Dangerous Dilemmas: Startling but True
Date: 2020-04-20T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Short stories; Mystery and detective stories

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Dangerous Dilemmas: Startling but True

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Dangerous Dilemmas: Startling but True

Author: James Anderson Peddie

Release date: April 20, 2020 [eBook #61877]
Most recently updated: October 17, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Jwala Kumar Sista and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from scans of public domain works at The National
Library of Australia.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DANGEROUS DILEMMAS: STARTLING BUT TRUE ***

Transcriber's Notes

1. Typographical errors & hyphenation inconsistencies were silently corrected.

2. 'CHAPTER XV' comes after 'The Silver Gauntlet' in the original.

3. Inclusion of 'TOC' and creation of 'cover image' done by the Transcriber and placed in the public domain.

DANGEROUS DILEMMAS:

STARTLING BUT TRUE.

BY
JAMES PEDDIE,

AUTHOR OF
"SECRETS OF A PRIVATE ENQUIRY OFFICE,"
ETC., ETC., ETC.

LONDON: CHARLES H. CLARKE, 11 RED LION COURT,
FLEET-STREET.

Perth:

S. COWAN AND CO., STRATHMORE PRINTING WORKS.

CONTENTS

Chapter | | Page
| DANGEROUS DILEMMAS. |
I | THE ORIGIN OF "DANGEROUS DILEMMAS." | 3
II | THE CHRISTMAS WINE-HAMPER FRAUD. | 10
III | MY FIRST AND ONLY APPEARANCE AS AN AUCTIONEER. | 14
IV | THE TWO MYSTERIOUS DOMINOS. | 20
V | THE FIFTEEN POSTAGE-STAMP PUZZLE. | 27
VI | A HEAD DEFEAT; AN ATTEMPT TO WIN THE CAMBRIDGESHIRE. | 33
VII | THE STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE AND STRANGER RECOVERY OF THE COUNTESS'S DIAMONDS. | 42
VIII | CREMORNE: A ROMANCE OF THE DERBY. | 46
IX | HOW TO SATISFY ONE'S CREDITORS WITH WASTE PAPER. | 52
X | LORD SEAMORD'S FALSE FUNERAL. | 57
XI | TAKING A MEAN ADVANTAGE OF A FIRE. | 64
XII | THE ATTEMPTED MURDER IN THE AIR. | 69
XIII | MY TWO MATCHES, OR WATERLOO AVENGED. | 74
XIV | UNFORTUNATE POSTAGE-STAMP. | 80
| The Silver Gauntlet. |
| A STORY OF THE TURF. |
| In Four Chapters. |
I | An Introduction to Billy Platt. | 90
II | Billy Platt shows his hand, and receives an unexpected but well-deserved blow. | 92
III | A Woman comes to the Rescue. | 95
IV | Broken bones and successful love. | 99
XV | MY REVENGES AT BILLIARDS. | 103
-- | SECRETS OF A MATRIMONIAL AGENCY. | 108
-- | CRUEL WORK OF AN INTIMATE FRIEND. | 116
-- | THE MISSING "RAJAH" DIAMOND. | 123

DANGEROUS DILEMMAS.

CHAPTER I.
THE ORIGIN OF "DANGEROUS DILEMMAS."

The gambling tables at Spa— Compulsory mud bath—Saving one's life by exchanging an overcoat—A fortunate shipwreck.

"You are in a vein of luck and yet cease to play," said the Dutch banker Oppenheim to me over my shoulder at the roulette table at Spa.

Since that bright autumn day both Germany and Belgium have seen the evil results attending public gambling when practised by weak-minded individuals, and have banished the too fascinating game to Monaco, to the great delight of the prince of the smallest kingdom in Europe.

Man, being a speculative animal by nature, finding trente et quarante and roulette forbidden by a paternal government, has had recourse to écarté and baccarat, and instead of playing at the kursaal in the sight of everybody he now stakes his money in the seclusion of a club. The facilities for gambling are more numerous than of yore, but you cannot always depend upon the fairness of your opponents' game, nor on realising your winnings. At the public tables there could be no cheating, and when you won you could rely on getting your money.

The bankruptcies and suicides accruing from the gambling mania have not diminished, but they are now attributed to other causes. A man does not care to bespatter the Turkey carpet of the club house with his brains, and a severe loss or a grand coup made at a club is not usually the subject of a newspaper paragraph. When a Garcia broke the bank at Baden Baden the fact was commented on by the whole European press. A public gambling table is to some people's thinking an outlet for the over speculative and a check against folly, but what is the use of discussing the question, has not the fatal decree gone forth, and the clink of the ivory ball and the "faites le jeu" of the impassable croupier are no longer to be heard in the richly decorated halls of the kursaal at Spa. But at the time the above remark was made roulette and trente et quarante were in the heyday of their dangerous career.

"You are in a vein of luck and yet cease to play," the Baron repeated.

"I don't care to waste my mornings at the tables," I replied.

"Superior attractions elsewhere?"

"No, not what you mean; the bright sunshine lures me out of doors for one thing, and you know I never play long in the morning."

"Why?"

"Because it would be making a toil of a pleasure. I enjoy my days in the open air and speculate in earnest in the evening."

"Perhaps you are wise. At my time of life men are only too willing to profit by the smiles of the fickle goddess, come they at any hour of the day or night; they have had too much occasion to fear her frowns."

"They are no doubt right, and I am wrong to neglect my chance, but in the morning I only venture a little to test the fallacy of the last new system, and if possible to win enough money to cover the day's expenses."

"Praiseworthy objects both, and if you are satisfied, what say you to get our horses and have dejeuner at the restaurant in the wood. We will find ortolans there, and the trout are quite equal to those of your Loch Leven."

"Delighted," was my answer, and in a few minutes we were cantering gaily along the heights above Spa.

Before reaching the charmingly situated restaurant we met with an accident which nearly cost my companion his life.

When least expected how often in our progress through life do we suddenly come face to face with a grave difficulty which the most acute of intellects would have failed to foresee. Here's an illustration of what I mean. To shorten our journey by about half a mile the Baron and I left the main road and struck into the forest. The shade from the trees was fully appreciated after the heat and dust. There were numerous glades of surpassing loveliness, and we had but little difficulty in finding a path for our horses. We had enjoyed the agreeable change for some time when the question arose whether we had not lost our way. It turned out that neither of us knew anything about the intricate windings of the forest. The scenery was certainly very pretty, but the wealth of the variegated foliage only gladdened the eye, and the trout in the streams wanted catching and cooking; we were two hungry men in search of something to eat. Our watches told us that we had been nearly an hour endeavouring to reach our destination, which by the longest route would not have occupied more than half the time. We had undoubtedly lost our reckoning, and were making for some unknown region. A philosopher, partial to offering words of advice in season would write here, "beware of short cuts."

We altered our course and rode to the left instead of the right, and coming to a large open space we set our horses going to make up for the mistake. The open space was beautiful to look at, but proved as treacherous as a lovely but deceitful woman. This simile is not mine—the fair sex has no more devoted champion than myself—it was suggested to me by Wormald, who has just returned from India to go through the Divorce Court. Before we had ridden many yards we found ourselves in the middle of a morass, and—pleasant sensations—horses and riders felt themselves gradually sinking out of sight. Shouting for help seemed useless in such a solitude, and our escape evidently depended on our own exertions.

The Baron was a heavy man and weighed quite sixteen stone in the saddle. He was mounted on a stout black cob about fifteen hands, which was making extraordinary exertions to get out of the mire, but the horses' floundering only made matters worse. My steed, a light-made thoroughbred mare, standing 15—2, having only to carry about ten stone, did not sink so deeply as the Baron's cob, and after a desperate scramble we managed to retrace our steps and regain sound ground. My trouble over, I fastened my muddy horse to a tree and hastened to see what I could do for my companion. His position had become very serious. The cob was lying on his side and had got the Baron under him.

"I cannot move," he called out; "this brute will be the death of me," and from all appearances what he said was not unlikely to happen.

I could see nothing of him except his head, and only the back and head of his horse were visible. I tried to enter the morass at a more favourable place, but I could not advance any distance before I sank up to the middle in nasty sticky slime. It was terribly annoying not to be able to render any assistance to the drowning man. At the critical moment when the Baron's head was disappearing from my sight I shouted as hard as I could "If you don't make a tremendous effort, Baron, you are a lost man; get free from your horse somehow; kick him."

My advice was not given a moment too soon. An opportune blow separated horse and rider, and benefited both.

The Baron waded with difficulty to a tree growing in the middle of the bog, and some friendly charcoal burners arriving on the scene we got a supply of ropes and soon pulled the Baron and his cob out of the quagmire. Having washed and dried our clothes the best way we could, we did not look quite so presentable as when we started, but felt none the worse, and guided by a native we were not long in reaching the welcome shelter of the restaurant, where we found that our appetites had not suffered from our compulsory mud bath.

"That was a novel experience," remarked the Baron as we sipped our Moulin à Vent? on the verandah of the restaurant.

"More novel than agreeable," I replied, "it looked all up with you, and I began to think of your heirs."

"Ah, they little imagine how near they were to handling my money. Do you know that my senses were fast leaving me?"

"Really, and did the dark deeds of your life pass in gloomy procession before you?"

"No, it was rather pleasant than otherwise, I felt like going to sleep; your shout woke me up to my great danger. If I had been alone I would have certainly been a dead man."

"A nice predicament I would have been in if I had returned to Spa by myself; they might have thought that I was interested in your death, and put me on trial for murder."

"You would have been considerably inconvenienced, and if not arrested, you would have found yourself under police surveillance."

"Whatever the result of the trial, my enemies would have maintained to the end of my days that I had done for you, and I might have had to leave England and change my name."

"You are exaggerating now," replied the Baron smiling. "Let us rejoice that we both escaped and are free from these undesirable complications. Only twice in my life have I been so near death."

"Indeed! Are the particulars interesting? If not of a private nature, I should like to hear them."

"There is no reason now, whatever there may have been, why I should not satisfy your curiosity. The narration will not occupy much time."

"Early in life I was sent to Java to look after the branch of our Rotterdam banking house. On one occasion it was my duty to visit a gentleman who resided a short distance from town, for the purpose of collecting a large sum of money. Whether this fact got abroad I know not, but one thing is certain, that I was followed to my friend's plantation by two sinister-looking individuals, who seemed to be very much interested in my movements. When I saw the men dogging my steps I regretted that I had chosen to walk. The planter would have gladly lent me a horse, but I could frame no valid excuse for asking the favour. I did not feel inclined to be thought a coward. At the plantation I met an acquaintance who was engaged to one of the proprietor's daughters, and I made sure he would return to town with me, and that consequently my money would be quite safe. Contrary to my expectations, the lover was not ready to join me when I started, and I went back alone. It was getting dark and I kept a good look out, but I reached my house without molestation, and I came to the conclusion that my suspicions had been groundless. Early next day, however, I was horrified to hear that the acquaintance I had left at the planter's, making love to his sweetheart, had, on returning to town later in the evening been brutally stabbed to death, and robbed of everything of value. Before leaving the plantation I had taken the precaution, without saying a word to anybody, to change my light overcoat for a dark one hanging close beside it. It seems that the murdered man had been unfortunate enough to put on my coat. The exchange of garments no doubt saved my life."

"It was a lucky thought," I said; "they meant robbing you."

"Yes, and the idea only entered my mind at the moment of departure, when I saw the two coats together."

"Fate was kind to you, but it was a near thing; you mentioned that you were in deadly peril on another occasion."

"That was on the return journey to Europe. You have heard I daresay that the voyage is both long and dangerous. On board with me I had the head of our firm and his eldest daughter, but as I was only a cashier at the time they kept me at a distance. In the midst of a terrific storm our ship got out of her course and was driven on to some rocks close to an uninhabited island. The captain told us that the vessel was doomed, that nothing could save her, and that we must shift for ourselves. The boats that were not smashed when we struck were seized by the sailors. I was a good swimmer and saw that I would not have much difficulty in reaching the shore, but what was to become of the feeble old banker and his helpless daughter? In the hour of trial they looked for me to do something for them. But what was I to do? I could save one of them, I thought, but which? There was no time for deliberation. Scarcely half an hour elapsed before the vessel broke in two and we were thrown into the water. The poor banker made a heartrending appeal to me to save him. 'Oh, haste, I am drowning,' he cried, and on seeing me hesitate between him and his struggling daughter he added, 'Come to me, I have another daughter.' I put a piece of the wreck in the young lady's hands and assured her I would soon return. The banker was much exhausted when I reached him, and in the strong surf we were as nearly as possible drowned, but after repeated efforts I at last managed to drag him up to a place of safety."

"And the daughter you saved; she became your wife?"

"Not so, alas! When I went back for her she had disappeared."

"Is that all, Baron?"

"Not quite. The banker was grateful; I was made a partner in the firm and received the other daughter in marriage."

"You do come out of difficulties with flying colours. It would I suppose have made a great difference to you if you had saved the young lady instead of her father?"

"Immense; that was the turning point of my life; the poor girl who perished was betrothed to her cousin, so you see she could not have rewarded me with her hand."

"Lucky Baron!"

"It is true fortune has not been unkind to me, but I believe some such accidents occur to everyone and that they make or mar the future."

These striking narratives made a lasting impression on me, and first put into my head the thought that a collection of such dilemmas would not be uninteresting. Much experience of men and cities has forced me to the same conclusion as the Baron—viz., that at various periods of his life man holds his destiny, so to speak, in the hollow of his hand, and by his conduct at these critical moments his future prosperity or adversity is assured. The proofs of this theory are now before you. When my last witness has spoken I hope you—the jury—will at least admit that I have not been negligent in hunting up my evidence.

CHAPTER II.
THE CHRISTMAS WINE-HAMPER FRAUD.

Advertising pays— giving a Dinner with an object—obtaining the confidence of the public—an extraordinary bargain—a great swindle.

The tricks of "the trade" in London never fail to amuse me. When a fraud is thoroughly exploded and no longer pays, it is dropped until it is forgotten, and then revived. Solomon was quite right in saying there was nothing new. Akin to the fashions, these combinations to deceive the ever-confiding public have their apogee, their decline and fall. Like the gourd, they spring up in a single night, and never fail to secure their victims. Am I not acting the part of a public benefactor in dealing with such matters? And will not some complaisant clergyman, of the Pennington stamp, think it his duty to draw attention to the benefits to be derived from reading them? Opprobrium will be heaped on me by a certain class for speaking the truth, but I am quite prepared to figure as a martyr.

It is a melancholy fact, and I have no doubt about it, that if every one had, say £5,000 a year, crime would be banished from the land. But the millennium is not here yet, and we must take the world as we find it. It is the monetary difficulty which occasions men to whet their wits to get by fair means or foul a necessary supply of the circulating medium.

It is not everyone who can, like a certain racing nobleman, fall back on a horse to pull him through. When it got into the middle of the racing week, and Lord W—— found the bookmakers had had the best of him, he used to telegraph to his training-stable, "Send Indian Star," and that trustworthy animal almost invariably won some little race on which his lordship would plunge.

A man in the City (surely that is vague enough), not having a horse to relieve him from his monetary dilemma, was got out of the difficulty through a Christmas wine-hamper.

If what I am told be correct, his Christmas wine-hamper business was quite as legitimate as the concern known in these days as the "American Singing Bird." Not having heard the following conversation myself, you must take it as it was given to me. The scene took place in a novelty store, between the proprietor and his shopman:—

Proprietor (to shopman)—Much business this morning?

Shopman—Quiet; very quiet.

Proprietor—What! No demand for nose machines?

Shopman—None.

Proprietor—Nor cork legs?

Shopman—Not any.

Proprietor—Very sad! Something must be done. Of course you've got rid of a number of home knitters?

Shopman—No!

Proprietor—Not sold even a baby?

Shopman—There has only been one man here this morning, and he wanted a glass eye of a green colour; but I think it was only his fun.

Proprietor—Tut, tut! This is dreadful! Heavy expenses and no returns! Out with the Canary!

The canary, when wound up, can really sing not only for a minute or two, but, by a secret contrivance, its melodious voice goes on without a break for hours! So my informant tells me. It always attracts large and admiring crowds, many of whom become purchasers, not only of the bird, but machines for hatching chickens, feeding them, pulling off their feathers, roasting them, and many other wonderful contrivances! The only thing wanted to make these shops perfect is a market for wives and an assortment of coffins. The ingenious plan of keeping the canary in full tune so long as considered desirable is simple. It consists of a flexible tube attached to the bird, at the end of which is a whistle. This is put into a basin of water and blown through. It is not a horse this time, but a mechanical bird, that brings grist to the mill.

I will now proceed to show you how much money was made by advertising a Christmas wine-hamper. The wine trade has always been popular with men who could not succeed in any other profession or business. Everyone fancies he can drive a mail-phaeton, edit a paper, and is a judge of wine, the belief being that there is nothing wonderful to learn. If he has a connection of friends and acquaintances in London, especially at the West-End, so much the better. The method usually adopted to ensure success is to give recherche dinners, and mention incidentally the quality and price of each wine as it is produced on the table.

He can say, "Yes," as if in an answer to some one, "it is a first class Amontillado! Only a few dozen left! Cheap at 60s.!" Again, "I hope you like that Chateau Margaux! A rare vintage! There is not much better in Her Majesty's cellar! Increases in value every year! Did you ask had I any to spare? Not quite sure. It is giving it away at 100s.! "If this delicate way of putting it does not attain the desired end, a conversation about the various vintages and the recent ravages amongst wines can be started; and, on seeing your friends off, you can say, "You had better let me send you the remainder of that sherry—just a small parcel of six dozen!" Then, again, you can observe, "If you really are so pleased with that claret, I will see what there is left, and will try to oblige you!" These and similar remarks generally prove more or loss effectual.

When the "Man in the City" found his balance at his bankers rather low, and a confidential note from the manager having been received apprising him of the fact, he looked round for some method of making both ends meet. After leaving the army he had taken to the wine business, and had hitherto done no good. He had plenty of wine in his cellar, but no demand for it; and being rather young in the trade, he had been made a victim. All his stock was of an inferior quality, and his friends declined having any more after the first trial. A bright idea crossed his mind—Christmas approaching, he would advertise it. Accordingly, "Christmas Wine Hampers at Two Guineas!" appeared in all the leading newspapers in town and country, and proved eminently successful. In this case his purchasers had quantity, not quality. By the commencement of the year he had got rid of all his bad stock, and realised a good round sum of money to his credit. But some men are never satisfied where money is concerned. When he saw the last lot of wine carted away from his house he called himself some pretty names—such as "I'm a stupid dolt!" "A confounded fool!"—and avowed he should do better next time. The lesson he got in this instance he meant to utilize at the expense of the public the first opportunity. A chance had escaped him but another would occur. In the meantime he had established a good reputation with innumerable clients in town and country, which was like so much capital.

When next Christmas approached his plans were fully matured, and he was ready for action. The chance of making a large sum of money he resolved should not be unsuccessful this time. On the 1st of November he published the following advertisement:—"Christmas Wine-Hamper for Two Guineas! The firm whose Christmas wine-hamper last year gave such universal satisfaction, are prepared, on this occasion only and on the following conditions to supply six bottles of sherry, six bottles of claret, and six bottles of champagne, all of guaranteed sound quality, packed in hamper, and sent free to any metropolitan railway station for the unprecedented small sum of Two Guineas! Orders accompanied by remittance will be registered as they arrive, and if the stock of wine is exhausted those who sent first will have the preference, and the money returned to those who cannot be supplied. The hampers will be forwarded one week before Christmas-day, and all remittances will be promptly acknowledged. References to customers in every part of the world. Bankers—London and Westminster Bank. Cellars—Coleman Street. All letters to be addressed 'Messrs. Hanbury, Robarts & Co., Moorgate Street, London, E.C.'"

The orders arrived daily by hundreds, and a large staff of clerks had to be employed to register them and answer the letters. Clever people could not see how the thing could be done at the price, but came to the conclusion that the firm wanted a good advertisement. The two guineas, however, came rolling in, the public evidently looking upon it as a golden opportunity to save money.

As can easily be imagined, the men at the cellars were busy. Thousands of hampers began to accumulate. They had all to go out at the same time. Before the appointed time for delivery a notice was inserted in the newspapers that no more orders could be received after a certain date. The rush on these final days reminded one of the period of the South Sea bubble. Men and women with tears in their eyes and money in their hands, entreated as a favour to be registered.

To keep faith with his clients, the "Man in the City" duly sent away his thousands of hampers on the day named, each hamper containing the number of bottles enumerated in the advertisement. You will doubtless turn round in surprise and ask where the profit came in, and whether the "Man in the City" was not a little touched in his "upper story?" Not at all. By the transaction he cleared close on £5,000! As will be seen, he had profited by his previous year's experience, and was enabled to afford many holidays on the Continent.

Well, as my readers may be anxious to know the secret of his success in this "little business," I will tell them. It lay in the bottles being small in size, and containing about two glasses of wine each!

The quality had been guaranteed, not the quantity!

CHAPTER III.
MT FIRST AND ONLY APPEARANCE AS AN AUCTIONEER.

The force of Circumstances— An infallible System—Led to Ruin—Getting Out of One Scrape into Another—A Lucky Escape.

In my lifetime I have played many parts, successfully and otherwise, but it was only on one occasion I officiated as an auctioneer. The circumstances connected with this position were too many for me, and I ascended the rostrum much against my inclination. The rostrum consisted of a small table, uncertain about the legs, with a worm-eaten desk upon it. It would have been a piece of good fortune if that shaky article of furniture had, like my friend's system of breaking the bank, broken down; but no surreptitious stamping would bring it to the ground.

Putting the best face I could upon the matter, and assuming the air of a Tattersall about to dispose of a two-thousand-guinea yearling, I proceeded to sell the various lots printed in the catalogue, making a few preliminary remarks to be in keeping with the style and manner of the Knightsbridge people.

But was I not an auctioneer? Not at all! That was the fun, or rather the difficulty of the thing. It was, however, a nasty scrape, and I was more than glad to see the last of Doncaster for that year. It was the infallible system of Peter Dodd which created the mischief.

"What on earth are you trying to do?" I asked him one day in the latter part of August, more years ago now than I care to remember. Ho was the sole occupant of the room, was Peter, when I entered, and seemed deeply engaged in playing roulette with himself and noting the results—the colour and the numbers—on a slate beside him.

"Studying how to make your fortune; and yet you sometimes doubt my friendship!" replied Mr. Dodd, continuing to spin the ball and add to the results on the slate.

"Fiddlesticks! what nonsense are you up to? It seems to be cheerful work. Perhaps the spell will be broken if you are disturbed."

"Don't go, old fellow; let me finish the series. I know you are an unbeliever; but I shall be able to convince the most sceptical."

I sat down much amused at my friend's earnestness and excitement, and waited patiently the end of the experiments. He was soon satisfied, and, starting up, exclaimed—

"Perfect, and a marvel of simplicity!"

"Not hereditary in the family, I hope?" I asked. "When the attack is on you, you don't fly at your best friends?"

