ments, and the valuable nicknaeks which were strewn about them; but on second thoughts he determined to leave them, fearing they would be missed by his servant on his return, and thus suspicion would be excited. Finally, he dragged the large |trunk back into the hall, and fetching the portmanteau which he ordinarily used, commenced filling it with wearing apparel, carefully packing, too, his splendid dressing-case with silver-gilt fittings, and a quantity of plate which he took from an iron safe in his bedroom.

He had opened the door of this safe, and was looking through a number of documents, bills, and other securities, with the intention of seeing which could be made available in his flight, when he heard a sudden knock at the door. Not an ordinary knocking, but quick, hurried, and studiously low, as though the person knocking were fearful of attracting other observation than that of the person whose attention he was endeavouring to catch.

Philip Vane paused in his task and listened; his heart beat so loudly that at first he could not hear anything else, and after the knocking had ceased, for a minute afterwards he heard it distinctly. He filled a wine-glass from a decanter of brandy on the sideboard and swallowed its contents, then he crossed the hall and paused at the outside door.

"Who's there?" he asked, in a low

tone.

"I," replied the well-known voice of Mr. Delabole, pitched in the same key. "Let me in at once-most important!"

Vane opened the door, and Mr. Delabole entered. He knew the way, he had been there often before, and, with his host following him, he rapidly crossed the little hall and passed into the sitting-room. When he saw the half-filled portmanteau and the room littered with clothes and papers, he started back and turned quickly round.

"Hallo!" he said, "so soon? I came to warn you, but you seem to have heard of it already."

"Heard of what ?" said Vane, looking bluntly at him.

Mr. Delabole's face was pale; there was a strained, worn look round his eyes, his usual gorgeous shirt-front was crumpled, and his ring-covered little hands were very dirty; but it was with something of his old jaunty manner that he said: "Won't do, my dear Philip-things are too serious just now for us to indulge in such gaff.

You must have heard the news, or you would not be packing up to cut and run in this way."

"I have this moment returned to town, and I tell you I have heard no news whatever."

"Well, then, not to keep you in suspense any further, the short and long of the matter is this. Late this evening, after business hours, I received a private telegram in cipher from Garcia, the resident engineer at Terra del Fuegos, andMr. Delabole stopped and whistled.

66

And," interrupted Philip Vane, who scarcely had noticed the announcement his companion had to make to him, so great was his relief.

"And," continued Mr. Delabole, looking hard at him, " the water has come into the mine, and it is all U—P.”

"That's a bad business," said Vane, striving to look interested. "What do you intend to do?"

'Well, you are a plucked one, Philip, I will say that for you," said Mr. Delabole, in admiration. "You take this as coolly as though it were a trifle, instead of meaning ta-ta to every sixpence you have got in the world. To be sure there is Mrs. Bendixen's money in prospect, but one ought never to reckon upon that until one has touched it. And you ask me what I am going to do. I will tell you, my dear Philip, in a word of four letters-bolt!" "Leave England ?"

"Leave England very much indeed, for a short time. I had always arranged with Garcia that when this crisis happened-I knew it was always on the cards, having been told so by old Prothero, when he came back from his second visit and sold all his shares-I had arranged with Garcia to let me have forty-eight hours' notice before the news could reach the City in the regular way. If he keeps his word, and I have no doubt he will, the interesting occurrence will not get wind until Thursday morning, by which time we-if you decide upon accompanying me-can be the other side the Pyrenees, and well into Spain.".

"Is there absolute necessity for your going ?"

"Well, my dear Philip, when the T. D. F. bursts up, there will be rather a howl, and it will probably, too, be better for me to be out of the reach of certain speculative persons who may think they have been defrauded of their money. What an extraordinary fellow you are! You must necessarily make yourself scarce, and yet

you seem to be displeased with the notion of my company, which I thought would have afforded you the greatest delight."

"It is not that, of course; I should be glad of your society, but it's hard lines to have to run away into hiding just now."

You can take Mrs. Bendixen with you, my dear Philip," said Mr. Delabole, sardonically. "She will not know that it is anything more than a mere commercial smash; and she will be doubly anxious to have the opportunity of concealing her own stricken deer. Besides, you might have had to bolt in a more hurried manner. Oh, by the way, I have news for you." "What news?" said Vane, starting. "More trouble ?"

"On the contrary," said Delabole, "good. Just before I came out, Asprey enclosed me this telegram, which he received tonight. Read it for yourself."

