"But a young fellow like you must have some other property. Where did you leave your trunk or chest?"

"I have none. I have sold it."

Mr Horton looked puzzled and displeased; and Patsy fidgeted, and held up his hand as a schoolboy at a Sundayschool does, when he feels, rightly or wrongly, that he can answer a question.

"Umph!" ejaculated the inspector, noticing it; "the boy wants to speak, your worship."

"Let him speak up," said Mr Horton, glancing in a kind and encouraging way upon the small boy.

Hereon Patsy spoke.

66

Please, he has been and left a box at the café in Rupert Street. I know it, and I see'd it. The padrone, as he called the master, will show it."

"Very good," returned the magistrate. where that place is, Serjeant Brownjohn?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you know

"Take a cab, and go and search the box. And now let us look to these letters."

The dates of the papers found in the parcel-during the reading of which César Negretti turned visibly more pale, and exhibited more distress - extended over some six months. The first in order was a rough draft of a letter to Mr Edgar Wade, barrister, of the Temple, in which the writer acquainted that gentleman that he knew something which would, if examined and acted upon, turn to his advantage. It was purposely worded in a wide and indefinite manner, and seemed to have elicited a careful answer from the barrister. This answer did not occur; but there was another rough draft of a reply to the letter, in which the writer stated that, in overlooking some letters of his (the writer's) father-who was Gustave formerly valet to Lord Chesterton-he had discovered the secret of Edgar Wade's birth. A third letter-and the little bundle of MSS. had been carefully and consecutively arranged, and had been preserved as being of some value-was from Mr Edgar Wade himself. He wished the informant would call upon him such matters as he could communicate had better be spoken than written. He appointed a certain evening, and

:

wished that the writer of the letters would bring with him proofs of the authenticity of his information. A fourth letter ---again from Edgar Wade-complained that the appointment had not been kept, and asked-evidently in answer to some hints upon the subject of remuneration-what amount of money would be demanded, presuming the information supplied should turn out to be of use in placing the writer, Mr Edgar Wade, in possession of his rights. Mr Horton looked significantly at Mr Tom Forster as he read these letters. That gentleman fidgeted with his spectacles, examined the writing of his friend with coolness and minuteness, and was evidently troubled. The letters were quite genuine; and as each succeeding one strengthened the revelation so unpleasant to Mr Forster's feelings, so his examination became more slow and methodical. It would seem to have been Negretti's purpose to keep away as long as he could from a personal interview with the barrister. Some more brief notes of a letter next occurred, in which were found the names of Gustave, MadameMartin with her address at Acacia Villa-and Lord Chesterton. Lord Wimpole, in whose service the writer had been, was also mentioned; and the secret to be confided was held up as of the greatest importance and value. There was no answer to this. Edgar Wade, it would appear, had sought out and found his informant; and, from notes of conversations, a large sum of money seemed to have been asked, and to have been agreed upon, as a reward to be paid upon Edgar Wade making his claim perfect. There were instructions, evidently taken from the barrister's lips, as to getting papers in the possession of Lord Wimpole or Madame Martin. As Mr Tom Forster read these, his heart sank within him. He turned pale, felt sick at heart, and sat down, polishing his eye-glasses with his bandana pocket-handkerchief.

"This case assumes a very serious aspect," said the magistrate, looking at him. "I am afraid, Mr Forster, that your accumulation of proofs in regard to Lord Wimpole have misled us."

"The proofs were all right, sir," returned Old Daylight in a mild voice; "but I am afraid they have led us to the wrong person.' ¡

"I see no reason why his lordship should not be released," said the magistrate, making out an order to that effect, and directing it to Captain Chessman. "Perhaps Inspector Stevenson will see to this!"

He handed the paper to Stevenson, who took it gloomily. "Here was a go," he said to himself; "Old Daylight was actually breaking down! What next? When would the right party turn up?"

"No," observed Old Forster, after a pause, "your worship was right in your unwillingness to make that arrest. There are yet more papers-possibly, in that man's box."

"Have you any more letters like or similar to these?" said Mr Horton.

César's lips moved faintly with the reply of-"Si, signor." "Most of these notes are in your writing, I presume. We can prove that, even if you deny it. I want you to be cautious about what you say. It is evident that you know much about matters antecedent to the murder of this poor

woman

Again a low, hissing sound of "Si, signor," a bowing down of the head, and a "piteous" '-as old writers would say-extension of the hands and fingers, as if for mercy.