"Yes, I bite them! While you have been gadding about town, doing no good, here have I been making my hair turn grey by testing the various chances at roulette."

"Might I suggest," I said, "that you should vary the monotony of the roulette—toujours des perdrix—with a little solitaire. I can recommend that as a lively game."

"Go to Jericho!" he rather impolitely answered. "I am the working bee; you are the drone. While you were whispering absurdities into the ear of Marie I have discovered an infallible system."

"Anything to do with keeping one's temper?"

"It is a system," he said impressively, "which will break any bank."

"Is that all? That is nothing. I met three men at Baden Baden who each professed to know a different but sure method of effecting that desirable feat; but something must have gone wrong with their calculations. To number one I lent a Napoleon to make up his railway fare; number two was escorted to the frontier at the expense of the State; and the third—what did the third do? Let me see—it was something ridiculous, I know. Oh! I remember. When he had lost his last franc he frightened the ladies in the rooms by blowing out his brains! I am disappointed in you, Peter Dodd. I know your sanguine disposition, but I did think you had more sense."

"Then the secrets of the world are all used up, and there is nothing new to be discovered."

"What do you mean, wise Peter?"

"Be serious if you can; my system has extraordinary advantages, and can be applied with equal s access to any game of chance, be it pitch-and-toss or blind hookey."

"Eureka! That is the correct exclamation, I think. Then we are to have no more flights of uncertain bills, the dread of Monday's settling is about to cease for ever, and I can promise Marie that saddle horse. Permit me, Peter, to congratulate you that you still retain a little of the verdure of your early youth, and believe in something, even if that something is only an infallible system."

"Pooh! so do you, you want to make yourself worse than you are. If anyone dared, for instance, to malign a certain young lady——"

"Stop! what has my confidence in a young lady to do with the question? Young ladies have nothing to do with making money; it is the spending department they know most about. You are endeavouring to shirk the matter, and you are aware that all the arguments in the universe would fail to prove the truth of infallible systems."

"Just so; but you will admit that one system of gambling is better than another, and that it must be greatly to the advantage of the player to reduce the chance in favour of the banker to the smallest possible limit."

"True! O wise Peter, you speak as if you were quoting the head line of a copy book."

"The greatest discoveries of all ages have been treated in a similar manner. Sneer away. It is quite true, though; I have found a system which reduces the risk to the minimum, and puts you on all but a level position with the banker."

"Double or quits, I suppose."

"Nothing of the kind; quite a new idea. The St. Leger is approaching."

"So is Christmas."

"But the St. Leger means Doncaster, stupid, and Doncaster implies roulette in the subscription rooms, and—breaking the bank."

"Oh, I see now why you are in full practice—getting off superfluous flesh and laying on muscle."

"Yes; and I want you and Fred Somers to join me in the speculation. A pile of money might easily be made. Draw your chair, take the slate, and I will condescend to show you—which is more than you deserve—how the thing is done."

The system when worked out, was really ingenious, and was not devoid of merit. It was imperative that there should not be the slightest deviation from a particular plan of operation. The human being became a simple calculating machine, and his judgment was dispensed with. And it had the charm of simplicity. With pardonable curiosity you wish to know the particulars of Peter Dodd's infallible system, but I shall not gratify your desire, as it might lead to your ruin.

After many trials of the system and much deliberation, Dodd, Somers, and myself arranged to go to Doncaster. Our available capital was lumped together, and shared equally. We were to play independently of each other, and compare notes when the night's work was finished. Owing to the action of the police at a later period, gambling in the subscription rooms is no longer permitted, but when Marquis won the St. Leger for Mr. Hawke and John Scott it was in full vogue. We had a successful day on the race-course, and were in excellent spirits and anxious to set about breaking the bank.

There must have been something good in Dodd's system, because we managed to play without being entirely "broke" from 9 p.m. to 4 a.m., but casting up accounts at the latter hour was not an agreeable operation. We had all lost heavily. In fact we had only a few sovereigns left, barely sufficient to pay our expenses.

"I never believed in the infernal system," said Somers, as we walked home to our hotel in the bright autumn morning; "we must have been asses."

I could not help laughing at the disappointed expression on poor Dodd's face.

"It wants looking into," muttered Peter.

"I mean to have a dance on that roulette wheel when I get back to town; no more systems for this infant. What's to be done about money?" said Somers.

"We must back a winner to-morrow," I replied; but whether it was the tiring effects of the night's gambling or not I cannot say, we were very unlucky with our investments, and finished the day as nearly cleaned out as possible. Circumstances were now very grave, and the question was how were we to pay our hotel bill and get back to London? Three more disconsolate-looking men did not walk the streets of Doncaster. We put our heads together in vain—no good idea came out of them, and in the hope that night would bring good counsel we retired to rest.

But the morning found us without any solution to the problem, and Dodd, who took the greater part of the blame on himself—went out into the town to see if he could meet any friend who would lend him a few pounds. The time Dodd was gone Somers said he would look into the public room, and I was left in my bedroom writing "copy" for the Weekly Clarion. Somers soon returned with a beaming countenance.

"You have been fortunate?" I said.

"Yes, but not in the manner you think," answered Somers.

"But do you see your way out of the difficulty?"

"Certainly, but it all depends on you."

"Well, explain. I am ready to do anything."

"I thought so. Now, listen. There is a sale on in the yard, and the auctioneer has not turned up. When I saw the dilemma the farmers were in, I said my friend would be glad to officiate—meaning you. Dodd would make a regular mess of it, and my squeaky voice would never be heard."

"You cannot be serious, Somers," I exclaimed.

"Never more serious in my life."

"But I have never acted as an auctioneer."

"That don't matter."

"But are you aware, my friend, that a licence is necessary, and that the penalty for not having one is very heavy?"

"Bother the penalty. Don't we return to London to-night? I'm off to get your name printed. Any preference? Will Robert Scott, auctioneer, Mark Lane, London, do?"

"Really, Somers, it is too risky."

"I'll back it to beat Peter Dodd's idiotic system. This is a certainty. It means £5."

Imagine me, then, if you please, standing on that shaky table, catalogue in hand, extolling the merits of a feather bed, a cart-horse, a Carron grate, a brindle cow, some pigs, a threshing machine, a chest of drawers, and other miscellaneous articles of property.

Naturally I was a little nervous at first, but my courage came back to me, and I got excellent prices for everything. When Peter Dodd returned from his fruitless quest he did not see me, being a little short-sighted, until Somers pointed me out to him. When, by the aid of an eye-glass, he did realise the fact that I was making myself so useful, the situation was too much for him, and he rushed into an hotel.

Towards the end of the sale the real auctioneer made his appearance!

The train by which he travelled had broken down. He was for ousting me from my rostrum without ceremony, but backed by the "No! no!" of my audience, I refused to move. He looked daggers at me, and took a note of my newly-printed name and address. This did not bode any good, and I was not sorry to get to the end of the catalogue.

Joining my friends with the hard-earned "fiver," I suggested that the sooner we left Doncaster the better. The bill was called for and a time-table examined. But before our preparations were finished a row broke out in the room where the farmers were having their dinner, and Somers went down to see what it meant. He returned immediately, looking pale as a ghost.

"Old fellow," he said, addressing me, "that wretch of an auctioneer has had a telegram from London to say you are not licensed, and he has just gone to acquaint the authorities."

"In that case, you will excuse me leaving by the back door. I will see you at the station."

Whether they sold the live stock and implements of husbandry over again I never heard, and since then I have discarded all belief in Peter Dodd's infallible system, and have not officiated a second time as an auctioneer.

CHAPTER IV.
THE TWO MYSTERIOUS DOMINOS.

Peter Dodd makes another proposal— Carnival time at Boulogne— The scene in the supper-room—"All's well that ends well."

While I am about it I may as well relate to you another of the scrapes into which I was led by the volatile but good-natured Peter Dodd. It was not a question of making or losing money this journey, but the peace of two families which was threatened. When you learn the surprise that was so carefully planned for us, you will admit that most people similarly situated would have lost their heads and blundered. We were fortunate enough to understand the delicate position in a moment, and were consequently able to smooth down in a very short time the ruffled plumes of our two dominos.

What promised at first to furnish matter for two cases in the Divorce Court, ended in a rather riotous supper. I know that I had to take a long walk on the Boulogne sands next day before I could get rid of a violent headache—the effects of too much sweet champagne. He does not mean it I am sure, but it is a strange thing that a fatality attaches itself to all the propositions of Peter Dodd.

The jokes about the "infallible system" had all been let off, and my ears were no longer greeted with the "going, going, gone," of an auctioneer, when Peter came in with his tempting proposal to me.

"Jack," he said, his eyes beaming with the anticipated pleasure, "I'm going to treat myself to a little holiday."

"Well, Peter, you have my permission; take care of yourself. Remember you have given hostages to fortune," I replied.

"It is too bad of you to be always reminding me that I am married, as if that fact is not ever patent to me; just as if a certain young lady would permit me to forget it."

"I would not have mentioned the pleasant bond, you may be assured, without a good reason."

"Stuff and nonsense! What reason?"

"You have not been so long married, and already I begin to notice a return of some of your former levity. You have commenced to give back with interest the glances of a pretty girl as of yore. What was that you were whispering to the brunette you met at Regent Circus last Friday—no appointment? Fie, Peter, what would your charming little woman say?"

"She would go mad with jealousy. She is bad enough as it is."

"She loves you immensely, Peter, and you ought to prize such affection. I hope you will enjoy yourselves."

"But I am not taking Clara with me."

My reply was not delivered in words, it was whistled. This form of answer evidently did not please Peter.

"You are always lecturing me," he said hotly. "Suppose I turn round and ask your wife how she enjoyed herself in that private box at the Gaiety the other night, what would you say? The plaintiff is expected to come into court with clean hands."

"Relations from the country must be shown a little attention."

"Especially when they are young and pretty."

"Not a drawback, certainly. I am older than you, Peter, and if the advice is not palatable, don't swallow it. Knowing your quicksilver nature, I ventured to turn on the danger signal. I shall not stand idly by with my hands in my pockets and see that nice little woman of yours neglected."

"It is ridiculous to talk of neglect. But because a man happens to get married does it follow that he should be tied to his wife's apron-strings for the rest of his natural life. In my opinion an occasional absence has a salutary effect, and brightens up the old love."

"I daresay that even the devil himself can find some plausible argument for his conduct. Go your own way, Peter. I only hope that the motive power for this freak is not a lady. You do not usually go away to enjoy yourself when the snow is on the ground."

"There is no lady at all in the case. The sole reason is that I want to see the carnival, and as Boulogne is about the nearest place I am going there. Won't you join me?"

"Not possible, I fear. I ought to have run across last autumn. A man there owes me a hundred pounds."

"Why not arrange to come. Kill two birds with one stone. Enjoy the carnival, draw your money. Away only three days."

"The 'copy' might be got ready," I answered, "by a night's sitting. But there is another obstacle."

"I have made up my mind to take you with me, so you must manage it somehow. What is the other difficulty?"

Before answering, I took the precaution of opening the door to see whether we were favoured with a listener. Although there was nobody visible I heard the sound of retreating footsteps, which made me a little suspicious.

"That's it," said Peter, pointing with his thumb over his right shoulder.

"Yes," I replied; "don't talk loud. What excuse could I give? What have you said? That you are going to masquerade at a carnival ball?"

"Not likely. I am depending on you for a satisfactory reason."

"As usual. To begin with, it will not do to tell our wives we are going to France."

"Not at all. One of the papers would be sure to do a gushing article on the frolics of the carnival, and we should be found out and settled."

"Do you transact any business with Liverpool?" I asked.

"Sometimes. I see your drift."

"Well, we can pretend to go there, you to see a merchant, and I to forward the interests of the Clarion."

So it was agreed, and this piece of deception was carefully arranged and duly carried out. My better half was unusually complaisant when I told her my intentions, and even went so far as to say I had been working too hard, and the change would do me good. She was glad, she added, that my great friend, Peter Dodd, was accompanying me; he would prevent me feeling dull. She was so very kind in the matter, asking whether the theatres were good at Liverpool, and how I would dispose of my evenings; I felt quite guilty at deceiving her. "You had better take your dress clothes," she said; "you never know what may happen. You might be asked out to dinner."

Declining the proposals of our wives to see us safely in the train for Liverpool, Peter Dodd and I took a cab to Charing Cross Railway Station and booked to Boulogne-sur-Mer. I at one time had my suspicions that my "better half" was not without a knowledge of our real destination, but her anxiety to see that my portmanteau was properly packed disarmed me; and her last words at parting were, "Don't work too hard. Amuse yourself a little—you want a change." Peter and I were both quite certain that Mrs. Dodd had not the least idea of our plot, and to perfect the scheme we had letters sent to a friend in Liverpool, to be duly posted, acquainting our wives with our arrival, and expressing our sorrow at being separated from them even for such a short space of time.

Dull care we threw to the winds, and no two men could have stepped on French soil more bent on enjoyment. The very air seemed to exhilarate us; it was like quaffing a bumper of champagne. Of course you know Boulogne. Need I describe to you the beauty of the sands, the antiquity of the old town, the village fetes at Pont-des-Briques and Portelle, the quaint costumes and massive ornaments of the fish-women, or the particular class of Englishmen you are bound to meet there in and out of season?

You are, perhaps, as well acquainted with its features as I am. Perhaps you have made love on the ramparts in the moonlight, and had your breakfast at the little restaurant on the jetty. Morning has found you at the English Library in search of the latest gossip; and possibly you have seldom when there missed the two important events of the day—the arrival and departure of the mail boats.

Small as it is, Boulogne circulates more scandal than any town twice its size. It may be an extraordinary marriage, cheating discovered at the card-table, the sudden disappearance of a friend's wife, the elopement of a young lady with a married man, or rumours of a duel about to take place on the Belgian frontier. Something startling is sure to turn up, and natives and foreigners alike enjoy the humours of the carnival quite as much as the people of Paris or Lyons.

The carnival commenced the day following our arrival. The proper thing to do was to hire two fancy costumes, and, duly masked, go to the ball at the theatre in the evening. We selected our dresses with great care. We were, indeed, laughable to look at—I dressed in a Turkish costume, and Peter, capitally got up like a Frenchman of the Paris boulevards. We flattered ourselves, however, that our most intimate friends would not have guessed who we were—feeling safe from detection even from our wives.

After dejeuner on the jetty, I went in search of the man who owed me the hundred pounds. He was not in the least surprised to see me, which seemed strange; in fact, he looked as if he had rather expected me to drop in than otherwise. One thing he was not prepared with, and that was my money. Instead of offering to liquidate the debt to some extent, he, with all the coolness imaginable, proposed that I should lend him another ten pounds. I would not regret it, he said; he might be able to do me a good turn. His audacity made me angry, and I marched out of his office in anything but a pleasant temper. Meeting an acquaintance shortly afterwards, he told me not to expect to realise my hundred, that the man's wife had bolted with her husband's most intimate friend a few days before, and that he, my debtor, was fast drinking himself to ruin and death. Dismissing this miserable business from my mind, Peter and I, picturesquely arrayed, took a voiture to the theatre about eleven o'clock. The fun had not yet become fast and furious, but the signs of the mad revelry to come were visible on all sides.

Much abler pens than mine have described the kaleidoscope lights and shades of a carnival ball, and I will confine myself to the very objectionable dilemma which occurred to me and my friend. Having flirted a little and danced once or twice, we took our unknown partners to the bar to get some refreshment, and were standing there, when my attention was arrested by the appearance of two ladies in black dominos on the scene who seemed to be greatly interested in our movements. They had a small piece of white satin ribbon attached to each of their shoulders for, I presumed, the purpose of recognition if they were accidentally separated.

The volatile Peter was too busy whispering nonsense in his best French to the girl he had been dancing with to notice these inquisitive dominos. I was about to leave the buffet when a tall man in a hideous mask joined the two ladies, who evidently knew him, and, from the direction of their looks, it appeared that what the three individuals were talking about related to us.

An uneasy feeling stole over me, which I could not shake off. I endeavoured to reason with myself that no end of mistakes took place at every masked ball, and that the two dominos who persisted in hovering near us were on the wrong scent. But this did not quite set my mind at rest. I took Peter aside and told him that I thought we were watched! "What fun! Let's go and ask them to dance!" was all the reckless man answered. No sooner said than done; he went up to the ladies and requested that honour for himself and friend, but they shook their heads in reply, and put themselves in the care of their tall friend. Peter, not a whit abashed, suggested that they thought themselves too respectable to do anything but look sarcastically on other people's folly, and departed in search of fresh adventure.

As the heat was stifling, I went out of the theatre and entered a restaurant close to it. What I saw there astonished me. There was the tall man who had been in conversation with the two dominos, without his mask, and he turned out to be the worthy individual who owed me the hundred pounds!

His remark, that if I lent him another ten pounds he might be able to do me another good turn, arose in my mind. It was strange he showed no surprise at seeing me enter his office.

Was it possible that my wife, who knew I had at one time business relations with this man, had sent to have me watched? Or, horror of horrors! had she followed me herself?

I was never quite satisfied about the noise outside the door when Peter Dodd first proposed the unfortunate trip to Boulogne.

I soon, however, learned the worst. The tall man, who apparently did not perceive me, was drinking with some persons at the bar, and was relating to them with great glee, how nicely I was being done; and Peter Dodd's wife and mine were the two dominos who had watched us, and who had engaged this drunken fellow to assist them!

Needless to say, these revelations came upon me like a thunderclap in a summer sky. I immediately rushed back to the theatre to inform Peter of the dreadful discovery I had made. To my utter amazement, I found him waltzing with his own wife, the other domino (my "better half") looking on!

Immediate action was necessary to prevent a scene, and I whispered to Peter as he passed me—

"Something serious has happened; take back your partner and come instantly to me."

Peter, for once, did as he was told, but not without being stupid enough to say to his partner that he hoped to have the pleasure of dancing with her again, and that he expected the two ladies to join him and his friend at supper. He was sure his friend would be delighted.

"That's the nicest girl I have danced with to-night," said Peter, considerably excited, "but I cannot get her to talk."

"Come out, you idiot," was all I could say.

"That is polite, I must observe; Boulogne air is not agreeable to some people."

"Tell me, what rubbish have you been talking to your partner, and how did you manage to get her to waltz with you?"

"Cool! jealous! of course all the best girls must be reserved for the Sultan. Don't be cross; if you fancy my partner, take her. Perhaps you will be able to make her speak, and I will transfer my attentions to her friend," replied the incorrigible Peter.

"Talk sense one second; you will be serious enough when I tell you what I have discovered. I ask you if you have the slightest notion who we are dancing with?"

"Not I, she would not open her mouth, but she is a deuced fine girl."

"Why, madman, that girl is your own wife; they are both here."

The only plan was to bribe more than the opposition, and, reluctantly enough, I went and made terms with my pleasant debtor. "What he knew did not amount to much; the enemy had said it was a lark to see what we were about, and by making him a present got him to assist them." He kindly found out for them where we were stopping, and the hideous dresses in which we were to disfigure ourselves.

Peter was o£ no assistance to me in the dilemma; the startling intelligence had quite upset his equilibrium. No more jokes now about the nicest girl he had danced with that night. I made use of the tall man, however, as he had been paid by both sides. He obtained for me a blank telegram for a message received, and on it I had written a request from the proprietor of the Clarion asking me to be certain to forward my carnival article on the following day, so that it would appear in that week's issue. This was for my wife—she was so partial to things being proved. A private letter would ensure the insertion of an article which I must write.

The only way out of the difficulty was to state that I was obeying instructions from the office, and to own that a harmless piece of deception was used in case our darling wives would not approve of foreign doings and masked balls.

The ladies were brought to us by our drinking friend, there was a stormy five minutes, and a good many tears, but all unpleasantness was forgotten before the supper was finished.

But as I said before, Peter Dodd's ideas have a tendency to lead one into mischief.

CHAPTER V.
THE FIFTEEN POSTAGE-STAMP PUZZLE.

The two Conspirators— The Destitute state of the Finances—Swindle concocted—A polite Speech—The golden Harvest.

It is a threadbare saying, but a very true one, that nothing succeeds like success. Be the money made in questionable ways, such as by a little piracy in Chinese waters, selling guns never intended to shoot to North American Indians, or by a quack medicine, which professes to cure all diseases humanity is heir to, the man himself, the millionaire, will be glorified. As in America, so in the mother country, the money-bags cover a multitude of sins. It is pitiable, and does not give one a high impression of the multitude's brains, that the most glaring imposition, if thoroughly well advertised and persisted in, is bound to yield large profits.

It may not have been overlooked, although not noticed much in the newspapers, but the most satirical thing done in the present century of the Christian era has been the erection of an asylum for imbeciles by a gentleman who shall be, for obvious reasons, nameless. The act speaks volumes, and ought to be worth a cartoon by Tenniel as a lesson for thousands. The donor has been behind the scenes, and knows our little weaknesses and is ashamed of us! After putting away all the money he cares about, he devotes the surplus to the more benighted and helpless of his immense clientele. A statue ought to be erected to such a man; his head has evidently been fitted to his shoulders in a correct and proper manner. Early in life he found out the immense advantage of advertising, and also the gullibility of a vast majority of the earth. There are other men, no doubt, just as sharp as our asylum friend, who know quite as well how to reap considerable profit from this knowledge, and the Fifteen Postage-stamp Puzzle is a case in point.

It was a miserable room of one of those dilapidated inns near the Strand that the stamp project was hatched. Two men, shabbily dressed, were seated opposite each other at an old table, on which was a pewter-pot. They were both smoking clay pipes and drinking beer, and were in anything but a happy mood, to judge from their appearance and general aspect; and one might safely conclude they could not boast of having a superfluity of cash. I will now introduce these two men by the names of Bathurst and Fenn. Bathurst is a tall, dark-looking man, with a hooked nose and teeth remarkably white. His family got him into Her Majesty's Nary as a midshipman, and he was in a fair way to promotion when something occurred connected with a gambling transaction which caused him to resign. Fenn is also tall, but very fair. His parents gave him a good education, and he was getting a decent salary as a shop-walker in a Regent Street firm when a young lady mysteriously disappeared, and along with, her went furs and silks of much value. Suspicion, for which, no doubt, there were good grounds, pointed to Fenn as the young lady's confederate, and the place became too hot for him. These two men, who were in that uncertain age between 30 and 40, first met in a billiard-room, and immediately struck up an alliance offensive and defensive.

They have been living on their wits ever since, but things have evidently not been prospering with them latterly, as the following conversation will show:—

Fenn—What money have you got?

Bathurst (turning out his pockets)—There 5s. 3-1/2d.! What have you got?

Fenn (opening a purse)—There, only half-a-crown!

Bathurst—Well, it's no good having ideas if that's the extent of our capital!

Fenn—But what is the notion? We must raise money somehow!

Bathurst—How? Where? If that brute of a horse had only won to-day we would have been all right.

Fenn—Can't we go to that tobacconist's shop and have a game of Napoleon?