Mr. Delabole took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to his companion, who opened it eagerly, and spread out its contents before him. But he had scarcely glanced at the paper, when, with a heavy groan, he fell senseless on the floor.

Mr. Delabole was a practical man; he rushed into the bedroom, and emerging with the water-jug, dashed a stream over his friend's face; then dropping on his knees beside him, untied his neckerchief, unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt, and lifted up his hand that he might feel how the pulse was beating.

What makes him drop the hand suddenly as though it had been red-hot, letting it fall heavily on the floor? What makes him bend over it again as it lies there doubled up and shapeless, and peer curiously at the cuff and shirt-wristband? What makes him shrink back, regaining his feet with one bound, and looking down with horror on the prostrate form?

"He did it," he muttered. "By the Lord!"

666

"What is it exactly the doctor says ?" picking up the telegram which had fluttered to the ground. Chenoweth, Springside, to Asprey, Cavendish-square. Sir G. H. is dead. Killed to-night in a struggle. Particulars by post. Shall want you at the inquest.' Killed in a struggle; and unless I am very much mistaken, this is the man that killed him. What's the meaning of his falling into a fit when he read that?

What's the meaning of those stains on his hands and cuffs and wristband? That was where he was all this day, when he would tell no one where he was going! And here are his boots and trousers still cased with the heavy country mud! What was the meaning of this packing up, which I interrupted him in? His plate and papers too, I see, to take with him. What did that mean but to bolt? This is an infernal bad business," he continued, dropping into a chair and wiping his forehead. "I wish to Heavens I had not come here!"

At this moment Philip Vane opened his eyes, and after gazing wearily round him, gradually struggled into a sitting posture.

"Help me to get up, Delabole," he said, in a faint voice. "Give me your hand."

"Not I," said Mr. Delabole, drawing back and plunging his hands into his pockets.

"What's the matter ?" said Philip, still "What has happened?"

faintly.

"This has happened, Philip Vane; that I know where you were during this day and what you did! Henceforth we work separate, and I advise you to keep clear of me. I don't pretend to be strait-laced; I am not particular as to how I get my money so long as it comes, but I have never gone in for murder yet, and I don't intend to do so. And look here; you know

I am sound enough, but if you don't want others, who might not be quite so reliable, to find out what I have found out to-night, look to your coat-cuff, and shirt-wristband, and trousers, and boots, and be off out of this place, before the hue-and-cry is upon you."

So saying, without another look at his companion, Mr. Delabole put on his hat and strolled from the room, leaving Philip Vane grovelling on the ground.

JUST PUBLISHED, THE

EXTRA DOUBLE NUMBER FOR CHRISTMAS, 1871,

ENTITLED

SLAVES OF THE LAMP.

Now ready, price 5s. 6d., bound in green cloth, THE SIXTH VOLUME

OF THE NEW SERIES OF

ALL THE YEAR ROUND.

To be had of all Booksellers.

THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEREEVIL.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "HESTER'S HISTORY."

CHAPTER XIX. GREAT MISTAKES.

"AUNT MARTHA," said May the next morning, "do you remember the pedlar ?" They were standing in the morning sun, looking over a sweet-brier hedge, in the direction of Paul's farm-house. Paul had invited himself to breakfast, and breakfast was now waiting for the guest.

"Of course I remember the pedlar," said Aunt Martha. "A most civil young man, who did not know his own interests. he turned up again?"

Has

"I think he has," said May. "I think Paul Finiston and he are the same. That is why we got our silk so cheap." "Nonsense!" said Miss Martha, in great consternation.

At this moment Paul appeared coming towards them. May had said, "To-morrow we shall see him better as he is." Now she had the early glory and freshness of the morning by which to criticise him; and something of that glory and that freshness seemed reflected in the young man's bearing as he approached. He was not quite a six-foot man like Christopher Lee, but he had a better knit frame, and was of a finer build. He had in his face a look of vivid, nervous life, keen in the eyes, sensitive about the mouth, warm and impetuous in the vigorous glow under the sunburnt skin; had more than the strength of most men, and almost the suppleness and grace of a Yet with all the advantages of this happy moment for observation, May did not seem one whit more inclined to criticise than she had been the night before.

woman.

The small, dim parlour looked sweeter than ever that morning, with lowered blind, and open, rose-hung sash, and filled with a tempered sun-haze over all the little oddities and grotesquenesses of its shape and adornments. The people at the table were merrier and more familiar than they had been the night before.

