Though, after all, even had things been different, I can't s«iy I think you had much chance at any time."

He smiles insolently ac her as he says this. But she pays no need either to his words or his smile. Her whole soul seems wrapped in one thought, and at last she gives expression to it. "What have you done with him?" she breaks forth, advancing toward him, as though to compel him to give her an answer the question that has been torturing her for days past. "With whom?" he asks coldly. Yet there is a forbidding gleam in hia eyes that should have warned her to forbear. "With Sir Adrian—with your rival, with the man you hate," she cries, her breath coming in little irrepressible gasps. "Dynecourt, I adjure you to speak the truth, and say what has become of him."

You rave," he says calmly, lifting his eyebrows just a shade, as though in pity for her foolish excitement. "I confess the man was no favorite of mine, and that I can not help being glad or this chance that has presented itself in liis extraordianry disappearance of my inheriting his place aim title but really, my dear creature, I know as little of what has become of him, as—I presume—you do yourself." "You lie!" cries Dora, losing all control over herself. "You have murdered him, to get him out of your path. His death lies at your door."

She points her finger at him as though in condemnation as she utters these words, but still he does not flinch. "They will take you for a Bedlamite," he says, with a sneering laugh, "if you conduct yourself like this. Where are your proofs that I am the cold-blooded ruffian you think me?" "I have none"—in a despairing tone. "But I shall make it the business of my life to find them." "You had better devote your time to some other purpose," he exclaims savagely, laying his hand upon her wrist with an amount of force that leaves a re,i mark upon the delicate flesh. Do you hear mei1 You must be mad to go on like this to me. I know nothing of Adrian, but I know a good deal of your designing conduct .and your wild Jealousy of Ilorence Delmaine. All the world saw how devoted he was to her, and—mark what I say—there have been instances of a jealous woman killing the man she loved, rather than see him in the arms of another." "Demon!" shrieks Dora, recoiling from him. "You would fix the crime on me?" "Why not? I think the whole case tells terribly against you. Hitherto I have spared you. I have refrained from hinting even at the fact that

your

jeal

ousy had been aroused of late but your conduct of to-day. and the wily manner in which you have sought to accuse me of

beinsr

implicated in this

unfortunate mystery connected with my unhappy cousin, nave made me forget my forbearance. Be warned in time, cease to persecute me about this matter, or—wretched woman that you are—I shall certainly make it my business to Investigate the entire matter, and bring you to justice!"

He speaks with such an air of of thorough-bgHef In her

Dora is aszed, bewnaerea, ana, Tailing back from him covers her face with her hands. The fear of publicity, of having her late intrigue brought into the glare of day, fills her with consternation. And then, what will she gain by it? Nothing she has no evidence on which to convict this man: all is mere supposition. She bitterly feels the weakness of her position, aud her inability to follow up her accusation. "Ah, how like a guilty creature you *»taud therel" exclaims Dynecourt, regarding her bowed and trembling figure. "I see plainly that this must be looked into. Miserablo woman! If you know aught of my cousin, you had better declare it now I" "Traitor!" cries Dora, raising her pale face and looking at him with horror and defiance. ^Tou triumph now, because, as vet. I-have no evidence to support my belief but"—she hesitates.

Ah, brazen it out to the last!" says Dynecourt insolently. "Defy me while you can. To-day I shall set the bloodhounds of the law upon your track, so beware—beware!" "You refuse to tell me anything?" exclaims Dora, ignoring his words, and treating them as though they are unheard. "So much the worse for you."

She turns from him, and leaves the room as she finishes speaking but, though her words have been defiant there is no kindred feeling in her heart to bear her up.

When the door closes between them, the flush dies out of her face, and she looks even more wan and hopeless than she did before seeking his presence. She can not deny to nerselr that her mission has been a failure. He has openly scoffed at her threats, and she is aware that she has not a shred of actual evidence wherewith to support her suspicion the bravado with which he has sought to turn the tables upon herself both frightens and disheartens her, and now she confesses to herself that she knows not where to turn for counsel. .... TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WKEK.

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VANSVILLE ROUTE.

Short and Direct Line

iViVi Prom Tsrro Haute to

,•

Nashville, Montgomery, New Orleans. «'harlcston. .s Savannah, Jacksonville.

Only one change of cars. No Ferries. No Transfers. Passengers cross tho Ohio rlyor on the new Htcel Bridge at Henderson.

For information and tickets call on R. A. CAMPBELL,. General Agent, Torre Haute, Ind.

J^ANVILLEROUTE.

red lines

on wrapper. Take no other. Made onlj bjr BROWN CHEMICAL CO.. BALTIMORE. M®.

Chicago and Eastern 1111nois Railroad.

Short and Direct Route

—TO—

Chicago Milwaukee, Madison, Ureen Bay, Minneapolis, HI. Paul,

ATA RRH

A cold is the Bead is reliered by an application of Pise's Remedy far Catarrh. Tbe comfort to be got from it In thfcway Is worth many times its COSt.

Easy and pleasant to DM. Price. 90 eenta. Sold by druggist* I orsentDTmaiL

K. T. Rjaarvn, Wamsn. Pa.

PONSMEILSM

aiwM* JUSm eTSTW* smut

wailMi

Cedar Rapids, Omaha ...

And appoints in the North and Northwesi^

THREE TRAINS DAILY

Between Terre Haute and Chicago arriving in time to make close connections witfi trains on **H roads diverging.

OT Woodruff Palace and Sleeping Coaches on all night trains. Tourists Guides giving a description of the various Homme* Resorts will be furnished upon sppllcatlon to R. A. CAMPBELL, Genl Ag't

8. Chirr. J. H.

Wli-if

ram ammm £»uu gins fn»ri*^Utc relief. Catarrhal virus to soon expelled from the system, aad the diseased action of the tnoeoos membrane is replaced by bealtby secretions.

Chicago, Ills.,

Established 1865. Incorporated 1878.

WII.LIAMS.

M. CURRRM

QLIFT, WILLIAMS & CO.,

UAJRA ACTVRZKTI 09

Sash, Doors, Blinds, etc.-

AKD DEALERS IK I

LUMBER, LATH, SHINGLES

GLASS, PAINTS, OILS AND BUILDERS' HARDWARE. Mulberry street, corner 9th.' •v

Terre Haute, Ind.

Dr. BEN TOMLIN'S

Medical & Surgical Institute

Corner of 9th and Ohio sts., Terre Haute, Ind. for ALL CHRONIC and SPECIAL DI8EASES, Male and Female, MEDICAL or SURGICAL. Office hours 9 to 12 1 to 6 and 7 to &

A TRIAL TREATMENT FREE in the following disc sees, viz: OPIUM. monblne or laudannm HABIT. NERVOUS DISEASES of MEN and WOMEN .KITS or KPELEPSY an« SORE, WEAK orJDEFICIENT EYES.

The "following I will TREAT-NO CURE, NO PAY, with written guarantee, via, CANCERS. TUMORS, and OLD SORES, TAPE WORMS, FISTULA. PILES and ALL DISEASES of the RECTOM, without the KNIFE or CAUSTICS.