Bathurst—No; the last time we met in his back shop the police heard the row between Brown and that fool Peter, and he don't intend to risk it again—at least for the present. There is more to be made at pool in Beak-street if one had only a little luck.

Fenn—Yes, the marker is all right; but some of the players were inclined to make remarks.

Bathurst—That must be risked. Here, take the money; your luck is better than mine. If you can manage to net two or three sovereigns, I see my way to hundreds!

Fenn—But you have not told me your idea. Is it a secret? Perhaps it requires registration.

Bathurst—You won't be so cheeky when you find the stamps come rolling in.

Fenn—Oh! it is a case of stamps, is it? I suppose some recipe for restoring beautiful hair to the baldest heads, or creating an aversion to drink, or perhaps a plan as to how to make a fortune out of baked potatoes!

Bathurst—Oh, stop your chaff!

Fenn—Well out with the infallible remedy for filling empty pockets.

Bathurst—The idea is to advertise to send fifteen disconnected stamps for twelve connected ones!

Fenn (starting up and doing a breakdown)—Oh, Jerusalem! that will be profitable.

Bathurst—Yes, stupid! The idea is as good as gold. You go and make the small capital required, and you will see wonders.

Fenn—But what are the particulars? How is it to be carried out?

Bathurst—For further particulars see our next. Come along now and play your best.

Good fortune attended Fenn's exertions that evening, and he came away the winner of more than the required sum. The following morning the scheme was fully discussed and final arrangements made for carrying it out. It is right to state that Bathurst's project was not altogether original on his part, the idea being taken from the "Arabian Nights Entertainment"—the exchanging of new lamps for old ones. The next day the following advertisement appeared in all the newspapers, and was circulated extensively:—

"Strange, but true!—A gentleman of position has good reasons of his own for wishing to exchange Fifteen disconnected Unused Penny Postage Stamps for Twelve Connected Ones!—Letters answered at once.—Address, 'Secretary, Box 44, No.——, Strand, London, W.C.'"

Many who read this extraordinary advertisement doubtless thought that the advertiser must have made some strange wager; others that he had probably been paid a debt of a large amount in disconnected penny stamps, which the Post-Office declined to receive; others came to the conclusion that he was some eccentric philanthropist, who desired in his original way to benefit his fellow creatures; and there were others, no doubt, who pronounced the "gentleman of position" a swindler, and the whole affair a fraud. The last-named were not a little astonished, however, to hear that the advertiser really kept his word—that fifteen stamps were actually returned for twelve!

What assisted to make the scheme popular and to draw particular attention to it was the arrival at most of the principal towns of secret agents, whose duty it was to frequent bar-parlours in the evening, take occasion to read the advertisement aloud to those present, and enter into conversation upon it, eventually proposing, just to test its genuineness, to forward the twelve connected stamps—procuring and enclosing them at the bar. The answer would, of course, promptly arrive conveying the advertised number of stamps. Needless to say others followed the example, and with a like result, it becoming subsequently quite a popular amusement in many towns to send twelve stamps to London to receive in return fifteen! In fact, if you wanted a stamp to post a letter, you were jocularly asked why you did not send to London for one? These secret agents "did" many publichouses each night, and by the end of three or four days took their departure for "fresh fields and pastures new."

There were altogether about twenty agents, and before despatching them on their mission Mr. Bathurst considered it necessary to appoint a meeting at his chambers, now suitably furnished, and addressed them as follows: "Gentlemen, I believe you have received your instructions detailing the plan of procedure and how you are to conduct your correspondence with this office. Before starting, however, I wish, with the concurrence of my partner, to say a few words to you. You have been selected, gentlemen, out of many hundred applicants, on account of your good characters and respectability, and we trust you will do nothing to forfeit that good opinion. The business you have in hand, gentlemen, requires tact and a certain amount of secrecy. It is not for us to discuss with you the merits or demerits of the whim which actuates our client. We have simply to obey and carry out his orders, as we expect you, gentlemen, in like manner, to carry out and obey ours, being, as it were, soldiers obeying, not questioning, the orders of their superior officers. There may be, gentlemen, for aught we know, a large sum of money depending on the result of your exertions. But whether that be the case or not, it will have nothing whatever to do with the punctuality with which you shall be paid your respective salaries. Now, gentlemen, as regards the genuineness of this announcement, it is easily ascertained—you or your friends can test it for yourselves. If people were not so incredulous or hard of belief, so much afraid of being hoodwinked or humbugged, we of course could have relied on our advertisements alone and dispensed with your services; but this is an unbelieving age, gentlemen, and we have some trouble, nowadays, to convince people that we really wish to do them a service. Therefore, to show the public that this is a bona fide transaction, and that our client means what he says, will be your especial duty. In conclusion, gentlemen, allow me to offer you my best wishes, with that of my partner, for your immediate success, feeling quite sure that our confidence has not been misplaced. Good-day, gentlemen; the cashier will take your receipts for salary as you leave the office."

As may be supposed, the opinions of the agents were at variance regarding the affair. It was thought, however, by the majority that probably some jolly and wealthy sportsman like the famous Marquis of Waterford had staked a large sum of money on the result; but as they had half the first week's salary in advance and their letter of instructions, they considered they were on the profitable side of the project, and so decided to proceed on their mission.

They, therefore, separated and started for their respective districts. Certain newspapers in some towns would not insert the advertisement, but there were others not so particular, and so the scheme was successfully launched. It was met at first with some rough suspicion, no doubt, but keeping it well before the public by means of advertising, together with a little energy, it turned out a complete success, and flourished like the proverbial green bay tree.

My readers have now read how Mr. Bathurst's stamp idea was successfully worked out of doors. I will now narrate how it was managed in his office. There was £5 worth of penny postage stamps purchased and disconnected. As the answers came in they were immediately answered, the applicant's twelve stamps with three extra returned in each case. This continued until the bank (£5!) was exhausted. Thus far they carried out the terms and conditions of the advertisement, at the same time keeping faith with the public. They now worked very cautiously, as it required delicate handling and steady manœuvring, and they did not mean to expend another penny. It was necessary, at the same time, to keep the business afloat so long as there was no chance of exposure. They accordingly kept back a certain number of letters, writing on each the day it arrived, The stamps in these delayed letters made up the extra three required for each of the others, which were duly forwarded. On the following morning the detained letters were immediately sent off, with a note of apology explaining that pressure of business had caused the delay. This mode of procedure went on for a short time, when one day they found they were irretrievably in arrears, so numerous were the applications! Now came their dishonest harvest! There were no more letters of apology! Business suspended! During the five or six days Mr. Bathurst's "idea" was in existence the applications came in by hundreds, and resulted in the round sum of £500!

It is scarcely necessary to add that there was soon an office to let in that particular inn near the Strand, and that the whereabouts of Messrs Bathurst and Fenn was not easily obtainable for a considerable time afterwards.

CHAPTER VI.
A HEAD DEFEAT; AN ATTEMPT TO WIN THE CAMBRIDGESHIRE.

The great trial— the lightweight apportioned by the Admiral—the heavy commission successfully worked—newspaper reports about the horse—his short price in the betting—the sudden unaccountable opposition to him—a young lady discloses the plot—the Jew outwitted, and obliged to give up the scratching order—standing to win a fortune to nothing—a very reliable partner.

No, my inquisitive friend, a pair of blue eyes did not occasion the difficulty; on the contrary, my partner and myself would have been ruined if a certain young lady had not given information which enabled me to circumvent the schemes of the enemy, who, I may tell you, was a Jew. The circumstances caused a sensation at the time, and a number of the men who overlaid their books in the belief that the horse would never go to the post would not have "weighed in" for that, to me, memorable Cambridgeshire, provided we had run first instead of second.

It all came about in this way.

Picture to yourself two men seated, after dinner, in an old-fashioned hotel of quaint, sleepy Hampshire town. The elder of the two was my partner, and the other your humble servant. We were anxiously waiting the arrival of a telegram of the utmost importance to us. If favourable, an immense fortune was within our grasp.

This message was to contain the weight of a horse for the Cambridgeshire. In the morning we had roughed up the team, and a four-year-old had opened our eyes to his merits by simply cantering away from some good trying tackle. For many years we had vainly striven to pull off a large race, but mishaps were sure to crop up at the wrong time. It now depended upon the judgment of Admiral Rous whether we were going to land the big stake at last.

To pass the time we amused ourselves by writing the horse's probable weight on slips of paper—which were to be kept folded up till the telegram came—and betting about them. Instead of arriving at the hour expected, the message was very late; it had been delayed owing to a disarrangement of the wires, caused by a thunderstorm. When the all-important missive did reach us we were more than satisfied. The four-year-old was weighted at 6st. 7lb. If I mistake not, we drank long life to the Admiral in an extra bottle of Irroy. Fortune's wheel was, we thought, about to turn in our favour, and our long suffering patience was at length to be rewarded. One of us talked philosophically, as if he had foreseen this splendid chance, and, shaking his head with an air of wisdom, muttered: "I told you so; everything comes to the man who waits."

It was, however, a long time to Cambridgeshire day, but that weighty consideration, the impost, was all right. The horse must now be carefully looked after, and got to the post fit and well. As regards the betting, we arranged to secure all the long prices, 100 and 66 to 1, without being suspected, and had an arrangement how much we were each to stand to win. As may be easily imagined, we had pleasant dreams that night of gorgeous establishments and endless parcels of Bank of England notes.

You never knew my partner. All this happened before your time. He belonged to a good family, and was an excellent boon companion. A mutual friend first made us known to each other at one of the Newmarket meetings. He wanted to get a confederate to join him in forming a small stud; and, after a deal of correspondence it was at length decided to enter into partnership and try for a large handicap. As most money could be made over the Cambridgeshire, we selected that race. Our attempts previous to the trial of Santorin had been, as stated already, utter failures. When I signed the deed of agreement I did not know that my partner was in a very embarrassed position in regard to money, and was in the hands of the Jews. He ought to have explained this to me. He was a good enough fellow, but he had a serious failing—the slightest obstacle in his way he was bound to refuse, he would not face a difficulty. If I had been informed of his circumstances I would assuredly have steered clear of the entanglement, and there would be no story to relate to you.

A woman plays a part in this narrative of fact. A member of that sex usually has something to do with most mundane affairs. My partner was married, and had several young children. For the purposes of education a niece lived with the family and acted as governess. It was the niece who revealed the plot and saved us from ruin.

A charming, refined girl was the niece—Elizabeth Emerson—alas! now dead. You think I am prejudiced; judge for yourself—her photograph is before me. As I open the album sad thoughts arise in my mind of joys departed, of friends and sweethearts estranged or "gone before." Miss Emerson had a beautifully formed head, resembling that of Clytie, whose bust I presented to her for her own little sitting-room. Her head was crowned with a luxuriance of brown hair, wayward locks of which would persist in straying from their proper position as if they wished to be caressed; forehead not too high, not that of a strong-minded woman—only the head of a pretty girl, and partly hidden by the hair as in the bust mentioned. Her eyes were peculiar—they were so large and luminous, and had that almond shape so much admired. The nose was not severely classical, but it was all but straight. The lips were not too thin, the mouth was exceedingly small, she had the whitest of little teeth, the tiniest of shell-like ears, and a rose-tint complexion, betokening health. Need I add that when her feet were visible they were in keeping with the features of the girl who was at this period just budding into womanhood, and who, although diminutive in stature, was magnificently proportioned—a model for a sculptor.

Fond of amusement, she was anything but fast; underlying her careless, laughing, satirical manner, there existed sound sense, a great respect for other people's feelings and one of the finest natures man could wish for in a wife.

But I must proceed with my story. The Cambridgeshire was nigh at hand, and Santorin had gone on well—had not been sick nor sorry a single day, the commission had been worked to our entire satisfaction, and an excellent jockey—now at the head of his profession—retained to ride the horse. The largeness of the commission, coupled with the lenient weight began to attract public notice to Santorin. Touts, amateur and the reverse, arrived to watch his movements and despatch their reports daily to employers and friends. One of the best judges on the turf paid our training ground a visit on behalf of the journal he represented, and wrote thus about the horse:—"Santorin is a brown horse, with black points, standing quite 15 hands 3 inches high, with splendid fore-quarters, and in galloping he places his hind legs well under him, showing all that hare-like action so admirably adapted to get him up the somewhat severe Cambridgeshire hill. No exception can be taken to his sire or dam—a combination of endurance and speed. At the weight he is a very dangerous competitor, and if I couple him with Hymet and Keffesia, I think I have named the winner."

The horse soon made a noise in the betting, and when the Cesarewitch was decided as little as 8 to 1 was taken about him.

Our commission averaged 40 to 1, and we stood to win between us nearly £80,000.

It was within a week of the race, when to my utter astonishment I received one day innumerable telegrams from friends asking me what was the matter with Santorin. The messages all contained the same intelligence, that certain bookmakers at the Wellington Club had been taking liberties with him and had driven him back to 16 to 1.

This antagonistic movement I could not understand, as a letter from the trainer had reached me only that morning stating that the horse was in excellent health, and a telegram would at once have been sent to me if there had been an accident. I put the movement down to a clique, who had overlaid and were desirous of making themselves safe.

Next day the horse was brought to his former position in the quotations, when it was seen from the sporting journals that he had done his usual work on the previous day, but just before three o'clock the opposition commenced again with renewed vigour, and this time he receded to 20 to 1.

At that period my partner and I both lived in the country, but I was nearest to the place where Santorin was trained. On the following day I hastened to have a look at the horse, and endeavoured to get some explanation from the trainer. I saw the horse stripped and witnessed him gallop, but could find nothing wrong with him, his eyes shining like diamonds, his coat as bright as satin, and his every step showing perfect health. The trainer, a most painstaking, trustworthy man, said the betting was incomprehensible, and he could make nothing of it, but it had made him extra careful with the lads.

In order to get some clue to this affair, I asked a friend at the club to send me the names of the men who were operating against the horse, and was alarmed to find that it was some of the largest bookmakers who had led the opposition. There was no time to lose, as the day was fast approaching.

The mystery I determined to solve, and with that view I went, post haste, to my partner, who, strange to say, had not troubled himself about the horse's retrogression in the betting. I had not seen him for a few weeks. When we last parted he seemed in good health and capital spirits, but he now looked as miserable as a sick dog, and had scarcely any life in him. In so short a period I never beheld such an alteration in any man. What is the matter here?—another mystery, I thought. And I wondered if there was any connection between the opposition at the club and the great change in my partner!

I related to him everything in connection with the affair, and plied him with questions, but his invariable answer was, "I cannot make it out!"

I was anything but satisfied, as his failure to send inquiries about the horse was suspicious. Going into the garden to get a blow of fresh air and collect my ideas, I met Miss Emerson, who seemed by her manner to be expecting me.

"This is very strange about Santorin," she said, at once commencing the conversation.

"It is unaccountable," I replied. "And what makes it worse, your uncle is in such a wretched state of health. Not having heard of his illness, I was greatly surprised at his changed appearance."

"Is not worry sometimes worse than illness?" she continued.

"I have no doubt of it, Miss Emerson," I replied. "But Mr. Marston is not in any grave difficulty, I hope?"

She made no answer to this, but startled me by asking the following question:

"Tell me," she said, "would one be justified if, for the purpose of preventing a great wrong, and upsetting a wicked design, one were to betray a secret?"

"What do you mean, Miss Emerson? Without learning more, I scarcely know how to answer you."

"Then come back here in half an hour and I may be able to tell you something of great importance!" she said, and then ran into the house.

This short conversation stunned me. I wondered whether the mystery surrounding Santorin would now be cleared up! The suspense, although of short duration, was exceedingly painful. At last the much-wished-for figure advanced across the lawn.

"I have consulted my aunt," she said hurriedly, scarcely able to speak with excitement, "and she agrees with me that you, who have been so kind to us all, should be instantly informed that there is something seriously wrong going on in this house, and it affects you as well as my uncle!"

"Yon don't mean to tell me so, Miss Emerson?" I replied, with some anxiety.

"It is so," she continued, still somewhat excited. "And from what I have heard, it is about Santorin!"

"You do surprise and astonish me!" Miss Emerson, I remarked, beginning to get warm. "But you will, I trust, tell me what you have heard? What was it? You will surely save me from ruin!"

Miss Emerson hesitated a moment, but seeing how anxious and excited I was becoming, she resumed:

"Well, Mr.——, my aunt and I have considered the matter over, and have come to the conclusion that there is a dark plot going on against this horse, and that it would be only just we should apprise you of it, and by doing so you would possibly be able to defeat the wicked designs of these men."

"How shall I convey my gratitude for such kindness, Miss Emerson?" I said, with emotion.

"There has been a very bad-looking Jewish man coming here very often latterly, and on the last occasion Mr. Marston and he had a terrible quarrel; and my aunt becoming greatly alarmed, requested me to go to the dining-room and see what was the matter. When I got close to the door I heard this strange-looking man speaking very loud and excitedly, and exclaiming, in a threatening tone of voice, 'You must give me an order to scratch the horse or be utterly ruined!'"

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed, "who would have thought of such base treachery!"

"Yes, and that from your partner!" said the young lady.

"Well, you have done me the greatest service, Miss Emerson," I gratefully observed, and, taking both her hands in mine, remarked that time would show how deeply and sincerely I would appreciate it.

A nice partner to be associated with! I here found the true reason for the opposition given to Santorin. The all-important question now was, had the order to scratch the horse been given? Unfortunately the nomination was in my partner's name. Every moment being precious, I immediately sought Mr. Marston, and taxed him with his duplicity.

When he saw that concealment was of no use, and that I was aware of everything, he confessed to a very pretty piece of business. A Jew, to whom he was heavily indebted, had compelled him to sign a letter to Messrs. Weatherby scratching Santorin!

Now the question arose, how to get out of the dilemma? In the then state of the market hedging was simply an impossibility. But I was not going to let the Jew beat us without a struggle, if I could help it. I wanted to save our Cambridgeshire money, if possible; and although the Jew had played on the weakness of my partner, I resolved on making some attempt at getting our money back.

My partner having told me the amount of the bill he owed the Jew, I now considered the best thing would be to endeavour to settle it, and finding I could do so, I desired him to telegraph to Abrahams, and request him to come down to his house the following morning, stating that a matter of the utmost importance required his presence; and when he arrived to ask him how much he was going to allow out of the laying commission? I also desired him to detain the gentleman till my return at luncheon time, if possible, as I intended in the meantime running up to London to procure the money.

When I got to town Santorin was quoted at 33 to 1 offered, and there was nothing about his scratching in the papers. So far good. I saw two men I could implicitly trust, and I arranged that they should be in waiting to attend to my telegrams next day.

In the morning I got the money required, and was back again at Marston's house before luncheon time. The Jew, who had duly arrived, did not seem at all delighted to see me. He evidently began to think that things looked queer.

"I have been asking Abrahams how much he is going to stand us out of his heavy laying commission," said Marston, "but he declares everything has been grossly mismanaged."

"It's the truth, really," answered the Jew; "a complete muddle. I am very sorry I took the affair at all, as I am almost certain to lose by it."

"Perhaps," I said as if in a joke, "you would prefer returning the scratching order and being paid Mr. Marston's debt."

"Would I not, if I had the chance," replied the Jew, taking the valuable slip of paper out of his pocket book.

This was exactly what I wanted. It was no good proposing to pay unless the Jew had the scratching order with him.

"Well, here is your money," I said, handing him the notes with one hand and taking possession of the order with the other. "We prefer to win the Cambridgeshire."

You never saw a man look so amazed as that Jew did in all your life. I went instantly to the window and nodded to a groom who had had his instructions, and he galloped away with my telegrams. No entreaty on our part would induce Abrahams to partake of luncheon. An important engagement in town prevented him. He had come down at great inconvenience to oblige Mr. Marston, and now he was anxious to get back to business. Would Mr. Marston send him to the station, a distance of five miles, in the dog cart? He was anxious to get back to stop the lay commissioners he had set to work. The dog cart was ordered round, but a strange thing happened—a wheel came off which delayed the impatient Abrahams some time. From the unpleasant way he looked at me, he appeared to think he owed the detention to me. When he did get to London Santorin was quoted in the evening papers at 6 to 1 taken and wanted, and it is highly probable that Abrahams went to his home in an unpleasant frame of mind.

A sporting journal of the next day said, in reference to the previous afternoon's betting: "There has evidently been nothing the matter with Santorin, as there was an unlimited commission in the market yesterday to back him. The training reports speak very favourably of the work he is doing from day-to-day, and his present condition; and those who, from some unexplained cause, have been taking liberties with the horse must be in an uncomfortable position. The getting out will be ruinous."

There is little more to tell—the Jew was outwitted, and has kept aloof from the turf ever since.

Santorin started for that year's Cambridgeshire at the shortest price ever known, and as the hedging was so good we stood to win a large fortune to nothing. It was excessively provoking to get beaten on the post by a head, by a horse two years older and carrying the same weight.

Thanks to Miss Emerson the difficulty was overcome, and if that young lady had not caught scarlet fever when attending to her cousins and died, she might be sitting opposite me now bearing another name, and I might be leading a more profitable life.

Mr. Marston behaved very badly, and I was justified after the Cambridgeshire in severing all business connections with such a very unreliable partner.

CHAPTER VII.
THE STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE AND STRANGER RECOVERY OF THE COUNTESS'S DIAMONDS.

A barefaced robbery— The police at fault—I form a theory—success crowns my efforts—the restoration of the valuable dressing-case.

All London was talking about the robbery. It was the most barefaced theft attempted for many years. In broad daylight at a busy London station a dressing-case containing jewels of the value of £50,000, some of them impossible to replace, vanishes as if by magic, and notwithstanding the extraordinary exertions of detectives both public and private, not a trace of it can be found.

It was the duty of the lady's maid not to lose sight of this valuable dressing-case on the journey, and while she waited for the train she took the precaution to sit on it. It was to the bookstall for a paper or to the refreshment room for a bun she went, but the interval was long enough for the thief—during the few seconds she was absent the dressing case had been spirited away and no trace of it could be found of it in the station. The poor girl who had served her mistress, whom she adored faithfully, for several years, was distracted, and it was feared she would go out of her mind. She was a well conducted girl, and came from the same district as the countess. It was impossible after the most diligent enquiry to connect the servant with the theft. There was a man servant, but he was in a different part of the station at the time, and no collusion could be attributed to him. The large reward of £2,000 was a temptation, but its announcement in all the papers yielded no results. Agents scoured Europe in search of the missing property without getting the smallest clue to its recovery.

The affair was in this unsatisfactory state when I happened to run against D——, one of the smartest officers of the Metropolitan police.

"Nothing has been heard of the countess's jewellery?" I asked.

"Nothing whatever; we are beaten; everything has been tried and a large amount of money spent on the enquiry," D—— answered. "The earl said we were to spare no expense. Several articles of the jewellery were heirlooms, worth double their real value."

"It seems extraordinary; have you formed no opinion?"

"I suspected one of the servants to be in communication with the thief, but a month's close surveillance upsets that theory. The servants are innocent."

"Did none of the less valuable jewellery ever find its way to the pawnbrokers?"