"Paul," said Miss Martha, "this girl sometimes dreams when she is awake; just as some people walk about in their sleep. She dreamed this morning that she had seen you tramp the country as a pedlar."

"I did so once," said Paul, in some confusion. "I meant to confess it. You will think it was a foolish trick to play upon my friends."

The shock of Miss Martha's surprise was over before now. She had been studying Paul's face, and was not unprepared for the confession when it came.

you

"It seems foolish enough, but I suppose had a motive. I knew there was something wrong about that silk. You remember, May, how uneasy I was."

"Aunt Martha thought the goods were stolen," said May, laughing, “and that we should have to go to jail.'

Paul looked rather foolish, but joined in the laugh. "I meant no harm," he said. "It was nothing but a freak."

"Have you quite given up business ?" asked May, blithely. "You had a great many pretty things unsold in your pack."

"The pack!" said Paul, recollecting. He had never thought of it since the moment when he had fled frantically out of the doors of Tobereevil; away from that fear and hatred of another human creature which had made him feel for an instant as if he might be a murderer against his will. All the old haunted feeling swooped back over him as he sat there,

VOL. VII.

168

"A panic ?" said Miss Martha.

"A fit of panic to which I am subject. I had to run away." Miss Martha looked troubled, and May was in a puzzle. "Don't let us talk of it," said Paul, with a swift return of gaiety. "I have a longing to be happy awhile, before I settle down to look the future in the face. Humour me, dear madam. Give me a whole week."

"I will give you as many as you like," said Miss Martha, smiling, "only tell me how the gift is to be made.'

"I want to see the country," said Paul. "I want to wander about gipsy fashion, and see the beauties of the land. If you and-and

Paul glanced pleadingly at the bright face opposite.

"May," said the girl, smiling. Paul's face grew radiant. If you and May," he said, "will come with me, if you will trust yourselves to my care, I think we can have some pleasant days."

The young girl's eyes flashed delight; but Aunt Martha's cap began to bob in deprecation.

"You have never had the rheumatism, either of you," she said; but nevertheless she promised in the end to do her best to turn traveller, for the sake of these two. So this little party set out to do what people so seldom think of doing. They contrived a tour of pleasure in their own country. They went driving leisurely along unknown roads, seeing fine sights, and arriving by sun-down at sequestered inns, in romantic byplacos of extraordinary beauty. They mounted ponies, at least two of them did, for Miss Martha would have nothing fiercer than a donkey. They climbed mountains, they sat upon wonderful crags, they floated about lakes in the blue atmosphere of enchanted days, and they looked at each other through the

spray of the great waterfalls. The week lengthened itself into a bewitching fortnight. And even after that time had passed many more rosy days still dawned and set, and left them wandering.

The acquaintance of the young people ripened well during this time. Aunt Martha's donkey was an obstinate brute, and was always taking sulky fits and lagging behind the ponies. Aunt Martha did not much fancy boating upon lakes. The young people had many a quiet hour in which to learn each other off by heart. Paul was extravagantly happy. He was companion, mentor, and often guardian of this girl whom he loved solely and passionately, loving no one else in the world. But by-and-bye, out of the fever of his delight, he got a great new fear which outweighed all else that had ever troubled him before. He fought with it awhile, vowing that he would win that thing on which he had set his heart. He was not a coward, he thought, though hard beset with shadows which threatened to darken his whole life. He had an arm fit to wield a sword, or to break stones on the highway, a heart ready to grapple with any substantial danger which might confront him. But it seemed to him that nature had given him no refuge from the plague of his imagination, had given him over to the malice of the creatures of his bad dreams. Nature had offered no refuge, but he had found one for himself in another human soul. And now if he should lose her?

As for May, when her observation of certain sad fits of Paul's had reminded her that he had a trouble, she found herself not so well able to pity him as she had fancied she should be. If Katherine had treated him hardly, why not let the past go to the winds? What was there about her so precious that she should be mourned for all through life? She was frivolous and foolish; but a man might not see that. Yet why not enjoy the lovely summer while it stayed? Why look on the ground and sigh, and turn silent and pale while the world was all in a glow, and fall of joy on every side? She had no patience with such blindness. For her part she believed that people ought to be happy when they could. Death and parting were sad enough when they came. But when people were well, among birds singing and flowers blooming, they deserved to be miserable if they would not try to be a little glad. One thing she would do for him, and she did it with all her might. She would avoid