"If not of murder itself," continued the magistrate.

César's head fell upon his chest, and he said nothing. But the eyes of the silent, watchful little Irish boy gleamed and sparkled with intelligence.

"Have mercy, sir, upon me-spare me, good sir!" gasped the Maltese. "Give me time. Let me consult my friends, and I will tell all."

The words sounded more like the low whining of a beaten dog than the voice-once so clear, sharp, and resonant-of César Negretti.

"You shall have plenty of time and every opportunity," said the magistrate. "We will see you properly taken care of and go fully into the case to-morrow."

César and Patsy were therefore removed; and, after some talk with Old Daylight in regard to Mr Edgar Wade-for whose appearance Tom Forster himself undertook to answer, being supplied with the proper instrument for compelling his

attendance-Mr Horton left. As Forster passed Sergeant Brownjohn, that functionary said

"Well, I am as sorry as if it were my own case. Yours seems to break down as well as mine, although you were on the right track."

"Ah! my friend," said Old Daylight, with a sigh, "it was a race between us. One of Two, you know. And, as far as I see, I have the right evidence; and you, although you did not intend it, have arrested the right man."

He nodded in the direction in which César Negretti had disappeared as he spoke.

CHAPTER LI.

A LAST INTERVIEW.

THE nursing Sister, left alone with the dead, put up her prayers in silence, and with some faith and hope-both deadened by custom, both now a matter of habit. The fire which had kindled them in her young breast had ceased to leap into a golden flame, but had fallen to its steady, customary glow-even covered with white ashes of disappointment, and concealed by custom and routine, but yet alive and burning. Did she pity or envy the poor lady who was at rest? Hardly one or the other feeling was expressed in the calm, tender kiss she bestowed on the forehead of the dead, as she smoothed the features and composed the limbs. Even the dead was of the world; and the Sister's Church was far above and beyond the world, looking on it, acting on it, working for it, but not of it. Poor world, when such noble and good souls are constrained to leave it! Poor wounded souls, who leave the world, and look askance at it, and live to themselves, transformed to something hardly human, yet ever hungering for human love and sympathy. The little doctor, who had cut the Gordian knot of the ravelled Churches and sects by believing in nothing that would not admit of scientific proof, was not forgetful of the Sister-for whom he would have liked to prescribe a good dance, plenty of roast beef and Southdown

mutton, an honest husband, and a small family-and had sent some one to relieve her in due time; but, in the meantime, she must wait—and she was used to waiting. She heard the footsteps of Edgar Wade, as he now and then rose and paced about in the little room overhead—which he had fitted as an extra study; and then there would ensue a long interval of silence. It was evident that the acute lawyer and man of the world suffered much perturbation; and, of a truth, the remark of a modern philosopher, which would apply here, is consolatory to us small persons, who cannot but feel some envy at the thick-skinned people, who are supposed to suffer nothing. "The sages," wrote this clever man, "feel as much as we do; only, by an assumed constancy, they hide their feelings from the world." The barrister was a sage after the philosopher's own heart. He had hidden his feelings from the world; but, nevertheless, he felt. He went straight to this little room after parting from Mrs Wade, and, raising his hands to his hot forehead, remained for a short time the picture of despair. Things were not going with him as he could have wished; troubles were closing around him; and the stout heart and busy brain were both over-worked and over-charged.

"What will happen, I know not," said the young man to himself. "At any rate, let me prepare for the worst. My letter has not been answered. What can she mean? Months ago-is it months or weeks?—she vowed that she loved me, and that it was only my poverty that was an obstacle; and now, when all seems- -But come, I must work-for a time, at least."

He sat down, and wrote rapidly, yet carefully, pausing now and then to read the folios which he filled, and taking care to use precise and definite expressions. Occasionally he would. pause and listen, and wonder to himself in some such phrases as these

"That man Richards, I suppose, did it. He has always some new-fangled invention which is to astonish the world, and then falls to nothing. I wish I had not brought him here. I wonder what ill-luck it was that made me do so. I was a madman. Her tongue may undo much that is done. Why was it not silent in the grave? Poor thing! that was the 2 A