"Not a single thing. Everybody has been on the alert, but we are just as far forward as when we commenced."

"Your advertisements were peculiarly worded. Did they bring no replies?"

"Only some ridiculous suggestions."

You see you labour under this difficulty. You cannot offer through the public prints to compound a felony; that would be illegal; and the thief is not such a fool, after running the tremendous risk and getting such a magnificent haul, to take the bait. He fancies the large reward hides a trap which will hold him fast for many years."

"In all such cases that is the difficulty we labour under. In offering a reward we rely chiefly on a dissatisfied accomplice taking Queen's evidence, but it is almost certain that there was only one man in this business."

"How do you arrive at that conclusion?" I enquired.

"Five minutes after the robbery took place the investigation commenced, and everybody was questioned. The porters did not see any two men near the spot but there were several men lounging about singly by themselves."

"I suppose a woman had no hand in it."

"The act was too daring; only a man could have walked off with that dressing-case in the daylight with a station full of passengers."

"Tell me," I said, "after the dressing-case disappeared, when did the next train leave the station."

"In five minutes. The countess intended to travel by that train, but the loss of her dressing-case prevented her."

"You have my address; send me a list of the stolen things and a company's time-table, with the train which started five minutes after the robbery marked in ink, and take care there is no mistake about the train. I have been thinking a good deal about this matter, and have set up a theory of my own."

"There is one thing you may be certain about. You have no ordinary criminal to deal with."

"I am not quite of your opinion, but if anything comes of my researches you shall have a portion of the reward."

Whether it is my peculiar bent of mind or not, I cannot say, but I have often in the course of my lifetime amused myself by taking up mysterious cases where the police were at fault, and not always without success. The countess was one of the most beautiful women of her time, and as good as she was beautiful. She was naturally much grieved at the loss of the family jewels, and the numerous valuable presents she had received from royalty and others on her marriage. The earl was terribly annoyed at the theft, and blamed the countess for losing sight of the dressing-case. Every assistance, so far as publicity was concerned, was given by the press, and the Times had a leader about one of the missing stones, which had once been the eye of an idol in India.

The list of the stolen valuables and the marked time-table were promptly sent to me, and as I had some leisure at the time I went immediately to work to test the soundness of my theory. The robbery was committed five minutes before a certain train started, and the culprit may have left by that train.

I commenced my researches by booking by the same train to the first station at which it stopped. Here I made copious notes of the families living in the neighbourhood, and whether any of them had journeyed from London on the day in question. The station-master, an intelligent man, ran over the different names and referred to his books, but could not enlighten me. To the best of his belief, he could say that no first-class passengers arrived by that train. Next day I took the second station at which the train stopped, but with the same result. The third station did not advance me in the slightest degree, but I was not discouraged. I was determined to follow that train to its journey's end, and ascertain as well as I could what passengers alighted from it at the different stations. As it was an express train my task would soon be finished. When I had done the last station I found from my note book that about eight first-class and some seventy or eighty passengers of an inferior class had travelled from London by this particular train.

I began with the first-class passengers, and took them in rotation as they resided nearest to London. The excuse I made for calling upon them was that I had lost a valuable dog on the day named by his jumping out of the carriage at the station, and that perhaps their servants might have seen something of him. Everywhere I was treated with courtesy except when I intruded myself on a nervous old gentleman living in an old-fashioned villa about sixty miles from London.

He commenced by saying he did not keep a diary, so could not say whether he was in London or not that day; he was not in the habit of looking after stray dogs; he was astonished at my troubling him on such a trifling matter, and rather rudely wished me good-day.

I wrote under this man's name: "Manner peculiar and suspicious." Nothing could be gleaned from the remaining three first-class passengers, who turned out to be old ladies, sisters of a clergyman. Before tackling the second-class passengers I resolved, notwithstanding his repulsive manner, to pay the nervous old gentleman another visit. But this time, however, I made up my mind to adopt different and bolder tactics. There was no doubt that he had returned home by the 5.10 p.m. train.

His start of surprise at seeing me again gave me hope.

"It is not a dog this time I have come to ask you about, but as you were at the London station at the moment the disappearance occurred I am here to enquire whether you saw the dressing-case referred to in this advertisement," I said, handing him the announcement from the Morning Post. He shook like a leaf in a stiff breeze.

"Who are you?" he nervously inquired. "Are you a detective?"

"That is my card."

"Then you don't belong to the police?"

"Certainly not."

"Then, may I ask what brings you here? Your dog was a subterfuge; I suppose. Do you suspect me, a man who has held Her Majesty's commission, to be guilty of theft?"

"Not at all," I answered, "but I have a theory that the countess's dressing-case was not stolen, but carried off by mistake, and that the present possessor of it is, after all the outcry, either ashamed or afraid to send it back."

"A fine theory. Suppose it correct, could anything be done to the man who gave it up?"

"Nothing whatever."

"You, perhaps, don't know the law. Are you sure of that?"

"Quite sure."

"Well," he whispered, "I have got the dressing-case, and the possession of it has almost killed me. Come, and I will show you how the infernal error occurred."

He took me into his bedroom, and produced two dressing-cases so exactly alike I could scarcely distinguish them.

"This one," he said, "belonged to my deceased wife, and I had it with me in London. When the train was about to start I saw what I thought was my case lying on the platform, instead of being placed in the carriage by the porter, and I immediately went and took possession of it. I did not discover the stupid mistake until my arrival at home. I was the only passenger in the railway compartment, and my servant took everything out as a matter of course. The question is how is it to be restored safely, and without publicity. It would kill me with shame if my name appeared in the papers in connection with this affair."

I could see that my irascible friend spoke the language of truth. The advertisements were withdrawn, the enquiry stopped, and the countess received her valuable dressing-case intact, and with apologies without number from the hands of the man who had carried it off by mistake.

What he would have done with it had I not appeared on the scene, I cannot guess.

CHAPTER VIII.
CREMORNE: A ROMANCE OF THE DERBY.

My Bad Derby Book— Backing Cremorne at Ruinous Prices—Death of Agent in Derby Week—Loss of £10,000—Agent comes to Life—Detection of the Gross Fraud.

The extraordinary circumstances about to be related for the first time in print occurred in my green and salad days, and had a lasting influence on my life. Some of the particulars are known to a few men in London, and they own, as will the public when they learn the facts, that a more carefully concocted fraud has seldom been heard of. The man at the bottom of it is dead now, and my promise of secrecy is no longer binding.

By the death of a relation I came into a large sum of money, and started what turned out to be a ruinous speculation—a yearling book on the Derby; i.e., I commenced to lay against the candidates for Epsom honours when they were a year old, and continued the process until the judge's decision was known.

Amongst others, I laid heavily against Mr. Savile's horse, Cremorne. When Cremorne came out as a two-year-old and won his engagements in such gallant style, he became immediately first favourite for the Derby, which he eventually won, and my book was anything but an object for admiration. If the horse kept well through the winter months the "getting out" would be fearful. The price during the Goodwood week in the previous July was so short, it was much better to wait the chances of accident.

When I saw there was no hope of the horse breaking down, I gave orders to the man who usually did such business for me to pick up quietly the necessary £10,000 to put my book straight. He carried out the transaction in a satisfactory manner; and my position then was this, that if Cremorne proved successful I would neither win nor lose.

It was not pleasant taking 4 or 5 to 1 about a horse you had laid 100 to 1 against. Still everything seemed to favour his victory, and the bitter pill had to be swallowed nolens volens. And if I had not been the victim of a gross fraud, I should have pulled through.

The Monday before the Derby brought me a letter and a telegram from my agent, the first comparing the bets he had made for me (which list I found correct), and the other announcing that he was down with typhoid fever, and would not be able to attend Epsom. As I had shut up my Derby book, his inability to be present on that eventful Wednesday did not so much matter. I went to see the race, and, as everyone is aware, Cremorne won; and I congratulated myself on not losing over one of the worst books ever seen. A genial companion turned up in the ring, and we drank the health of Cremorne in the wine of Champagne.

On the Oaks day I received a telegram intimating the death of my agent, and later on came a letter from the doctor who attended him, and who was much mixed up in betting matters. He went by the name of the "Red Doctor." In his letter he gave me details of the illness, and informed me the funeral would take place on the following Tuesday, at Norwood Cemetery. He proposed that I should meet him (the doctor) at the Gaiety Restaurant on the following day (Saturday) to go over the betting books.

The sudden death of my agent staggered me—it might mean utter ruin! Everything depended on whether my agent had booked the Cremorne bets to himself or to me. If his own name had been used I would never receive a penny of the £10,000.

As my readers can easily imagine, the interval between Friday and Saturday, though short, was a period of the greatest anxiety to me. I cursed my stupidity in not having had a clear understanding with my agent about the booking of bets; but my suspicions had not been aroused, and there never had been the slightest misunderstanding between us in our transactions.

I did not keep the "Red Doctor" waiting on Saturday. I met him at the appointed time, and we immediately retired to one of the tables, when he produced the only betting-book that, he said, could be found. I turned eagerly to the Derby entries, but could not see my name anywhere, and the "doctor" could not give me any explanation. There were items up to about £8,000 booked in favour of Cremorne, but underneath each bet was written "For Jessop."

"Who is Jessop?" I enquired. "I don't seem to know the name," and the reply was that he was a new comer on the turf, an owner of horses, and reputed very rich.

"There must be another book," I suggested, showing the last letter I had received from the dead man.

The "doctor" shook his head, saying the agent's wife had searched everywhere.

"But this means ruin to me," I whispered. "For Monday's settling I shall be short of £10,000."

"My dear sir, I am very sorry; but what can I do?"

"You see his letter," I said. "What would you advise me to do?"

"I should go to the club on Monday and make enquiry. You will have got his letter to show. It is quite possible that you may find your Cremorne bets booked in your own name. The more cautiously you go about the matter the greater chance you will have of getting your money."

"But there must be another betting-book," I replied angrily.

"One would think so, but such does not appear to be the case."

"I must see his wife," I said hastily.

"Let me persuade you not to do that. The poor woman is heartbroken. Are you coming to the funeral?"

"It is hard lines," I said, "after such a struggle to square the confounded book, that there should be any doubt about these bets. If that £10,000 is not forthcoming I shall have to be declared a defaulter."

"I wish," he said, "I could give you any comfort, but I know nothing. Your agent was a very secretive man, and kept all his betting transactions to himself."

"Has he died rich?" I asked.

"No," he replied; "the widow will only have a moderate income, but there are no children."

"It is very strange," I continued, "that all these Cremorne bets should be for 'Jessop.' Where is he to be found?"

"I have no doubt he will be at the club on Monday."

That black Monday came. I could not find the slightest trace of my Cremorne bets, and there was nothing for it but to suspend payment. For the £10,000 I had only the letter of the deceased man to show, and that was of the value of so much waste paper. I made the acquaintance of Mr. Jessop, and did not like him. He was profuse in his sympathy with me, and shed a tear over his departed friend. He readily showed me his book with the Cremorne bets all duly entered, and I saw him receive the money. There was nothing for me to do but retire. It seemed to me that my agent bad been grossly careless, or had premeditated a fraud.

I did not attend the funeral, which duly took place on the Tuesday—a paragraph to that effect appeared in the sporting papers—but some days afterwards I wended my way to Streatham, where the agent resided, to see if anything had been heard of another betting-book. The house was shut up, and the neighbours told me that the desolate widow had gone away, immediately after the funeral, to some relations in the country. In answer to my question, they told me she had left no address, but promised to write. A few weeks elapsed, and I paid another visit to Streatham. The furniture had been sold, and the house was occupied by another tenant. Nothing had been heard of the widow.

Walking through Fleet-street one day, two years afterwards, I met a man the exact counterpart of my agent. The height, manner of walking, and colour of hair, all corresponded, and his appearance gave me quite a shock, and if he had worn a moustache, and did not use blue spectacles, I would have sworn that the dead was alive. I stared at him, and I thought he started on seeing me, but I put that down to imagination. Still the man haunted me, and considering the suspicious circumstances, I determined next time I should meet this individual to watch his movements. During the two years the mystery of the Cremorne bets remained as much in the dark as ever, and I had heard nothing of the widow.

The "Streets of London" was being played at the Princess's Theatre, and one evening I went to have a look at the piece. Who should I see in the stalls, arrayed in evening-costume, but the man I met in Fleet-street. "This time," I said to myself, "you shall not escape. If nothing comes of it there may be some amusement." I kept well in the background. He still wore the blue spectacles, and there was no moustache, but when he took the glasses off to wipe them, there was no doubt any longer in my mind as to the strong resemblance. "The man must be his brother," I thought. After the performance he went to the nearest public-house and had a soda and brandy, and on coming out he hailed a hansom and left. I was in readiness, and followed in another cab. It was a long ride, and we did not stop until we were quite in the centre of the East-end. His cab had been drawn up at a large corner public-house, blazing with light, and I saw him discharge the cabman and enter.

It was quite evident he was at home here, for he lifted the lid of the counter and went into the parlour. Did my eyes deceive me? As large as life behind the counter stood Jessop, superintending the drawing of beer and measuring out gin, and, if my eyes did not deceive me, the "Red Doctor" was enjoying a glass of grog in the sanctum beyond. My excitement knew no bounds. I did not know well what to think! A faint glimmering of the fraud began to steal into my mind. I had dangerous men to deal with, and must act cautiously. If the agent's wife would only appear on the scene the quartet would be complete; and sure enough, just as the house was being shut up, she came down to the bar from the upstairs regions.

Next day I told all these particulars to a staunch friend, and together we paid a visit to the Norwood Cemetery, and beheld the grave with a modest stone at its head, "Sacred to the Memory of," &c., but if I had not made a grievous error, the clergyman who had conducted the service had not prayed over the right man. It was a deep plot, and had been very successful. The question arose now, how was I to benefit by the discovery? After much cogitation my friend and I decided to beard the lion in his den, and one evening when Jessop was out and the "Red Doctor" not visible we entered and addressed my agent by his name. He said we were mistaken, but when we enquired about the health of his wife, Mr. Jessop, and the "Red Doctor," he saw that he was discovered, and the game was up. He asked us into his parlour, and had the impudence to become jocular over the infernal game.

"I was hard up," he said, "and was obliged to stand to win both ways over that Derby."

My money had been booked to Jessop, who would have received my money to pay with if the horse had not won. The timely reputed death of the agent saved all explanation.

"Who was the man buried?" I asked.

"Nobody! Only some stones! I saw that everything was conducted properly myself, and often run up to have a look at the grave."

"But how did you get the certificate?"

"The 'Red Doctor' managed that!"

"A nice conspiracy! You know that you settled me! What money am I going to have?"

It was difficult to get the three conspirators to come to terms—the law was powerless—and I had to content myself with £1,000. Cremorne's Derby calls up anything but pleasant recollections to the writer of these memoirs.

CHAPTER IX.
HOW TO SATISFY ONE'S CREDITORS WITH WASTE PAPER.

Payment suspended— Sympathy for the ruined man—An important letter—How worthless shares enabled a man to deceive his creditors and make a fortune.

The following unpleasant circular was placed in my hands one morning some ten years ago:—

"Dowgate Hill, E.C.,

"February, 7th, 1870.

"Sir,—It is my painful duty to inform you of the suspension of my business. The liabilities are more than covered by securities, but which, unfortunately, cannot be realized at present. I have placed my books in the hands of Messrs. Bowen, Young & Co., the accountants.—I am, &c.,

Alfred George Gibbs."

On turning up my ledger I found that Mr. Gibbs owed me no less than £3,560 14s. 6d. He had never been in my debt so much before, and the heaviest of his acceptances were on the eve of becoming due. It was a piece of bad luck for me that he should fail at this time. A few days more would have made all the difference. The business we transacted was in soft goods, which he exported to Australia.

If ever a human being appeared to carry his character plainly written on his face that man was Mr. Gibbs. He was openness itself; nothing secretive or cunning about him. His whole manner invited confidence. His age was about thirty-five, and he had in the course of seven or eight years made a great name for himself, and his dealings must have been on a large scale, as after an examination of his books the accountants announced that the liabilities amounted to £125,000, against which they could only place real property amounting to £9,000 and some doubtful assets.

The failure took everyone by surprise, and the questions immediately asked were, How has the money gone? He always seemed such a careful man. Does he keep a mistress? Has he been betting or dabbling on the Stock Exchange? As the money involved in the crash was considerable, certain wrathful creditors instituted a searching examination into Mr. Gibbs' mode of life, in the expectation of finding that he had been leading a double existence—playing propriety in the City and the fast man at the West-End, but they were disappointed. He was a model husband and his establishment was conducted on anything but extravagant lines. There was no young woman of doubtful virtue inhabiting an elegant villa at South Bank, with sets of valuable diamonds and elegant equipages in the background. He was unknown on the turf, and nobody had ever seen him bet even half-a-crown. The result of the enquiries showed that the bankrupt was a steady man, not given to drinking nor to dissipation of any kind, and that he was most punctual in all business matters. The people he employed were never tired of singing his praises, and no man was better served in the City of London.

How such a perfect business man could fail was a mystery until the accountants came to write on the credit side of the balance sheet the particulars of the doubtful assets. There never was such a lot of rubbish; the secret was revealed at last. He had been speculating in stocks, but such stocks! Every rotten Company for many years back seemed to have had him for a subscriber. He had embarked his money in the wildest schemes; Honduras bonds, Peruvian loans, Colorado mines, Spanish railways and Turkish waterworks. Nothing unsound came amiss to him, and the shares, which came to an immense amount, were simply unsaleable.

If men will go into things which they don't understand they must put up with the results. Poor Mr. Gibbs may have had a thorough knowledge of his own business, which, taken by itself, showed handsome profits, but he was evidently not an adept at "bulling" and "bearing." He was terribly "cut up" at his downfall, and no creditor, however irate, could listen long to his explanations and laments without feeling some sympathy for the man. He owned his fault, and said he had acted the fool and must take the consequences, but that it was hard luck after having the ball at his feet to have to commence the world afresh. His bankruptcy did not make him seclude himself at home as it would other men; he kept his usual hours at the office, and was always ready to see any one and to give any explanations.

Before the first meeting of his creditors was held he did a very politic thing. He called on each of them and asked how to act in the, to him, grave emergency. One or two wealthy firms were so convinced with his statements that on his promising to leave the Stock Exchange alone in future, they offered to advance him money to pay a dividend, and said they would do what they could to get his name taken off the list of bankrupts. An overwhelming majority agreed to the terms proposed, and Mr. Gibbs was reinstated in his former position. He had been unfortunate everyone thought, but not culpable, and the dividend of 2s. 6d. in the pound was duly paid.

The loss I incurred through Mr. Gibbs came at an inopportune time, and crippled my financial affairs to such a degree that had it not been for the assistance of a friend I must have paid a visit to Basinghall-street myself. However, I managed to weather the storm, and had never any occasion to regret my future transactions with Mr. Gibbs, who was, strange to say, soon doing double his former business, and making a fortune rapidly. He was not forgetful of the kindness of his creditors, and when it was in his power they had always the preference in his dealings.

Years rolled on, and the loss I sustained had been erased from my mind, when in the latter part of 1879 I happened to run against a Mr. Murray and the whole proceedings were revived. Murray had been on the Stock Exchange, but "bearing" Egyptians settled him, and he was now not in the best of circumstances, doing what he could outside the sacred precincts. The man had been useful to me on different occasions, and I took him into a wine place and gave him some sherry. After he had finished the narrative of his own difficulties he all at once said:—

"What a fortunate man is Gibbs. Do you still transact business with him?"

"Occasionally," I replied. "Since he dropped speculating on the Exchange everything has prospered with him, and he is now reputed very wealthy."

"What is that you say about the Stock Exchange? He never speculated there to my knowledge, and I ought to know, as we were at one time very intimate, and I lived next door to him for many years."

"But you are surely aware that it was his losses on the Stock Exchange which compelled him to pay 2s. 6d. in the pound."

"No, and I don't believe it. I never could induce him to try a single time bargain. I understood the bankruptcy was quashed, but I never heard the particulars."

"Well, it is a fact that when he suspended payment he had in his possession an immense number of worthless shares. There never was such a stack of rubbish, and nobody could understand how a man with his wits about him could have thrown his money away on such abominations."

Mr. Murray laughed loudly, and I looked at him in surprise.

"You have not got a list of his valuable shares?" he asked.

"I believe I have," I answered; "the accountants' balance sheet contains one."

"Bring it here to-morrow and I will meet you. We may be able to make some money."

My suspicions were aroused, and you may be sure that I kept my appointment with Murray, who was punctual. I had been successful in finding the list, and handed it to him.

He laughed loud and long, and it was some minutes before I could get a word out of him. When he had exhausted himself, he observed—

"This is a splendid joke. After deducting the dividend, how much did you lose by our unfortunate friend?"

"I had to write off £3,115, and could ill afford it at the time. Why do you ask?"

"This is a business matter between us. How much will you stand out of that sum if I show you how to get it?"

"I know there is no hope of that; but what would satisfy you?"

"Will you give me 25 per cent?"

"Willingly, but what chance is there?"

"Never mind; you go to him with a letter I will write, and if he does not pay you there and then I shall be astonished."

The letter came next day. It was addressed to Mr. Gibbs, marked private and sealed. It seemed a ridiculous errand, but still, as I had promised to deliver the missive, I took it round to Dowgate Hill. I found Mr. Gibbs in his private office, and he welcomed me with the usual smiles.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, in his blandest manner, pointing to a chair.

"I want to see if there is any answer to this letter?" I answered.

He took Murray's epistle from my hand, and on perusing it he became terribly pale and shook like a leaf; when he spoke I could not recognize his voice. His eyes would not meet mine, and were fixed on the desk before him.

"On your honour do you know the contents of this letter?" he asked, hoarsely.

"I do not."

"I believe you," he said. "Now that I have recovered my position I shall have much pleasure in paying your account in full with 5 per cent. interest, on one condition, that you say nothing to my other creditors."

To this I willingly agreed. It takes a man all his time to look after his own affairs.

In exchange for my receipt he handed me a cheque for the proper amount. On rejoining Murray, who was close at hand waiting the result of the experiment, I tried to get an explanation, but did not succeed then.

A few days afterwards, however, when, to the astonishment of everybody, Gibbs sold his business and went to South America, the mystery was cleared up. He had cleverly managed to throw dust in the eyes of his creditors. The bankruptcy had been carefully planned so as to enable him to put an immense sum in his pocket. The various stocks, which he returned as assets, and which he alleged had ruined him, did not cost more than a few pounds. The worthless shares were not purchased from time to time as the various companies were launched, as was imagined, but were bought by weight in one lot through Murray a few months before the bankruptcy occurred, at an average price of 4 s. the lb.

CHAPTER X.
LORD SEAMORD'S FALSE FUNERAL.

The stealing of the body— The large reward—The tragical and mysterious disappearance—Death of Mdlle. Rousell—The dead lord comes to life in New York—The extraordinary disclosures.

"I never was so astonished in all my life!" said D——, the well known detective, whom I met accidentally in the Strand.

"I thought men of your experience were never surprised at anything," was my answer.

"But this is such a peculiar, out of the way case."

"It is not the loss of a dressing-case, then, nor a mysterious murder?"

"No, a body has unaccountably disappeared from the family vault!"

"That is an American trick," I replied. "How much money do they want for the safe return of the corpse?"

"None at all. Heavy rewards are offered, but without response. It does not appear to be a case of black-mailing."

"How, then," I asked, "was it discovered that the corpse had walked?"

"By an anonymous letter."

"Just so—from one of the thieves, no doubt. To regain possession of the body, you must bid higher—it is a question of money."

"There you are wrong. The writer of the anonymous letter has been found."

"Well?"

"He is a respectable tenant on the deceased man's estate."

"What explanation does he give?"

"He says he was returning from market late one night when he was greatly alarmed by seeing lights in the family vault. It was rumoured at the time of the funeral that certain valuable relics were interred with the body, and he thought robbers were despoiling the dead. Next morning he did not know what to do. He was afraid his statement would be laughed at, so he decided to send the unsigned letter. Here is a copy of it. It is addressed to the family solicitor. "Passing Lord Seamord's last resting place," he wrote, "between nine and ten p.m. yesterday, the writer was greatly astonished to see lights in the vault, and an examination will prove that the dead has been disturbed"."

"And how long ago did this happen?" I asked.

"Three months."

"Did you confine your advertisements to any particular newspaper? This is the first I have heard of the occurrence."

"When it was proved that the body had really been carried off, a communication was at once sent to the chief, who decided on secrecy. Like you, he thought it was a question of money, and daily expected that the thieves would open up a correspondence with the family. But nothing of the kind has taken place. When two months had passed without any sign, we tried the advertisements, but nothing has come of them."

"In what hole-and-corner papers did you insert the advertisements?"

He handed me a slip on which was printed the following:—

"Craigmillar.—On the night of the 15th November last something valuable disappeared near this place, and the family are prepared to pay a large reward for its return, or for a correct intimation where it can be found.—Information, which will be treated as strictly confidential, to be sent to R. B. Johnson, Esq., solicitor, Craigmillar."

"Did you ever try naming a sum of money?"

"Yes, first £1,000, and then £5,000."

"Would the family go higher than that?"

"I am sure they would. What can the thieves mean?"

"There is some hidden mystery. You are right in saying the case is peculiar."

Here was a complication after my own heart. Awake and asleep the subject haunted me. I worked out all manner of solutions, but none of them brought me any nearer the secret; and when you learn the marvellous particulars you will not blame me for my stupidity. Of all the extraordinary revelations made known to the public, this one, it will be readily admitted, takes a prominent place.

Who was this Lord Seamord? For obvious reasons, I use an assumed name. At Elliott and Fry's I got his portrait for a shilling. It is lying before me now. Not a man to make an enemy of. His chin betokens resolution; lips, firmness; nostrils, daring; eyes, cruelty; forehead, intellect. He was a tall man I ascertained, and dark enough to have been taken for a Spaniard. Debrett told me that he had been an only child; that he married a duke's daughter, that there was no issue of the marriage, and that when his decease occurred he must have been thirty-five years of age. From private sources, from men who had frequented the same clubs as his lordship, I received a very bad account of him. He was, according to them, an individual to be avoided. The girls he had seduced, the friends he had ruined at play, the duels he had fought, some of them with fatal results, would fill a volume. He took no active part in politics, and seemed to live entirely for his own amusement. His wife, who was very pretty, and who it was said, worshipped him, was sadly neglected; and he resided principally on the Continent.

The next heir to the title and estate was a cousin, who was not a little surprised to be informed that everything that money could be raised on had been mortgaged. This was all the more strange when it was known, that Lord Seamord was unusually careful in monetary matters, and that most of his speculations resulted in an addition to his large fortune. What had become of these immense sums of money?

This was the first question I set myself to answer. I was charmed with the insurmountable difficulties surrounding the case, and entered on the investigation with great relish. You may ask what business it was of mine, and the only reply I think it necessary to give is that the enquiry interested me, and that if success crowned my efforts I could if I chose earn a large sum of money.

I went down to Craigmillar, but the information I gleaned there did not amount to much. No one could say how the money had gone. His lordship was at Milan when he died, and he had with him a servant called Robert Simmons. This man had been in the family for many years, but he was much disliked. Like master like man. There was nobody to say a good word about either. It was thought that Simmons was a ready and willing assistant in the many villainies perpetrated by Lord Seamord. To my enquiry as to what had become of Simmons, I was told that he left soon after the funeral, and had not been heard of since. This was suspicious. There were now two questions in my note book—first, how had the money been disposed of? and the second, why had the servant disappeared?

I may or may not have had an interview with the family solicitor, but at all events I went on the Continent, and traced his lordship on his last journey to the town in which he died. Up to reaching Milan I found nothing remarkable. His stay in Paris was short, and presented no feature of interest. The people at the hotel knew him well, and I had no trouble in getting at his daily doings. At Milan the case was different. It assumed the mysterious at once. To begin with, he dropped the title and used a feigned name. He kept changing his hotel, and finally rented a house of his own. Altogether he remained in this rather dull Italian town upwards of six months. There must have been a powerful reason, I thought, for his prolonged stay and erratic conduct, but neither the people he came in contact with nor the authorities were aware of it. Simmons was with him all the time, and could no doubt explain many things, but the man was not available. In despair, I asked for a file of one of the daily papers, to see if anything remarkable occurred about the first of November, and my attention was arrested by a thrilling paragraph relating to the death of a young lady. It ran thus:—

"Murder or Suicide?—It is our painful duty to notify the death of the daughter of M. Rousell, the famous sculptor. The young lady was only nineteen years of age, and had shown great promise as a painter. Her voice would have insured her a hearty welcome on the operatic stage. A more accomplished, beautiful and fascinating young lady it would be difficult to find, and much sympathy is felt for the bereaved father, the more so on account of the manner of his daughter's death. She was found in the public gardens stabbed to the heart."

A few days afterwards another short paragraph appeared on the subject. It read as follows:—

"The Death of Mdlle. Rousell.—We have nothing fresh to communicate regarding this unfortunate occurrence, except that her father had noticed that her mind seemed much disturbed about the period of her death, and the police state that it is now shown that she was accustomed to keep appointments with some strange man. It was understood that in January she was to be wed to a gentleman holding a high position in the Government, and who has been in a raging fever ever since his great loss was communicated to him. The authorities are making extraordinary exertions to clear up the mystery."

This murder or suicide took place a few days before the death of Lord Seamord. Knowing his partiality for the fair sex, and his unscrupulous character, it was possible that there might be some connection between the two events. Was he the unknown man that Mdlle. Rousell met by stealth? It did not take me long to discover that his lordship in his assumed name was a frequent visitor to the studio of the sculptor, and he had undoubtedly seen the daughter there, but I could not make out for certain that there had been any acquaintanceship between them, or even an introduction, and, however bad the man was, I could not believe for a moment that he would take away the life of this charming girl. He lived in good but not extravagant style in Milan, and the money question was as much involved in obscurity as ever. One thing the banker told me, which only made matters more mysterious still, and that was that very heavy sums had been remitted from England, and that his balance was nearly all drawn out immediately before his death. It was no use stopping any longer in Milan, and I returned to England, determined to have a little explanation with Robert Simmons. He could at the very least give me some account of the missing money.

None of the Craigmillar people had heard anything of the man, but I succeeded in getting his portrait and address of his parents, who resided near Carlisle. I hunted them up, but it was somewhat akin to pulling stubborn teeth to extract information out of them. They had evidently been warned not to let anyone know their son's whereabouts. There was no getting a direct answer out of them, and this reticence only made me the more anxious to have a few minutes' private conversation with Simmons. They were old and ignorant people, and I made sure that if any correspondence was going on a third party conducted it for them. This proved to be correct. The village schoolmaster wrote their letters, and on the plea that Lady Seamord had a small legacy to pay the man, I had no difficulty in obtaining the wished-for address. The letters were addressed the Poste Restante, New York. So Simmons had thought it advisable to take up his abode on the other side of the Atlantic. Another suspicious circumstance.

A Cunard boat soon landed me in America, and I immediately stationed a trustworthy detective at the Poste Restante, while I made some cautious enquiries in the town. On the fourth day a man answering the description of Lord Seamord's servant called at the post-office for letters from England for Robert Simmons, and was followed to one of the best hotels in New York. Possibly he had secured employment there as a waiter. As he did not know me from Adam I had no hesitation in taking up my quarters in Fifth Avenue Hotel. Up to dinner time nothing occurred. I did not even catch a glimpse of Simmons, and none of the other servants knew him by that name, but I was on the brink of a startling discovery.

When the gong sounded for dinner there walked into the room an exact counterpart of the late Lord Seamord. From the portrait in my possession the most unbelieving would have sworn that it was the man himself. Tall, dark, and cruel-looking, the resemblance was, to say the least of it, extraordinary, and this was a phase in the enquiry which I had not anticipated. The fact of Simmons being also in the hotel convinced me that I was about to fathom some terrible mystery. The bookkeeper in answer to my question said the tall, dark gentleman was an Englishman named Mayhurst, and had been living in the hotel with his servant for a month or two. A few days convinced me there was no mistake—that the real Lord Seamord and his servant was residing in the hotel under feigned names. What did that false funeral at Craigmillar mean? who was the man interred? why was the body stolen? and what all powerful motives had compelled Lord Seamord to adopt such an unheard-of line of conduct? The plan had been thought of and matured at Milan, and the large amounts of money wore no doubt in the hands of the rightful owner. Had the violent death of Mdlle. Rousell anything to do with these marvellous disclosures?

When I was certain that there was no mistake about the two men, I telegraphed to Mr. Johnson, the family solicitor, asking him to come to New York at once, as something of the greatest importance connected with the disappearance of the body at Craigmillar had occurred. He replied promptly, and was with me in less than a fortnight. I took him to a different hotel, but close to where I was staying; and when I had prepared his mind a little for the startling news, I told him what I had discovered. The old man was horrified, and flatly declined to believe me, but before the end of the day I had placed him in a position to convince himself that what I had stated was perfectly correct. Lord Seamord he had known all his life, and therefore, although I might, he could not well be mistaken. Nothing was decided that night; Mr. Johnson was too incapable of acting in a sane fashion; but next morning after a long conversation between us, in the course of which I produced the Milan journals concerning the two paragraphs about the death of the sculptor's daughter, he elected to seek an interview alone with his lordship.

Hour after hour passed, and Mr. Johnson did not return to his hotel, where I was waiting for him, and I began to get alarmed. I was just about to set out in search, of him, when he arrived, looking crushed and heartbroken, and there was appearance of tears on his blanched cheeks. It must have been a terrible meeting, but I never heard a full account of what took place; he was only authorised to tell me what had been carefully written for him on a sheet of notepaper. The following is a copy of the statement, which was in Lord Seamord's handwriting:—

"Mdlle. Rousell was the innocent cause of what has occurred. I fell madly in love with her, and determined to carry her off. Under a promise of marriage she met me clandestinely, unknown to anyone. My plans were complete when her death occurred. It was my blame, but I have never in my life raised my hand in violence to a woman. To save her honour she stabbed herself to the heart. I had good reasons for believing that I was being watched by the police, and to prevent the disgrace to my family of my being tried for murder, I, with the assistance of Simmons and a doctor attached to the hospital, pretended to die, and a dead body was secretly conveyed into the house and interred at Craigmillar. It was my wishing to make assurance doubly sure, and destroy all possible traces of the deception which has led to the discovery. I shall never resume the title again, and to all intents and purposes I am legally dead. My wife may rejoin me if it pleases her. Mr. Johnson has my instructions."

He did not deserve it, but his wife, on the pretence of entering a convent, soon hastened to his side. Women, always excepting mothers-in-law, are so forgiving.

CHAPTER XI.
TAKING A MEAN ADVANTAGE OF A FIRE.

Important disclosures— The fire at the theatre—The evidence of the opera glasses—The startling meeting at the Inns of Court Hotel.

The dreadful disaster at Vienna brings back vividly to my mind strange incidents connected with the burning down of the Theatre Royal, Edinburgh, sixteen years ago.

"I am in a terrible mess, old fellow!" exclaimed Augustus Graham, as he hurriedly entered my office in Edinburgh one morning in the year 1865.

"Sit down," I said, "and let us put our heads together. Perhaps a way may be found out of the maze."

"Impossible: things have gone too far, and the climax has come to-day. My bills will be protested."

"Then you favour me with a visit when your circumstances are desperate beyond relief."

"I have been buoyed up with false hopes, but now I must inevitably sink."

"There is one thing you have done well—you have kept up appearances; nobody suspects anything."

"But at what a cost! For months I have not known what it is to have a good night's rest."

"It is entirely a financial difficulty, of course—much?"

"Yes, and without remedy; the amount is so large. But there is another dilemma."

"And what is that?" I enquired; "the other is bad enough."

"You know I am engaged to Miss Kingston."

"So I understood. She has money; why not frankly explain your position to her father, and, if there is no objection, marry her."

"I have just posted a letter resigning her hand."

"That was a very unwise step, I think; it appears to me to be your only chance. I should make haste to withdraw that letter."

"But I could not marry Miss Kingston, even if she were willing."

"Another complication. I knew you had a talent for getting into scrapes."

"No, it would be a mockery to pretend that I have any feeling but that of friendship for Kate. She is much too good for me. The fact is, Jim, I am over head and ears in love with old Murray's wife."

"And not ashamed to own it?"

"If you knew our histories you would pity us. We are separated by a cruel wrong."

"Oh, I daresay! Disappointment in early life, I suppose; the miscarriage of a letter, or she found you making love to another young lady who afterwards turned out to be your own sister, and in a fit of jealousy made haste to marry a man old enough to be her father."

"Her grandfather."

"His age does not prevent him being her lawful husband. Now as you are at it, you may as well confess whether Mrs. Murray reciprocates this much-to-be-regretted passion."

"I have reason to believe she does."

"Well, you won't get absolution from me. You are a bad as well as an unfortunate man, Mr. Augustus Graham."

"If you only knew everything you would, I am sure, think differently of both of us."

"Doubtful, very; the lady is married. What license have you to interfere with her husband's happiness? No sophistry will make me think that marital bonds should not be respected. I have seen too many lives and promising careers blasted by such impudent intrigues."

"Don't judge us so harshly without a hearing."

"Do you recollect your putting a peculiar question to me one day some months ago, and asking what I would do under the embarrassing circumstances? I see now you were the A of this skeleton case, and Mrs. Murray the B. What was my answer? Did I not tell you it was the duty of any man, calling himself a gentleman, to hold his friend's wife sacred?"

"I tried hard, but it was all in vain."

"You used to be clever in getting out of as well as into scrapes, but you seem to be caught fast this time. I am really sorry, for the sake of old school days, that you must go to the wall. Is there nothing I can do for you?"

"Yes, you can lend me—your opera glasses."

"Is that all? Keeping it up to the end—going to the theatre?"

"Yes, will you come? I have a box; I am taking Mr. and Mrs. Murray."

"I am engaged this evening, and after what you have disclosed to me I would not feel comfortable. Take the glasses, and go your wicked way."

Before I saw those glasses again a dreadful calamity occurred. The Theatre Royal to which my friend and Mrs. Murray went was burned down, and many lives were lost. It was impossible to recognize the charred bodies, but as they were never seen again the presumption was that the two lovers perished in the flames. A pair of opera glasses much damaged by fire were shown to me by the Procurator Fiscal, and I proved by the initial that they were my property. I need not say that I carefully preserved them. Poor Murray, who did not accompany his wife, became distracted over his loss, and only lived two or three years after her unfortunate death. She was an exceedingly pretty and amiable lady, and however much her affection for my friend was to be deplored, no one could help feeling sorry for her frightful end.

It was found after the disaster that Graham's affairs were in a helpless state, and when a balance sheet was drawn up it was seen that the estate would not pay more than sixpence in the pound. He had displayed immense ability in tiding over from time to time the difficulties which were ultimately bound to ruin him. We had been schoolfellows together, and the friendship formed in those happy days ended only with his life.

I was always afraid his daring speculations would bring him to grief—he was in such a hurry to get rich. Montaigne informs us that, if you look carefully for it, you will discover there is some consolation to be derived even from the death of a dear friend.

In some respects the sudden termination of the two lives was a blessing—the honour of Mrs. Murray remained inviolate, at least so far as the public knew, and Graham was saved a world of trouble with his exasperated creditors. Good and evil are so mixed together in this world of ours that it is impossible to keep them apart.

If my readers will turn to the papers of that day they will find all the particulars of the burning of the theatre and a list of the persons that perished, for "taking a mean advantage of fire" is, with the exception of the names, a faithful record of what actually happened.

Ten years passed quickly away in the worry and turmoil of a daily increasing business, when a morning delivery brought me a strangely-worded invitation to dinner at the Inns of Court Hotel. I had transferred my business to London by this time. The note I cannot put my hands on for the moment, but it was to the effect that a gentleman who was once well acquainted with me, and who had been out of the country for some years, would be glad if I would dine that day with him and his wife. The signature was not familiar to me, but I had so many clients it (the invitation) might have emanated from one of them. I decided to accept, and wrote a line to that effect to my unknown host.

A few minutes to seven—the hour mentioned—I presented myself at the hotel, and was ushered into a sitting-room on the first floor, where preparations had been made for dinner, but there was no one present. In a minute or two, however, the door of the room opened, and a heavily-bearded man entered, whom I did not know from Adam, who heartily shook hands with me.

"So you don't recollect me?" he said with a laugh.

"I have not that pleasure," I answered. "A client, I presume."

"Why, Jim, you are more stupid than I thought; has ten years made such a difference in your old schoolfellow, Augustus Graham?"

It was a few minutes before I could speak—I was so utterly taken by surprise. He was the very last man I expected to see on earth. When the film of doubt had at length been removed from my eyes, he went into the next room, and came back leading a lady.

"My wife!" he said.

"We are old acquaintances," said the lady, smilingly.

It was Mrs. Murray, looking as beautiful as she did ten years before.

"So you did not perish in the theatre that night, after all?"

"Not a bit of it. Are you sorry? You can pinch us if you like—we are really flesh and blood; and you shall see us eat, for here comes dinner. The Richmond air has given us an appetite."

After dinner I heard their wonderful story. Early in life they had loved each other, but a malicious friend, in the interests of Murray, separated them. When they again met, a few words of explanation from both sides showed them that they had been made the victims of a clever plot; but, unfortunately, Isabella Crighton had in the interval—in a mad fit of jealousy—changed her name, and given herself to a man nearly thrice her age.

They agreed that the proper thing to do was not to refer to the past again, and meet as seldom as possible. But such resolutions, wherever they were recorded, were soon broken; and now that it was necessary that there should be restraint, the old passion revived with redoubled force. The husband originally intended to accompany his wife to the theatre on that eventful evening, but was prevented, owing to a sharp attack of gout. The piece—it was "Othello"—did not have much of their attention, their conversation was to them of far deeper interest. Graham told Mrs. Murray of his desperate circumstances, and that in a day or two he would be off to Australia.

There were tears shed, as is usual on such occasions, and the lady never expected to see her lover again, when such a vast waste of waters lay between them. As many of my readers probably remember, when the fire did break out, the theatre was consumed in an incredibly short space of time. Graham saw his opportunity—I told you he was good at getting out of scrapes—and when his startling proposal was whispered into the ear of his fair companion, I am afraid there was not much resistance. In the confusion they got to the Waverley Station unobserved, and took the first train going south.

In Australia Graham soon recovered his position, and when the death of Mr. Murray was announced he immediately married the partner of his flight. He was now arranging with his solicitor to pay his creditors in full, and settle down in the neighbourhood of London. I spent a gay and pleasant evening with my two "defunct" friends, and rated them soundly for not letting me into their secret. On rising to depart, at a very late hour, Graham said, with all the old mischief beaming in his eyes—

"We have often laughed over your evidence in the Scotsman. We are deeply indebted to you. You settled us both in the most conclusive manner. By the way, I owe you some recompense."

"What for?"

"I kept the programme, but sacrificed your glasses."

CHAPTER XII.
THE ATTEMPTED MURDER IN THE AIR.

The proposal to go up in a balloon accepted— Green's young and pretty wife— A very strange conversation—An unpleasant looking knife— Jealously—Madness and attempted murder.

People may have thought differently, but there was really no occasion for his jealousy; the man was mad. Knowing his eccentric habits, you ask me how I could have been so foolish as to accompany him alone in that terrible balloon ascent, and I reply that it never occurred to me that he believed that I was in love with his wife. He had gone up in balloons fifty times without meeting with any accident, and when he pressed me to join him in that midnight voyage I had but little hesitation in accepting the invitation.

As you are aware, I have done a few things in my time, and the idea of a new sensation was agreeable to me. It may come with the infirmities of old age, but as yet fear has not entered into my composition. It appeared to me that my nerves were quite as good as his.

It was a scientific experiment to test certain air currents, and you no doubt recollect that the result was watched with considerable interest. But few people know the dreadful scene that was enacted in mid-air in an unusually dark night. Unmistakable signs of insanity showed themselves a few days afterwards, and he had to be taken to Hanwell. I went to see him the other day, and he told me in the greatest confidence that he was the Devil, and that he had sat to Martin for his famous painting of "Satan in Council" from him. It was a sad case; he was a man of infinite talent, and the doctors gave but little hope of his recovery.

Yes, his wife is to be pitied. She is not more than twenty-five, and there are no two opinions about her beauty, and I can testify that her mind is quite in keeping with her person. A more fascinating woman I never met, and it may be strange to say that I have only admired her as a sister. I have known her since she was two years of age, and she has never taken any important step in life without consulting me. She was early left an orphan, and there never was a brother nor a sister. Green first met her at Harrogate, and was soon over head and ears in love.

I never saw a man so deeply influenced with the tender passion. His position and wealth there could be no mistake about, and when Lizzie Norton asked me whether she should accept his offer of marriage, I thought it a good chance for the friendless girl. It was her frequent consultations with me about her husband's daily increasing eccentricities which created the scandal, and the state of his health may have to some extent influenced me to ascend with him into the clouds.

Light a cigar and I will endeavour to bring back to my memory what took place. The balloon was a new one, called the Sunbeam. We went up from the Crystal Palace.

It was a beastly night, raining in torrents, and nearly dark. The lamp which was lighted at starting went out from some cause or other (he may have extinguished it on purpose before we had ascended many hundred feet), and an attempt made to kindle it did not succeed.

The sensations of the ascent were certainly novel, if not pleasant. We hung over London for some time, and then, after rising to a considerable height, drifted towards Brighton, where I was fortunate enough to be landed safely. But when you hear the particulars of the trip you will say that it was long odds against my ever reaching the earth alive.

It was an anonymous letter that first aroused his mad and groundless jealousy, and he had watched my interviews with his wife—arranged for his good—and believed that we were deceiving him. I repeat that we were both innocent of any such intention, although appearances may have been against us.

The man or woman who penned that ill-natured epistle was as near as possible being the cause of a murder. Green had provided himself with a cook's knife, a nasty weapon to look at, and it was by the merest chance he did not thrust it in my heart. Scientific experiments are all very well in their way, but I prefer not pursuing such studies in mid-air in the company of a maniac.

One of the first things he said to me was—

"Life is not worth much up here."

I agreed with him that we were running some extra risk, and added that I hoped the construction of the balloon was not deficient.

"The balloon is right enough," he hissed in my ear, as we rushed through the air at the rate of forty miles an hour; "there are other things to dread."

There was a peculiarity about the tone of his reply which I did not like. I enquired what was the nature of the other risks, but he gave me no answer, and busied himself for a few minutes with the mechanism of our ærial car.

"You have faced death before?" he asked abruptly.

I told him that such was the case; that over ladies fair I had been obliged to fight a duel or two in different parts of Europe.

This answer seemed to enrage him, for at once exclaimed in a passionate voice—

"Toujours les dames. Is it true you are so fortunate?"

"Report credits me with more than my due. Like other men roving about Europe, I have had my adventures."

His next question startled me, and I began to suspect that there was something wrong.

"What do you think of my wife?" was what he asked.

"That you are a man to be envied."

"But that it not the answer. Do you think her pretty?"

"There can be no doubt of that."

I endeavoured to change the subject by drawing his attention to a bank of clouds we were about to pierce in our upward career, but it was in vain.

"You admire her very much?"

"No one can help admiring her," I answered.

"I never could understand why you did not marry her."

"The truth, is that it never occurred to me to ask her. Our friendship was that of brother and sister. Although no more beautiful object could be found, old fellow, it seems a little out of place to discuss your wife."

"What did I bring you here for?"

"Then your purpose in getting me to ascend with you was to talk about Mrs. Green? It strikes me that a more convenient and comfortable place could have been found somewhere on the earth. You are a funny fellow," I said.

"What I have to say is better without witnesses. Here I can be judge and executioner."

This extraordinary answer put me on my guard, and I watched his movements as well as I could in the uncertain light which was beginning to appear in the heavens. Contrary winds had carried us rapidly in different directions, and until we had a little more light it was impossible to tell where we were. It was not a very pleasant position to be cooped up in such close quarters with a jealous husband, whose mind was evidently unhinged, and I thought that the sooner our voyage was finished the better. So far as strength went I was the stronger of the two, but a struggle in a balloon floating a few miles above the earth was to be avoided. I tried what silence would do.

"She would have married you. She thinks nobody like you," he began again.

"I tell you I never thought of her as my wife. What possesses you, Green, to speak to me in this absurd fashion?"

"Jealousy—revenge," he hissed, and I could just perceive him playing with something which looked disagreeably like a knife.

This was serious, and unseen by him—he seemed absorbed in thought—I took measures to descend as rapidly as possible. There was no disguising the fact that I was in a balloon alone with a madman!

"We will make for the sea," he muttered to himself. "One thrust, and over he goes."

"Not if I know it," I thought. "There will be a little discussion before that undesirable end is attained."

"Was woman ever loved so much before?" he began, speaking to himself. "For her I was ready to sacrifice my present, my future, my hereafter, my life; nothing that a man could do would have been left undone for one approving smile, one kiss from her pouting lips.

"Ah! to think that other lips have pressed hers, that other arms have encircled that matchless form, drives me mad—mad! Yet she looks an angel of purity. How often have I stayed awake to watch the childlike sleep. No impure thought was haunting the quiet mind. If she had but whispered the name of a rival she would never have risen from the couch again. But that letter—ah! that letter. I have it here; it speaks of secret meetings, and calls me—the fiend—the duped, or complaisant husband. And the letter was not wrong. I watched them meet secretly myself. Oh! Lizzie, was such a love as mine to be thrown away like a used glove? Would to God we had never met. No, I won't say that. I cannot forget the days of rapture I spent with you, my darling. It is not you I blame; it is he, the husband's friend, I must destroy. Time for action. This good knife will revenge my lost honour. No man shall boast that he has kissed those lips and live. Now we will make for the sea, and then one thrust and over he goes!"

He was right in saying it was the moment for action. He had worked himself into such a mad fury I expected every moment to be attacked. All the time he was raving the balloon was—unknown to him—rapidly descending, and we were close to the earth, so close that by throwing out the grappling irons I made certain of stopping our further progress, and it was not a bit too soon.

To throw out the irons and knock that dangerous knife out of his hand as he rose to attack me was the work of a second. The next minute I pinned him down in the bottom of the car, and prevented any further unpleasantness.

With the dawn of morning workpeople came over the Brighton Downs and assisted me to secure the Sunbeam and her poor demented owner.

His ascents into the air had finished, and the next occasion that I go up in a balloon with a friend I shall previously put him through a series of searching questions about love and jealousy, if he should happen to possess that much desirable acquisition—a young and pretty wife!

CHAPTER XIII.
MY TWO MATCHES, OR WATERLOO AVENGED.

A man with a history—Was it murder?— Clotilde avenges Waterloo— The winner of the Two Thousand makes a good hack.

It was difficult to say to what nationality Monsieur H—— belonged, as he spoke as many different languages as a Pole or a Russian, but probably Switzerland had the honour of producing the keen-eyed, wiry little man. He was not, even in his most friendly moments, very communicative about his antecedents, and, if that jade rumour did not belie him, he had good reasons for his reticence.

The gossips of the place, envious of his prosperity, alleged amongst other things against him, that he had been a waiter at a notorious night-house in Panton Street, Haymarket, and that on the occurrence of a drunken brawl he and a disreputable man about town called B—— threw a gentleman of good position either out of the window or down the stairs and killed him.

Murder was never meant, and death was, no doubt, the result of an accident. The police could not get to the bottom of the affair—as the people who were present kept out of the way—and the friends of the deceased did all they could to hush the matter up.

It was more than likely that Monsieur H—— was mixed up in this disturbance, as he disappeared from England about that time, and although he annually makes a holiday visit to Paris or Berlin, Geneva or Vienna, he never favours London with his presence.

The land he could see on a clear day without the aid of glasses appeared to be forbidden ground to him. That he had mingled in the fast life of the metropolis in his younger days you would be thoroughly convinced by a few minutes' conversation with him.

One tangible fact connected with the little man is to be obtained from the journals of the period; his wife was successful in getting a divorce from him. The lady who found him too wayward in his affection and a little too ready with his hands, was not frightened at her unfortunate matrimonial experiences, for when that troublesome individual, the Queen's Proctor, could no longer interfere, she was led a second time to the altar, on this occasion by Mr. R——, who recently had a favourite for one of the largest races of the year.

This Monsieur H——, with a history in the background, kept a small hotel at a French watering place.

The autumn of life seemed to give him a great amount of pleasure in a temperate manner. His early youth, however mild it might have been, had evidently not clogged his sense of enjoyment.

In addition to his hotel—which was well managed—he had two other possessions on which he prided himself, and I put them in the order in which he judged them; first, was a long-tailed half-bred hack, and the second a big, strapping black-eyed wife, for he had also sought connubial bliss once again.

If it had not been for this horse this narrative would not have been written.

It was a rough-coated, badly-groomed mare of a chestnut colour, with a blaze face and two white heels, a little doubtful about the forelegs, standing as near as possible sixteen hands high. Good fun was often to be got out of the series of tremendous efforts the diminutive landlord had to make before he could mount his tall steed. Once in the pigskin, however, he seemed comfortable enough, and did not appear as if even buck-jumping would dislodge him.

In his private bar and round the billiard table at night the prowess of Clotilde—that was the hack's name—was often the subject of much animated talk. Her early life was shrouded in mystery like her owner's, but taking into account her formation, the white marks and chestnut colour, the astute Monsieur H—— was inclined to admit Blair Athol to the dignity of having been her male progenitor.

Dreams of breeding winners of the Derby flitted across the little man's mind, but he could never fix upon a suitable sire, and for aught I know he may be still cogitating on that important subject.

When I made Monsieur H—— 's acquaintance, I had with me a pony I picked up a bargain at Newmarket, and when I met the jovial little man out riding we used to have a canter together.

It was one night at a supper the match between our nags was first mooted.

Somebody had caught a splendid basket of trout, and wished his friends to share the finny delicacy. When the speckled beauties had been done justice to, and grog and cigars was the order of the evening, the proposition about the match, previously mentioned as a joke, was brought forward in real earnest.

The landlord was willing to run his Clotilde against my pony Jack over a mile for any reasonable sum—owners to ride. After the usual amount of desultory talk the match was at last arranged, the stakes to be £25 a side, and an early day was fixed for its decision.

The advantages were to all appearances not with me. I was nearly a stone heavier than my opponent, and the long stride of his mare would tell against Jack. My only chance of success lay in the fact that the mare was entirely out of condition, and could not be got ready in the time, whereas my pony had not an ounce of superfluous flesh about him. I knew also that Jack could go a rattling pace, and that he would be quicker on his legs than the mare.

The wily landlord was not ignorant of his mare's weak point, and no time was lost in putting her into hard work and practising her to jump off quickly at the word "Go" given by his billiard-marker.

The latter part of the business was the source of much amusement to the onlookers, and puts one in mind of Jennings' teaching Gladiateur similar lessons before a certain Cambridgeshire.

On the important day Jack was very troublesome at the post, he was too eager to begin, while Clotilde stood watchful, but quiet as a sheep. Her schooling had apparently not been wasted. When the flag fell—we had an example—the mare was as ready to commence as the pony, and ere half the distance had been covered her long stride began to tell, and I could see that only an accident would save the race. I nursed my impetuous little brute as much as I could for a final rush, but my opponent was up to every movement and was not going to be caught napping.

Nothing I could do disturbed him, and he kept on the even tenor of his way, winning without difficulty by a couple of lengths. The mare showed more speed than I had given her credit for, and her owner rode like a Trojan.

The victory rested with the foreigner, and there was nothing for it but to pay and look pleasant. I omitted to say that the loser was bound to give a supper for the benefit of the hotel, and altogether I found, on including some sundry bets I had made; I was to the bad over the transaction nearly £100.

If the matter had ended with the transfer of the money and the supper I would not have cared, but it did not. It was excessively galling to be condoled with on every side, and to read a sensational but thoroughly incorrect account of the match in the columns of the local newspaper, the Journal du Nord.

On perusing a lengthy description of the race and accompanying remarks, a stranger would have come to the conclusion that we had been engaged in nothing less than a great international struggle, and that the disgrace of Waterloo had at last been wiped out.

They managed to ruffle my temper to a considerable extent, and I impatiently waited an opportunity to be revenged.

"Why don't you have a proper hack and not a weed, they cost the same to keep," was the remark continually dinned into my ears by the triumphant Monsieur H——. I meekly submitted that he was in the right, and that I was on the look out for a better animal.

He was anxious to assist me with his judgment, but the horses he recommended did not suit, and I wrote to a friend in England explaining my dilemma, and asked him to send me something decent. He was not long in complying with my wishes.

One morning about ten days after the dispatch of my letter a telegram from Clarence intimated that he had been successful.

"Have sent what you want by to-day's tidal train, particulars by post," he said.

When my new hack stepped on shore and his clothes were taken off, Monsieur H—— and his allies—who had heard of the expected arrival and were in waiting—pronounced him not good enough to draw a voiture, and said if I had given more than £10 for the ugly brute I had been swindled.

The new comer was, it must be confessed, not a beauty to look at, and before he had been many minutes on French soil he displayed unmistakable signs of a disagreeable temper, but the old adage says "handsome is that handsome does." He was certainly not an easy horse to ride, and you required to know his little peculiarities. A dead set was made against him in the town, and I was about the only person who thought him anything but the unmanageable animal he appeared to be. Of course I had good grounds for a contrary belief.

Trotting on the sands one day soon after the arrival of my new purchase I encountered Monsieur H—— on Clotilde. Since his victory the little man had taken to patronizing me; before, he rather valued my opinion, but now my most sagacious remarks passed unheeded, and wore not worth the breath spent upon them.

"So sorry you have been imposed upon with that brute," he remarked. "I wanted to give you your revenge."

"Nevermind my horse's appearance," I replied. "If you really wish another contest, we are ready."

"You mean that? At double the stakes if you like."

The cunning landlord was sanguine of the result because his mare had undergone a regular course of training, and looked at least 10 lbs. better than she did on the last occasion.

This was well known to me, but I was not in the least afraid. So anxious was he of settling the match there and then that to equalize the chances, as he said, he offered to give me a two lengths start, but this kind proposal I, much to his astonishment, declined. I consented, however, to the other terms, and later in the day a regular agreement was signed at the hotel.

Although by my desire this second match was fixed for an early hour of the morning to keep away loafers, the affair had got wind, and to my intense annoyance there were hundreds of spectators. The English colony was present to a man, that officious ass the reporter of the Journal du Nord was there, busy with his pencil, an expatriated bookmaker was fully occupied in taking the odds—they laid 2 to 1 on Clotilde—and Monsieur H—— 's friends mustered in great force. An even start was effected at the first time of asking; for three parts of the journey I contented myself with racing side by side with my opponent, but when the last quarter of a mile was reached, I gave my horse his head. He instantly took advantage of his freedom, and carried me past the judge about ten lengths in front of Clotilde. The only trouble I had in the race was to hold back my horse, who almost pulled my arms out of their sockets. Perfidious Albion had regained her prestige, and my winnings were not to be despised.

"What the deuce have you got there?" asked an English officer, after the race.

"Only a winner of the Two Thousand," was my somewhat astonishing but truthful answer.

My friend Clarence offered me for choice two horses, the second in the Cesarewitch and a winner of the Two Thousand Guineas, and I selected the latter.

CHAPTER XIV.
UNFORTUNATE POSTAGE-STAMP.

A street acquaintance— The fascinating widow—Fatal marriage—Marrying another man's wife—A question of damages—Lucky hit at Ascot.

"Do you know that you have married my wife?"

This somewhat extraordinary piece of intelligence was communicated to my friend Alfred Drummond in his own home about three months after he was married. The person who claimed a prior right to the lady had scamp plainly written on his bloated features, and he looked all over a man who lived by his wits. I thought it an ill-advised union from the first, but when I ventured on a word of warning, I was immediately put down as an old croaker, so I determined to let the wilful man have his own way. The lady was certainly beautiful in that voluptuous sense so much admired by painters of the Dutch school, but I was not taken with her. There was a shiftiness about her glance not pleasant to see either in horse or human being. Although I drank to their happiness in Irroy on that fatal wedding day, I was never sanguine of the result, but by the utmost stretch of my imagination I could not have foreseen the deplorable consequences. The marriage totally wrecked my friend's life, and all but ruined me.

If men will pick up their wives in such an irregular manner, they must not be astonished at the surprises the future has in store for them. It will be learned from this narrative that acquaintances made in the street are never any good. My friend met the girl he married in a post-office; she was sending a telegram, and his business was confined to the purchase of a penny stamp. As it turned out, the buying of that stamp was the most unfortunate thing Drummond ever done. I have often thought that if he had by any chance only seen the contents of the lady's message, his eyes would have been opened and he would have been saved much money. They spoke—I never knew exactly how that came about, but it is easy to guess. A look would be sufficient, for Alfred Drummond, who was one of the most susceptible of men, but I rather think that the ill-fated intimacy began with the restoration of a dropped handkerchief. At all events, the meeting in the post-office ended by the lady's address being obtained, and permission to visit her being granted. A quiet, well-appointed brougham was waiting the fair siren outside the post-office, and my friend came rushing to me full of the adventure, and, so to speak, treading on air.

When you find a man is in love don't trouble to reason with him. Labour lost. And for your own sake don't attempt to say one word against his mistress if you want to avoid a duel to the death. Any aspersions cast upon the whiteness of the charmer's teeth, the colour of her hair, the smallness of her foot, or the levity of her conduct, will never be forgiven. Mr. Alfred Drummond had had to my knowledge many previous attacks of this love fever, but none of them so sudden, severe, and lasting a nature as the present one. He was perfectly infatuated, and his ravings about the lady's perfections disgusted his more sober-minded companions. There is no doubt Mrs. Selby—he told us that was the name—gave him great encouragement from the commencement. It seems that on presenting himself at the lady's villa, which was situated at West Brompton, the door was opened by a man servant, and he was shown into an exquisitely decorated drawing-room. He was received most graciously, and his visits became of almost daily occurrence, and letters were continually passing between them. On the occasion of a carpet dance, I was introduced to my friend's enslaver, but her shifty look created doubts about her integrity in my mind, and I did not like the people I met at her house. If they did not belong to Bohemia proper, they lived within hailing distance of that mystic land. No one enjoys a "lark" more than the writer of this "ower true tale," but when it becomes a question of marriage, too much caution cannot be used. There would be fewer cases in the Divorce Court if men would be ruled by their judgments instead of their passions. All my efforts to control my friend in this matter were fruitless. I could see things were approaching a climax, so I was not surprised at the announcement Drummond made to me one morning, about two months after their first interview.

"Congratulate me, old fellow," he said, bouncing into my office, with an open note in his hand; "I have won the prize."

"I am very glad; how much is it." I knew well enough what he meant, and was sorry to hear the news.

"It is not a prize in the French lottery; something immeasurably superior to money."

"A castle on the Rhine, with the title of Baron attached to it?"

"No, stupid; you are extra dull this morning; the incomparable prize is Mrs. Selby."

"Oh, the widow," I remarked; "so all mysteries have been explained."

"I don't know what you mean; the mysteries, as you call them originated in your own suspicious mind."

"Then tell me who is she after all. As you are going to marry her, of course you know everything?"

"Who should she be but herself, Mrs. Selby, the widow of a City merchant who was killed by the natives three years ago when on a business visit to the Cape?"

"Then you have been introduced to her relations?"

"What are you driving at? I know her friends."

"I said relations."

"She has not got any; so much the better for me."

"Perhaps; but if I stood in your shoes I should like to be posted up a little more about my wife's antecedents."

"I am satisfied, and that is everything."

"Certainly; no offence, you know. You will be a rich man now, I suppose."

"What do you mean?"

"I presume the expensive establishment at Brompton is not kept up on nothing—your widow must have lots of money."

"I don't know and I don't care. I love the darling for herself. You have always had an unpleasant word to say about Caroline; I shall be sorry if my marriage is going to break up our friendship."

"What I said was intended for your good, Alfred, but if the die is cast I have finished. Shake hands, wed Mrs. Selby as soon as you like, and I wish you much happiness."

When you have a serious regard for a man, as I had for Drummond, it grieves you to the heart to see him commit an irreparable act of folly. I was quite confident that the widow was not all she represented herself to be, and that her present mode of life was to some extent enveloped in mystery. When there is so much secrecy, there is always something objectionable to hide. But you might as well try to turn the tide as endeavour to convince a lover that there are any imperfections in his sweetheart. The day for the marriage was at hand, and I was anything but reconciled to it. What business was it of mine? You see we were like brothers. Our friendship began at college, and became cemented when we both secured Government appointments in the same office. Although our natures were entirely different, Drummond's wayward, mine consistent, no two individuals could repose greater confidence in each other. It was not because his marriage would to some extent separate us that I objected to it. I may have many faults, but selfishness is not one of them. I made certain that my friend would be one of those rash individuals who "marry in haste to repent at leisure," and my surmises turned out to be only too correct.

He had reason to have dark forebodings himself. A letter she hid on his appearance and refused to show him caused him considerable uneasiness, and once he came suddenly upon her close to her house in deep conversation with a man, to whom she did not proffer to introduce him. He was so much under her influence at the time, she no doubt managed to explain these trifling matters to his entire satisfaction. The letter was probably a bill from her dressmaker, and the stranger her solicitor's clerk. When she was reported to be ill and confined to her room, I saw her in a box at the Haymarket Theatre, but this fact I kept to myself. They were married, and went to the Continent for the honeymoon, and on their return they took up their residence at the villa. His stay in this fool's paradise was but of short duration. They had only been settled down about three months, when he made the unpleasant discovery that he had married a living man's wife.

In his terrible trouble he came to me for advice. The man who represented himself as the real husband had threatened all manner of actions at law, but agreed to do nothing until twelve o'clock the following day. His story, plausible enough, was that, on going into the interior of the country at the Cape to trade, he had been captured by the natives, and been kept a prisoner for over two years. A friend who was with him—who succeeded in escaping—left him on the field for dead, and reported the decease of her husband to Mrs. Selby. On one condition I agreed to assist Drummond out of his difficulty, and that was, that he must separate at once from the lady. As he loved the woman to distraction, this was a hard blow; but he at once saw the propriety of complying with the stipulation, and the next day I kept the appointment with Mr. Selby instead of my friend.

The meeting was to take place at the villa. On arriving there a few minutes before the time arranged, I was met by Mrs. Selby, with her attire in disorder and dishevelled hair.

"Where is he? He has not been here since yesterday," she exclaimed, clutching hold of me and bursting into a flood of tears.

I tried to calm her, but it was of no use; she became quite hysterical and threw herself face downwards on the sofa. If that is not real, I thought, what a magnificent actress she would have made. On ringing the bell for her maid her real husband made his appearance. On seeing the condition of his wife he went up to the sofa and spoke kindly to her.

"Don't take it so much to heart, Caroline," he said, feelingly, "you had reasons to think me dead. I do not blame you." Turning to me he remarked, "I hope I have not kept you waiting. You are from Mr. Drummond, I presume; if you will step into another room we will talk over matters."

Before sitting down I had a good look at Mr. Selby, and I neither liked his manner nor appearance. I saw that I had an unscrupulous, perhaps clever rogue to deal with, and I became doubly cautious.

I began by saying what a strange affair it was, and asking him where he and Mrs. Selby were married. He was prepared for the question; he not only produced the marriage certificate, but also furnished me with the names and present abodes of the witnesses. When I made enquiry about the business in the City he at once gave me a card of the address; he was an exporter of fancy goods, whatever that may mean. Alluding incidentally to his altered appearance, he asked whether two years in the bush was not enough to pull any one down. Then we got to closer quarters.

"Well, Mr. Selby, it is a great misfortune to all parties. What do you propose to do?" I asked.

"I doated on my wife, and should like to take her back," he replied; "to prevent exposure, which I suppose would not suit your friend, I am willing to come to terms."

"As you are the lawful husband, I will undertake that Mr. Drummond relinquishes all his claims."

"But that will not be sufficient; he has done me a great injury and must compensate me for it."

"Your captivity has not bettered your fortunes, Mr. Selby."

"On the contrary, ruined me."

I saw that the whole affair resolved itself into a question of money, and it was imperative for my friend's sake that the matter should be hushed up. I wondered how it was that his wife was enabled to live in such good style in his absence, but said nothing. It was no good studying delicacy with a man like that. I said—

"How much do you want? You must remember that my friend is a comparatively poor man."

"A thousand pounds," was the startling answer.

"Quite preposterous", I replied; "my friend is not in a position to pay anything like this sum, and if he took my advice he would keep his money in his pocket. He, at all events, acted in good faith."

"I have not said a word against Mr. Drummond, but he has mortally injured me. He can think over my proposition, but to-morrow at the same hour I must have a decided answer," Mr. Selby remarked. "There is the address of my hotel. You can tell him that to clear myself I may have to prosecute my wife for bigamy, and that I can take the case into the Divorce Court."

When I got back I told Drummond what had taken place. I thought he would have gone mad when he heard that there was no doubt about Mr. Selby's identity. My poor infatuated friend had good prospects, and for certain reasons, very serviceable now, his marriage was only known to a few people. The difficulty we had to encounter was how to get rid of the demands of the injured husband. There was not much time to deliberate, Selby took care of that, and when once the peculiar case got wind it would fly to all parts of the town. A certain amount of money must be paid I could see, and at length we agreed to offer five hundred pounds. But how to get the sum; Drummond had not five hundred pence. His journey to Paris, the expenses at Brompton, to say nothing of the innumerable rich presents he had given Mrs. Selby, had swallowed up all his ready money. I had relations to look after, and was at no time flush of cash. But by the aid of an all-potent bill stamp we solved the problem, and I wended my way next morning to the appointment with five one hundred pound notes in my pocket.

"Look here, Mr. Selby," I said when I got to his hotel, "let us understand each other. I have come on behalf of my friend to make you a first and last offer; if you accept, the money is ready; if you refuse, you may institute what proceedings you please."

"What is the proposal?"

"That on your signing that paper, agreeing to take back your wife and cease all action against Mr. Drummond, I will pay you five hundred pounds."

A slight noise in the rokenbedroom adjoining the room we were sitting in attracted my attention at this moment. There was some one listening to our conversation, and now that the full particulars of the conspiracy are known, I have no doubt it was Mrs. Selby. The movement of the fire-irons was most likely a pre-concerted signal. He strongly objected to the smallness of the sum, and dwelt on the great wrong than had been done him, which was bound to embitter his whole life.

"Well, Mr. Selby," I said, rising and taking up my hat, "I can make no addition to my offer."

"It is so little; think of my awkward position. Mr. Drummond, a perfect stranger, parts me from my friends, banishes me from places where I am known, and compels me to change my name. And, worst of all, after what has passed, my wife can never be the same to me that she once was. Put yourself in my place and you would think yourself utterly ruined."

"It is certainly a dreadfully unfortunate occurrence, but my friend can do nothing more; the fact is that he had the greatest difficulty to procure this sum."

"No compensation will ever heal the wound, but for my wife's sake I will take the money."

To satisfy my curiosity, and oblige Drummond, I made a few enquiries at West Brompton later in the week, and learned that on the same day I paid the money the furniture of the villa was sold privately, and it was reported in the neighbourhood that, on account of ill-health, Mrs. Selby had gone abroad.

Poor Drummond kept his word—what acute suffering it cost him was known only to himself—and did not attempt to see his wife of three months again, but his separation from her was killing him.

To the great grief of all his friends he became careless in his habits, and took to drink. He was expostulated with time after time, but in vain. Nothing I could say would rouse him, and to all intents and purposes he seemed a lost man—a ship at sea without a rudder.

The bill on which I figured as the drawer had nearly run its course, and how it was to be met I had not the vaguest notion. There was no chance of a renewal. A proposition to that effect which I made the holder was rejected at once. Rumours as to my unfortunate friend's dissipated habits had got about, and people had no longer any confidence in him. It was well known that I had no private sources of income. With ruin staring me in the face you may rest assured I was not inclined to bless Mrs. Selby.

Brought up in a district where innumerable racehorses are reared and trained, it was natural that I should take an interest in the turf, but when I wanted them most to be fortunate my speculations all at once ceased to be remunerative. The Derby had upset all my calculations—a second-class animal found the course to his liking, and beat all the favourites—and I looked forward to Ascot to get back my money with interest. Still as my investments were necessarily of a trifling amount I had no idea of winning sufficient to take up the obnoxious bill which was due immediately after Ascot. It so happened that my annual holidays fell at Ascot time, and I made up my mind to a week's racing if the funds held out. If at all lucky I might get a hundred, and I thought that this sum would tempt the Jew to renew the bill. In another three months there was no telling what would happen. I saw that it was no good relying on Drummond to find the five hundred, or any portion of it, and he had made unsuccessful applications to all his relations. I was very sorry for him, but his friendship was likely to prove rather costly. The poor follow was a pitiful sight to see. Every hope of his life and his pride had been blasted by that woman, and inattention to his duties at last compelled him to resign his post.

I see him regularly once a year, but there is no improvement in his condition. On the contrary, the wreck is beginning to break up, and I fear that soon his place on earth will be vacant. An uncle allows him two pounds a week so long as he remains at Boulogne.

To "Royal Ascot," as it was called by the sporting prophets, I went, determined to do my best to defeat the layers of odds. A careful study of the programme made me fancy I could name a few winners.

Entering the course on Hunt Cup day, I was addressed by a miserable looking object, who informed me that he was the brother of a famous jockey. He knew, he said, a certainty for the principal race. Not believing for a moment that he had any reliable information, I threw the half-starved wretch a shilling, and was walking away when he ran after me and gave me a scrap of paper.

In a popular play, derived of course from French sources, it is seen of what great importance a few words of writing may become. The strip of paper handed to me by the Newmarket tout, and which I carelessly put into my waistcoat pocket without reading it, was destined to save me from a grave difficulty; and dirty as it is, it will always have a prominent place in my album.

Over the previous events I had varying luck, and when the numbers went up for the prettiest race of the year, I had won altogether twenty-five pounds, so I resolved to give myself a chance.

There was a large field, and long prices were offered against many of the competitors. A man had only to know the winner to realize a fortune for a ridiculously small outlay.

The favourites I discarded, as I had seen too many "certainties" settled coming up the stiff ascent. I had taken stock of most of the horses before they cantered, and was trying to get a hint from the betting, when I recollected the neglected "tip" in my pocket.

On the soiled paper was scrawled with a pencil, "The winner of the Hunt Cup is Jasper! Back him, and send a trifle out of your winnings to R. F., Black Bull Inn, Newmarket."

I had seen and liked the form and condition of Baron Rothschild's horse. He looked admirably adapted to ascend the hill, as his hind legs were well placed under him; and considering his performances, he was not over-burdened with weight. There were many more unlikely candidates, and finding that all the sporting Solons, excepting one who wrote under the odd name of "Disgue," had not a favourable word to say about Jasper, and in the absence of other authentic intelligence, I pinned my faith to the selection of the Newmarket tout.

"How much Jasper?" I asked a prominent member of the ring.

"Hundred to three," was the answer.

"Put it down seven times," I said, and I handed the bookmaker twenty-one pounds.

If the horse lost I would still be the winner of four pounds on the day, and there were other races to speculate on. I was not kept long in suspense. A bell announced that the starter had got rid of his eager and troublesome customers. Anxious eyes watched the struggle.

"The favourite's beat," was soon proclaimed, and several gentlemen shouted, "Steel, Nicholls, what against Jasper?"

As they neared the Grand Stand a terrific shout told me—for I was so hemmed in I could not see the race—that Jasper was winning in a canter.

Lucky shilling!

My seven hundred pounds was paid immediately after the jockey weighed in, and I increased my winnings to a thousand before the last race was run on Friday. With this piece of good luck my difficulties were happily at an end. When the bill was presented it was duly honoured, but to his credit it must be stated that Drummond never rested until he got a relation to refund me the money. It need scarcely be put on record here that the brother of the famous jockey had occasion to rejoice at the success of Jasper.

A trial at the Old Bailey in the following November showed the public that Mr. and Mrs. Selby were nothing but a couple of swindlers who went about preying on unsuspecting men like my unfortunate friend, Drummond.

The Silver Gauntlet.
A STORY OF THE TURF.

In Four Chapters.

CHAPTER I.

An Introduction to Billy Platt.

It was the eve of the Wincastle races which were first started in that period so fruitful of duchesses—the reign of old Rowley. Historians differ as to whether the Merry Monarch did or did not, on a certain occasion, actually patronise this meeting in person, accompanied by a notorious play actress; but that does not matter.

Historians, as well as doctors, agree to differ. The quaint country town of Wincastle was full to the over-flowing, and the oldest inhabitant pledged his word at the bar of the Black Bull that he had never set eyes on such a big crowd.

It was a motley assemblage, at any rate, peculiar about the shape of its coat, and the cut of its trousers; not too particular as to the delicacy of its language, but much exercised in its mind where it was going to sleep.

The old-fashioned inns and lodging-houses had, early in the day, let their last bed, and were now asking and getting exorbitant prices for the sofas, tables, and chairs. Later on there will be eager bidders for the right to spend the night on the bare floor. Thoroughbred horses, worth small fortunes, accustomed to all the refinement and luxury of a Newmarket stable, had to be contented with the miserable shelter of a cow-byre or a cart-shed.

It was no doubt Mr. Strathill, the energetic clerk of the course, who had been instrumental in drawing the additional bipeds and quadrupeds to Wincastle this autumn. According to his specious advertisements his annual gathering was the very paradise of all race-goers, and he dwelt impressively on a new contest, of singular interest, to be decided on the first day, called the Silver Gauntlet.

This extra attraction was first mooted by the Duchess of Wincastle—a fascinating widow of twenty-five—and the trophy was subscribed to by her Grace and all the unmarried belles of the neighbourhood.

The Gauntlet was an imitation of a lady's glove in silver, and was a masterpiece of Hunt and Roskell. The fingers were so arranged that this beautiful and expensive work of art (it cost £200) when filled with flowers could appropriately be used to decorate a table.

The new race was to be run over three miles of a fair hunting country, gentlemen riders.

At this palpable challenge of beauty every eligible man in the country, who had a decent horse, was eager to try his fortune.

The large field of fifteen or sixteen competitors was expected, and already there had been some heavy wagering at the clubs.

Nothing worthy of note occurred in connection with any of the other races at Wincastle; but the unfortunate and peculiar circumstances surrounding the battle for the Silver Gauntlet soon became the all-absorbing topic of conversation.

The race was a success in a monetary sense, but the clerk of the course would sooner cut off his right hand than include it in his programme a second time.

It was the first and last Silver Gauntlet ever contested for on the Wincastle Downs.

Amongst the surging crowd at the entrance to the Black Bull might have been seen two men in deep conversation; they were a strange contrast to each other. One was a tall, handsome, devil-may-care-looking fellow about thirty, who owned an estate in the neighbourhood, and who, from a disappointment in love or something else, was said to be going headlong to ruin. Yet his comrades would tell you that a more open-handed and steadfast friend than Ivan Moordown did not exist.

The other man, who was making Moordown wince at his coarse and cutting remarks, was a noted member of the betting ring—Billy Platt. Billy's appearance was not in his favour; it was of the costermonger order of beauty, and his vocabulary would have furnished an important addition to a new slang dictionary.

His disgraceful language and revengeful disposition made the ex-vendor of cauliflowers generally feared and detested. Emanating from the lowest rung of the ladder, and encountering unpleasant difficulties in his way, such as being half-murdered at Ascot, and nearly drowned at Hampton, it was believed that he now laid himself open to get the "swells" into his toils.

It was well known that the Marquis of H——, Lord W——, and Mr. B——, were all obliged to discontinue attending race meetings because Billy declined to give them a few weeks' grace to square their accounts.

When spoken to on the subject, he would abruptly answer, "Dong it, mon, moind yer own bissness; think ye the swells wud hav' waited for my brass?"

The conversation between Mr. Moordown and Billy had continued but a short time, when the latter said (we omit the oaths, and put his hybrid language into English)—

"I cannot hear myself speak with this infernal clatter. Come upstairs to my sitting-room."

"Later on would suit me better. I have an appointment," replied Moordown, edging away.

"The wench, or whoever it is, must wait. It is high time we had an understanding. I have come to Wincastle on purpose to see you."

"It is now seven; I will come back at nine if it is important."

"This present moment, or not at all," was the polite answer of Platt. "If it was even the Duchess herself who was going to meet you, business must be attended to first."

"Lead the way then," said Moordown, evidently anything but pleased at his capture.

CHAPTER II.

Billy Platt shows his hand, and receives an unexpected but well-deserved blow.

"Have you any idea how much you owe me?" asked Platt, as soon as the sitting-room door was shut.

"I have not my book with me—it has become rather a large sum, as I have not had a single winning week since Goodwood," replied Mr. Moordown.

"Some people would think it a large amount, but it is a mere flea-bite to you rich landowners."

"What is the total?"

"£1725, and I want the money."

"It is more than I thought, but never mind, Billy, you shall have it, every penny."

"When?"

"I have no money to spare at present, but my turn of luck will come if you are only patient with me."

"But I have no patience left; you have had lots of time, and I must insist on a settlement—here—to-night. I am short of ready money myself."

"That is unreasonable. You don't suppose I walk about with such a sum of money in my possession?"

"Have it I must. Why not get some of your friends to advance it? I have heard that great people always oblige one another."

"Out of the question. You can wait at all events till after Wincastle races. I may be able to knock off a good portion of the debt this week. I have a horse entered for the Silver Gauntlet, and he is not unlikely to win."

"What's its name?"

"Highdrift."

"Highdrift! the devil. Why that's favourite, and the horse I am so bad against. Laid eights, and now they take 2 to 1, and the worst of it is they only back another horse with any freedom—Springtrap. I have a ruinous book; it is all Highdrift."

"I am sorry you are bad against my horse, because he is very well, and knowing, as I do, every one of his opponents, I think he stands an excellent chance. You must not lose by Highdrift, Billy."

"Highdrift be poleaxed! (That word will do.) Get back my money at 2 to 1! You must think me a hedgehog." (He did not say hedgehog.) "I know a move worth a dozen of that. Me back Highdrift? Why, I am only too happy to lay against him. Do you know anyone who wants the odds to a hundred?"

"I don't understand you, Platt. Highdrift is all right, and it is not more than 2 to 1 against him. He will very nearly, if not quite, win."

"But that's where we agree to differ. You do not see my drift—lowdrift, you can call it if you like. I have been taking liberties with your horse all along, and I'll be cremated if he is going to win."

"What the devil do you mean, man?" asked Moordown, getting rapidly into a passion, and rising hastily from his chair.

"Just what I say. It is a mutual benefit affair. You owe me £1,725, and cannot pay it; I agree to give you time. I have overlaid your horse; you oblige me by scratching him on account of an accident, or give me your word that if he runs he will not win."

"Scoundrel! take that," was Moordown's answer to these equitable proposals, as he drove his right between Billy's eyes.

When Billy recovered from his well-deserved punishment, and was able to regain his feet, he found Sir Hew Mainfly, the owner of Springtrap, the second favourite for the Silver Gauntlet, in his room.

"Well, Billy, anything wrong? You look dreadfully uncomfortable. Been taking a nap? You might have chosen a softer place than the floor. Hilloa! that's a nasty lump on your forehead. Who has been giving you a lesson in the noble art of self-defence?"

"Somebody who will very soon rue it. Who should it be but the owner of Highdrift, the great Mr. Moordown?"

"You don't mean to say he has been foolish enough to quarrel with you?"

"It is just what he has done. He might have paid his debt first, don't you think?"

"Certainly. I never was so surprised. Did you explain things properly? Would he not listen to reason?"

"I at last told him plainly enough, and the moment he understood it he knocked me down."

"We did not reckon on this difficulty. Moordown's obstinacy will upset all our plans. It is provoking, for with Highdrift out of the way the race would have been a good thing for my horse. I did think, as he owed you such a lot of money, you would be sure to bring him to terms."

"I did my best, Sir Hew; but nothing is lost as yet."

"Everything is very uncertain. What will you do now?"

"I will send him a letter demanding payment of my money before twelve o'clock to-morrow, and in the meantime I will lay all I can against Highdrift."

"And to-morrow. How will you proceed?"

"Never mind, I have arranged it. Highdrift won't trouble you."

"Suppose he finds the money. Is it much?"

"£1,725."

"Impossible for him to get that sum."

"I thought so. With Moordown out of the hunt you will, I suppose, about pull through. I have made a book for your horse."

"I only fear Highdrift. Keep him harmless and you will win your money."

"Don't bother about the blackguard or his horse; I have a blow to pay, and am in a hurry to get rid of the obligation. I hear you are both after the duchess. Make hay while the sun shines. Win the Silver Gauntlet, and carry off the duchess into the bargain."

"Keep to your compact, Billy, and I will have a good try for the double event."

CHAPTER III.

A Woman comes to the Rescue.

While Sir Hew Mainfly and Billy Platt were plotting the ruin of Ivan Moordown, the fair Duchess of Wincastle was busy arranging her house for a grand ball to be given that evening. All the county magnates had accepted, and amongst the "contents" were her Grace's two reputed suitors, Sir Hew Mainfly and Mr. Moordown, so it will be perceived that there were other interests linked with the winning of the new prize instituted by the duchess, which did not at first meet the eye.

Rumour alleged that of her two lovers the duchess preferred Moordown, but that the reckless life he led prevented her giving him any encouragement. As has been already seen, the two men are very dissimilar in character—the one resembling a lion, and Sir Hew more of a tiger.

The duchess herself had been a Blanche Wintour, the daughter of a wealthy commoner. She had been and was still a great beauty, and the earl duke married her not because he cared for her, but to spite his brother and please his other relations, and secure an heir to the title and estates. A baby came, but, unfortunately, it was a girl, and the earl, thinking himself shamefully ill-used, went off in a hot temper to the North Pole, where he caught a severe cold, which, settling on his lungs, ultimately led to his death. Her first marriage had been entirely one of convenience, but in selecting a second husband the duchess was at liberty to be guided by her heart.

All the guests at the ball were more or less interested in the Silver Gauntlet, and the chances of the various candidates were freely discussed. Other ladies besides the duchess had lovers going to take part in the race.

From the commencement of the betting till that night Mr. Moordown's horse had been the favourite, followed a point or two off by Sir Hew Mainfly's Springtrap, and Lord Piershore's Eye of Night, but no sooner had the dancing begun, when it was whispered about that there was something wrong with Highdrift.

One man had seen Billy Platt lay six ponies, and offer to go on; a second was told that the horse was actually scratched on account of an accident to his fetlock joint, and a third had heard that the retrograde movement in the betting was only got up for the easier working of a large commission.

On approaching a knot of these gossips, the question was put point blank to Moordown whether there was anything the matter with his horse, and his answer was reassuring enough.

"When I left him a few minutes ago," he said, "he was as well as any horse in England."

Still there were men who shook their heads, believing that where the smoke is the fire is not far distant, and they noticed that Moordown looked terribly dejected and ill at ease.

Later in the night it became generally known that Platt had finished Highdrift's business for him by offering 10 to 1 as often as anyone would take it, and everyone concluded the horse would not run.

Disquieting rumours about the favourite had reached the duchess from time to time, but she could not ask Moordown for an explanation, as he kept out of her circle. When, however, she overheard this remark, "They say Moordown is hard up, and has given a laying commission to Billy Platt," she went in search of him. She found him leaning against a pillar at the entrance to the conservatory.

"Truant," she exclaimed, with an enchanting smile, and striking him a smart blow on the shoulder with her fan. "Why have you deserted me?"

"I was not vain enough to think I would be missed."

"You were in error. I have come in quest of you."

"I wish I could believe that, flatterer."

"You may; it is the truth. I was really anxious about you. Now tell me everything. What is the matter with Highdrift?"

"Nothing whatever; the horse was never better."

"Then what means these scandalous reports?"

"All I can say is that I don't originate them."

"But why is it, Moordown, certain low bookmakers are offering such long prices against Highdrift, and openly boasting that he is as good as dead for the race to-morrow?"

There was no reply.

"You must answer me," putting her hand on his arm. "This concerns your honour."

"I cannot tell you."

"But you must," stamping her little foot, "Is it money?"

"If you must know, it is. I have had a run of bad luck, and am in difficulties, and the scoundrels plot to drag my name in the gutter. I cannot remain to be disgraced. If I never see you again, Blanche, think as kindly of me as you can."

"Nonsense; that is not like you. You will stop and face the difficulties when I tell you. I cannot remain any longer from my guests, but promise to see me in the morning at ten punctually; and, remember, if Highdrift does not win to-morrow you are to expect no more flowers from me," and she gave him a rose out of her magnificent bouquet.

Moordown did not feel so depressed after this interview.

Next morning the word went round that Highdrift had passed a bad night. Anyone seeing the clear eye and glossy coat of that horse as he stood in his loose box would, perhaps, have formed a different opinion.

Outside the Black Bull Billy Platt and his chums were early at work to earn a few more sovereigns out of the "dead 'un." Nobody could understand the determined hostility displayed against the quondam favourite, as he was known to be all right, and people began to look suspiciously at and talk in a way the reverse of complimentary about Moordown. As the town clock struck ten the betting on the Silver Gauntlet stood thus:—

6 to 4 agst Sir Hew Mainfly's Springtrap (taken).

5—2—Lord Piershore's Eye of Night (taken).

5—1—Col. Heapland's Idol (taken and offered.)

8—1—Capt. Moretown's Conqueror (t. freely).

12—1—Mr. Moordown's Highdrift (offered).

As some of the largest bookmakers from London and the provinces were present the betting was extensive, and any particular horse could easily be backed to win a few thousands.

Platt had been fortunate enough to find another creditor of Moordown's, and the two "pals" were working together. Up to eleven o'clock there was no change of any moment in the betting, but at that hour Billy and his chum were startled out of their false security by a Captain Wardlock readily accepting all the long prices proffered against Highdrift. The captain booked all the money he could get at 12, 10, and 8 to 1, and, to Billy Platt's utter amazement, he closed with his offer of six hundreds. He was also prepared was the captain to take slight odds that Highdrift beat Springtrap wherever they finished.

This unlooked-for movement was a crushing blow to Platt, and quite knocked him out of time; and he retired with his friend to the hotel, to see how he stood and discuss the altered position of affairs. They had scarcely sat down before Sir Hew Mainfly joined them, consternation visibly written on his face.

"Has he paid you?" he asked Platt before he had well got into the room.

"Not a sixpence, and here is another creditor who is acting with me. The documents are ready for the stewards."

"Then what the devil means this reaction in the betting?"

"I have not the least idea, Sir Hew. Who is Captain Wardlock?"

"An intimate friends of Moordown's, and a dangerous man. He is not working in the dark."

At this instant there was a loud knock at the door, and, to the no small surprise of the three conspirators, Moordown entered the room.

"In good company, Sir Hew," said Moordown sarcastically.

"Like you, I have some business with Platt."

"Mine won't take a minute." (Turning to Platt and throwing down a bundle of notes on the table.) "You and your confederates are baffled this time. There is your money."

"If I had not been so short, Mr. Moordown, I would not have troubled you. No inconvenience I hope."

"If you ever presume to speak to me again, you know from last night what to expect."

"As you are settling with everybody, Mr. Moordown, you may as well pay me my small claim," said Platt's friend.

"Certainly. How much is it?"

"Only £145."

"There. Now, Sir Hew, you will be able to resume the business which I am sorry to have interrupted," said Moordown, as he left the room.

"Good morning, Mr. Moordown, we will meet on the course," replied Sir Hew, who little knew that ere the sun set he would be lying where he was now sitting—a dead man.

CHAPTER IV.

Broken bones and successful love.

They had now lost all hold over Moordown; and the three men were so stunned it was a short time before either spoke. Sir Hew was the first to open his mouth.

"Where on earth did he get the money?"

"Who could have found such a large amount in a night? It must have been the duchess. They do say she is sweet on him," muttered Platt.

"Nonsense! I don't believe a word of it; but where the cash came from is a mystery," said Sir Hew.

"Will this talk help me to get back the money I have overlaid against Highdrift?" asked Platt's friend. "A pretty book I have got to square."

"The race is not yet decided," replied Sir Hew, looking much perplexed, "and if I cannot win somebody else will have a difficulty. One moment, Platt—your friend won't mind"—taking Platt to the window, and whispering: "You know Airton; he is a certain starter, but has not the ghost of a chance. He is not particular what he does, and there is an old feud about a girl between him and Moordown. You must manage to give him a hundred to get in the way of Highdrift. That is the best I can suggest. Two of us ought to be able to stop the brute."

Most great races are run at three o'clock, and the Silver Gauntlet at Wincastle was no exception. At that hour the excellent field of thirteen placed themselves in the hands of the starter, who despatched them on their eventful journey at the second attempt.

As they streamed past the Grand Stand, crowded with all the beauty and aristocracy of the county, it was seen that Sir Hew Mainfly was leading, but that he could scarcely control the fractions Springtrap, and that Highdrift, with Moordown for his pilot, held a good position in the centre of the second lot close to Mr. Airton on his weedy thoroughbred Jasmine.

We who are behind the scenes know that Airton's proximity to Moordown bodes no good to the latter.

The only important alteration in the betting at the fall of the flag was the return of Highdrift to his old position of first favourite.

As he swung himself into the saddle, Moordown told Wardlock that he would make a waiting race of it, and let Highdrift do his best in the last two fields. He seemed to be quietly confident of the result, and he took all the chaff his friends gave him about the withered rose pinned to his jacket in good part.

There had been a heavy fall of rain during the night, and before half the three miles was covered the holding ground began to find out the weak points of many of the half-trained horses.

Springtrap was going in more sober fashion, but he was not by any means done with; on the contrary, he looked as formidable as anything, and now that he submitted to Sir Hew's guidance he possessed an undeniable chance. Sir Hew had wisely pulled him back to the second division, among which Highdrift and Jasmine were still running side by side.

So far, and it is nearly two miles, there have been no casualties, but they are fast approaching the big jump. A natural brook has been artificially guarded, and, judging from the number of people at the spot, some scrambling is expected. These waiters on accidents were not disappointed. Two or three of the first flight were too exhausted to clear the obstacle, and landed in the water, where they kicked and splashed, to the intense delight of the spectators.

As he neared the brook, Sir Hew Mainfly put on a spurt and left the company, and pulling his horse together landed him safely on the other side.

Watchers on the top of the Grand Stand offered to bet even money that they named the winner. They meant Springtrap, and it did look like odds on that horse, when Highdrift met with a check at the brook.

On nearing the water, Jasmine swerved right in front of Highdrift, and the result was a serious scrimmage, in which horses and men were on the ground together. Airton may have been earning his hundred or not, but he had bitter occasion to remember the accident; a kick he received when on the ground injured his spine, and he was doomed to be a cripple for life.

Moordown, who had stuck to his reins, was on his feet and into the saddle in a minute, and it required no persuasion to get Highdrift across to the right side. Valuable moments had, however, been lost, and there was now a considerable gap between him and Springtrap. He set his horse going in earnest, and soon passed the stragglers, and when he got into the second field from home he had everything beaten except Springtrap, on whom he did not appear to gain a yard.

The success of Sir Hew seemed almost certain. There was only a trifling post and rails obstruction between him and the straight run in, and he was a comfortable distance ahead of his most dangerous enemy. The owner of Highdrift began to lose hope, and bewail his confounded luck. If Airton had not got in his way, he thought, things might have been different.

After all that had occurred in connection with the race, it galled him to the quick to think he was likely to be beaten, and, of all men, by Sir Hew, and in sight of the duchess.

But there are many slips between the cup and the lip, and ships have been known to founder in summer seas. Whether it was carelessness, or the horse got frightened at the yelling of the mob, or was tired, cannot be said now, but, in taking the most insignificant obstacle of the whole course, Springtrap for the first time made a mistake, and came down heavily, pitching Sir Hew on his head.

The baronet never spoke more. When picked up it was discovered that his neck was broken.

Moordown had now the race in hand, and he passed the Grand Stand six lengths in front of Conqueror, next to whom came Idol and Eye of Night.

Moordown was a general favourite, and the many congratulations he received were hearty and sincere, but he would have bartered them all, and Highdrift also, for the little smile of recognition bestowed on him by the duchess. The accidents—there was a third, which was not, however, of a serious nature—damped the gaiety of the meeting, and Billy Platt invented a special curse for the new race, which he repeats to this day.

On the following forenoon an interview took place at the Castle between the duchess and Mr. Moordown.

"I have brought you the Gauntlet, duchess," he said, kneeling; "it is really more yours than mine. Inside you will find your money, which brought such good lack. Now tell me how I can repay your great and unmerited kindness?"

"You want to be put to the test, do you?"

"Nothing could please me better. I only hope it will be something difficult."

"Tremendous!" she answered, laughing and blushing; and raising him from his kneeling position; "nothing short of a life-test."

CHAPTER XV.
MY REVENGE AT BILLIARDS.

Enticed to Liverpool with a Burlesque Troupe— The comic Murderers—a nice Amateur—the unknown Friend— the Champion of England.

"Look here, Jack, you know Pattie Hastings?" said Horace Brown, as he entered my apartments hurriedly one morning.

"I have certainly set eyes on that young lady," I replied. "She is not here?"

"Who said she was? Why, you old hypocrite, you were mad about her last winter, and even now the recollection of these beautiful sonnets you used to send her, to say nothing of the bouquets and bracelets, makes her sigh—after a third glass of champagne!"

"Champagne has more than that to answer for. Suppose I did at one time admire the little woman's antics on and off the stage, what then? Has she sent you to me for a certificate of character? Eyesight all right? No Colorado gold nor Arizona diamonds for her; and she is sound in wind. I will back her to talk scandal against any three damsels you know. The Duke of C—— is not going to be divorced to marry her? No dissension, I hope, in a certain household?"

"You talk coolly enough now, old fellow!" said Brown. "Other times, other opinions. She was the queen of burlesque a short year ago, and her dancing some one not a mile off thought more graceful than Kate Vaughan's!"

"This is evidently the dull season, and you are hard up for subjects to speak about," said I. "Does Hughes run his horse at Sandown?"

"I don't know. But I say, Jack, you are not bad friends with Pattie?"

"Bother Pattie! Has the world taken a fit to revolve round her? Or is it a case of Miss Hastings on the brain? Pulse too rapid, head hot, skin too dry, feverish very; hold out your tongue, and let me prescribe for you."

"I see," said Brown, "you are in one of your 'waiting-to-be-fed' moods; it is no good asking a favour."

"You have confined your observations to Miss Hastings since you entered the room, permit me to observe. When I hear what the request is I may be able to answer. The money market, however, is tight."

"It is not money," said Brown. "I want you to come to Liverpool with me."

"To Liverpool!" said I. "Why not San Francisco? In queer street, eh? Pressing business abroad, I suppose?"

"Bosh!" said Brown. "Pattie Hastings is taking her troupe to America, and I am going to Liverpool to see her off. I wish you would come—she will be delighted."

"I see!" said I. "After the steamer goes dull hotel! No one to speak to or play billiards with! Long railway journey without a partner at écarté. Well, all right; I will take pity on you. When does this burlesque eclipse take place?"

"We start by the nine o'clock train to-morrow morning," said Brown.

Having agreed to go, we arrived at the station at the appointed time, and went to Liverpool. There were the gushing Pattie and her invaluable troupe, and a more forward set of young women I never saw. We put them safely on board a Cunard steamer, and returned to the Washington Hotel. The question then arose how we were to dispose of our time, as we did not mean to leave for town till next day. The theatres were no good—all old pieces, which we had seen many times in London. Brown suggested a visit to a waxworks in the neighbourhood, where all the notorious murderers—Rush, Palmer, and Co.—wore evening-costume, and only wanted a flower in their coats to look like stewards of a county ball. I declined to interview the horrors. We eventually made up our minds to try our luck at that ever-fascinating game—billiards.

Notwithstanding that I play a more than an average game, I happened to meet my match that night.

As regards playing cards with strangers, an amusing anecdote is related of the elder Matthews and his partner Mr. Yates. They were on a professional tour and found themselves at a country hotel on a stormy day without any means of killing the time during the bad weather. They would have liked a game of whist immensely, but where were they to find partners, double dummy being dull work? The landlord was consulted, and asked if he knew of any gentleman who would have a game of whist? He replied in the affirmative, a gentleman being then in the hotel whom he thought understood the game pretty well. A polite message was immediately conveyed to the stranger, inviting him to join them in a game. The unknown gentleman soon made his appearance, and they all sat down to play, the new arrival taking dummy.

Luck was dead against the comedians. They could not win a single game. After they had played some time, and no inconsiderable amount of money had passed to the holder of "dummy," the stranger looked at his watch and said he was sorry to have to leave, having to meet an important engagement. The comedians were apparently surprised at this sudden termination of the game, and Matthews asked whether he would be disengaged soon again? The stranger replied that he would be most happy to meet them at any hour next day, when perhaps they would be in better luck, at the same time regretting it was most urgent business that called him away. "Pray," said Matthews, who was rather excited, and when so stammered, "what may your—your business be if—if—it isn't—im—pertinent—to inquire?" "Why," replied the stranger, with a knowing nod, "I am, like yourselves, a professional—a magician—and give a performance to-night at the Town Hall. You will, therefore, excuse my departure. Good evening, gentlemen!" and the stranger bowed and retired. The two comedians considered it prudent next morning not to renew the game with so lucky an opponent, and thought they had had enough of it, although very much dissatisfied with the stranger and his "luck."

Well, I considered I was "done" at billiards at Liverpool, but determined, unlike the comedians, to have satisfaction and revenge before I left. Dinner over at the Washington, we strolled a little through the city, and came across some excellent billiard-rooms in the neighbourhood of the Exchange. Having nothing else on hand at the time I suggested a game to Brown, and just as we had finished our third hundred a well-dressed, young-looking man came into the room. As he appeared rather anxious to play, I obliged him, and it was not long before I found, to my surprise, that he was a much better player than I had anticipated. Thinking I could win easily, I began very carelessly, but my young-looking opponent soon made me stare with astonishment at his good play; and as he kept edging up to the "spot-stroke" without leaving the balls about, I began to anticipate defeat. I, however, pulled myself together, and, after a well-contested and exciting game, I came off the winner. The second game was also exciting, as I was ninety-eight when he ran out the victor. The third game commenced very steadily, but eventually I came off triumphant. The betting, at first in half-sovereigns, increased as we continued to play, and I found myself at the end of the game richer by £4. Brown was also a gainer by the result.

"You are very evenly matched, you two gentlemen," said a man, who, judging from his flash appearance, probably dabbled in horse-racing. "If you will play again, I don't mind backing the loser of the last game for £5 or £10!"

Brown jumped at the offer, and the money was accordingly deposited with the marker. "Now," said Brown, "you have not come across a 'duffer;' do your best!" Play commenced, and notwithstanding my having endeavoured by every possible means to win, I was defeated by three! This annoyed me very much, and Brown was exasperated that I should be beaten in this manner at my favourite game by a provincial. We now saw that my opponent stood in with the bookmaker in his bets; but this was to us quite immaterial so long as the marking was correct, which Brown took good care it should be.

The rumour spread by this time through the neighbourhood that billiards was being played for large sums of money, and the room became in consequence inconveniently crowded. Another game was proposed, and as I was anxious to win back Brown's money as well as my own, I consented, on condition that my opponent would give me points. This I scarcely expected would be granted.

"I think we are fairly matched," said my modest friend. "How many would you have the conscience to ask?"

"Can you give me ten in a hundred?"

"Impossible," replied my opponent. "I might as well give you the game."

The bookmaker here interposed, and persuaded him to let me have the ten points, offering at the same time to back his friend for £25, or any part of it!

Brown and I consulted, and as it seemed a certainty for me, the match was made. It is needless to describe the play here, but it was the most exciting of the series, and the betting equal. Suffice to say that, to my utter amazement, the game, with nine spot strokes, resulted in a victory for my opponent, my score being only ninety-five!

There was no help for it—luck was dead against us, and, like the comedians, Brown and I considered we had had enough of it—at least, for the present—and thought it prudent to retire. Before leaving, however, we learned the victor's name. His profession was that of a clerk in an insurance office. On striking a profit and loss account at the hotel we ascertained, to our dismay, that our evening's amusement had cost us £42! So much for Pattie Hastings and our trip to Liverpool.

The next morning we strolled down to see the extensive docks, and to witness the landing of the passengers from America, a Cunarder having just then arrived. I was pleased to find among the passengers an old friend of mine, who had been on a professional tour in the United States. Having informed him of the hotel we were stopping at, he agreed to accompany us, and on arriving and partaking of some refreshment he retired to have a few hours' rest. Brown and I again consulted as to our mode of procedure, and having struck on a good idea and discussed it, we resolved on remaining another night, and endeavouring if possible to turn the tables on our conquerors.

On my friend coming down to dinner, I had an opportunity to narrate to him our unlucky proceedings the previous evening, and the amount of money we lost. As he was acquainted with my play, he felt surprised, and was anxious to see this provincial wonder. Having succeeded in arousing his curiosity, he agreed to look in at the billiard-rooms, but his name was on no account to be mentioned. We accordingly appointed an hour, and when we entered the rooms it was easily to be seen that we were expected. The bookmaker, with his cable chain, was there, and there were a numerous gathering of his friends. There, too, was my opponent, playing a game with the marker. Before I was very long in the room I was asked if I should like to stand up, and I replied, with some hesitation, I would play one game for £5 on getting ten. This was assented to, and the play commenced in the midst of some enthusiasm, and resulted in my carrying off the honours, my opponent, for his own reasons, not wishing to show off his best form so early in the evening. When I declined to play any more, Brown was asked to have a game, and he declined. They then pressed our friend to try his luck, and he rather unwillingly consented, not being in so good a condition as he should wish, owing to his voyage across the Atlantic. Wishing to do us a favour if possible, he stood up and prepared for the play. When asked, however, how many points he would take, he caused some surprise in the room when he replied that, although he was somewhat cramped by a sea voyage, he would try to play level!

The game commenced, and the bookmaker's friends were jubilant; they looked upon this match as the best thing ever known for their champion! They hoped we would only stop some time in Liverpool, and they would make their fortunes. What an immense advantage it was to have such a splendid player to set against strangers like us!

But this time they were mistaken. They had caught the wrong bird. Our friend won the game, and, to their utter consternation, kept on winning game after game, until, after two hours' play, he whispered, "Got your money back?" and I answered, "Yes, with interest—don't play any more."

We immediately left the place and returned to the hotel, where we had an excellent supper and a few bottles of "phiz," leaving the bookmaker and his friends to wonder who the "unknown" was.

A couple of years afterwards I met the insurance clerk at St. James's Hall, and he showed us that he was one of the best players in the country. But the man who beat him at Liverpool was the Champion of England.

SECRETS OF A MATRIMONIAL AGENCY.

"You have saved my life."

"Nonsense," I answered; "the scoundrels were cowards and bolted the moment I came in sight."

"I tell you, sir, they would have murdered me, and flung my body into the river, where I should have become another 'Thames Mystery,' There were three of them—the wretches!"

"Valuables safe?" I asked.

The man felt his pockets.

"Lost my watch and chain," he said. "Easily replaced; but, if they had taken my life, who would have carried out my mission?"

"Your mission? May I inquire the nature of it?"

"You may; it is to make men and women happy."

"I understand; you preach."

"Quite wrong; I practise."

"You mystify me."

"Very likely," the strange-looking individual replied. "My conduct is at variance with the world's. I never seek to harm any one, and all my time is devoted to forwarding the interests of others."

Men with a grievance are plentiful enough, but a person whose sole object in life is to diffuse happiness is rather uncommon. In this age of iron such good-natured persons are looked upon with a suspicion of lunacy.

"Very commendable," I said; "but I am still in the dark as to how you attain such desirable ends."

"Of course you are, my worthy friend; but I hope to enlighten you. Answer me one question; are you single—a bachelor?"

"I am, and in no hurry to call any woman my wife."

"A misogamist," he muttered to himself; and then aloud, "I am glad you are single, because you will have occasion to rejoice that you met me—that you came to my assistance. You have rendered me one great favour; will you do me another?"

"If it's in my power," I replied.

"There is my card; dine with me to-morrow at 7."

I consented, but it was with some hesitation. I let him go, and I asked myself whether it was not the correct thing to place a philanthropist of this kind under some restraint. There is a society in work to suppress promiscuous charity, and for aught I know there may be an institution founded for the express purpose of shutting up universal benefactors.

His card bore the address, "Mr. Albert Dove, 1090, Finsbury Square, E.C."

The foregoing conversation took place on the Thames Embankment, near Waterloo Bridge, one stormy night in March of the present year.

Descending Savoy Street on my way to Scotland Yard, I heard a scuffle and a cry for help, and, knowing the bad reputation of the Embankment at that particular spot, I hastened to the rescue—with the result already told.

This chance encounter made me acquainted with a new phase of life abounding in striking scenes touching most notes of the gamut of existence.

My newly-acquired friend was not only peculiar in his speech, his appearance was out of the common. The first thing I noticed was his height, which was over six feet, and he looked taller on account of his high "chimney-pot" hat. His dark top-coat was closely-buttoned up to his chin, and reached down to his heels. It was impossible to judge of the man by his face, as it was covered by a tangled mass of black hair. His moustache and beard showed that not much time was spent in trimming them, and, taking advantage of their freedom, they rivalled each other in roughness and length. In his right hand Mr. Dove carried a heavy stick of black oak, typical of the robust build of the owner, and his recent assailants had cause to congratulate themselves that the suddenness of their attack prevented its being used.

For a man of his dimensions his eyes were exceedingly small, but what they lost in size they made up in brilliancy. If his eyes were diminutive, his arms were long—longer even than his great height justified; and when he walked he threw them about in the most irregular manner, just as if they were ready to go to war with each other, but neither one nor the other cared to take the initiative.

His mode of locomotion would draw attention to him anywhere, be it at church or fair. He was a most inelegant walker; each step seemed to be a combination of the jerk and shuffle, and, coupling this peculiarity with the slightly stooping body and lengthy arms, I thought that the man must be a little deformed, perhaps hump-backed. From a rough-cast individual like this you would naturally expect a harsh voice, but it was quite the reverse; his voice was musical to a degree, and he spoke as softly as any young woman addressing her lover.

It is not often we come across men of his disposition of mind or formation of body. But if the shell was gnarled, the kernel within was sound enough, and, strange as was Mr. Dove's business in life, you had only to become acquainted with him to be convinced that his chief aim was not the amassing of riches, but the well being of the men and women who entrusted their future to him.

But I must not anticipate—the extraordinary circumstances will be narrated as they befell me. Curious to know who Mr. Dove was, and what occupation he followed, I consulted Kelly's Directory, but without being made any the wiser. His name and address were correctly given, but nothing more. The man was unknown at Scotland Yard, except to one officer, who said he recollected the name of Dove cropping up some years ago in connection with a divorce case.

Punctual to the hour appointed, my cab drew up at 1090, Finsbury Square. In answer to my knock the door was opened by a negro servant, in a handsome light blue livery, who took my hat and coat, and ushered me, much to my surprise, into a drawing-room full of elegantly-dressed ladies and gentlemen, all engaged in agreeable conversation, intermingled with much laughter. I expected to dine quietly with Mr. Dove, and here were at least twenty guests, all entire strangers to me. The moment the servant pronounced my name, my host—who was quite a giant in comparison with his guests—came forward from a knot of ladies, with whom he was exchanging some pleasantry, and warmly welcomed me. Taking me round the company, he said—

"You will have great pleasure in becoming acquainted with the gentleman who saved my life."

"I was talking about you when you entered," addressing himself to me, "and explaining to my dear friends how much they are indebted to you. Without your valuable assistance last night, there would have been no joyous dinner—no spirit-stirring dance here this evening; and, alas! who would have administered to the wants of my flock?"

His language led me to suppose that my first idea was correct, that he was really a clergyman—perhaps of some new denomination. His appearance was very singular, and his manner eccentric, but not unpleasing. He appeared to be about forty-five, but the wrinkles on his forehead may have made him seem older than he really was.

I had hardly time to say that he made a great deal too much of the slight service, when dinner was announced by a pompous-looking butler dressed in black.

"You will take charge of Miss Bertram," my host said, with a wave of his hand in the direction of a pretty but pert-looking young lady eighteen or nineteen years of age, who at that instant entered the room, and who advanced without the slightest shyness, and placed the tips of her fingers on my arm.

The dining-room was on the other side of the entrance-hall, and during the short promenade, and while the guests were seating themselves, and during the progress of the dinner, the conversation never flagged for a moment—it was like the incessant roll of musketry.

The guests, with the exception of myself, were evidently well known to each other, and appeared very much at home. The host, by his genial manner, contributed not a little to the general cheerfulness, and he was exceedingly attentive to me.

The plate on the table, and the numerous paintings on the walls, to say nothing of the well-drilled servants in attendance, all betokened wealth. Mr. Dove must have money, and a good deal of it too; but what was his position in life, and who were the ladies and gentlemen assembled round his dinner-table?

The highly self-possessed young lady I took in to dinner, thinking, no doubt, I was a stranger, kindly entered into conversation with me as soon as we were seated at table.

"An odd collection," was her first remark.

Presuming that she referred to the numerous pictures hanging round the room, I replied—

"They do look curious. Good and bad, I suppose. Are they all English?"

This commonplace answer made her laugh.

"There are a few doubtful specimens among the French, but the most reputable are the English," she said.

"Perhaps Mr. Dove is not so easily deceived by the English; even experts are liable to be taken in by the artful French and Italian counterfeits."

Unknown to myself, I must have said something very funny, for Miss Bertram could not control her laughter.

"Does not our host get imposed on sometimes by worthless rubbish?" I asked.

When she could stop giggling she said—

"He makes mistakes of course, but he has been wonderfully successful. His knowledge of human nature is immense, and his foresight amounts to genius. These attributes account for his having so few failures."

Not perceiving what human nature and foresight had to do with buying pictures, I endeavoured to bring back the conversation to a lower and more comprehensible level.

"Does he make it the business of his life to pick up these splendid specimens?" I asked.

"I believe so; but speak lower in case the colonel opposite hears you; he might object, and he is a regular fire-eater. Coffee and pistols, you know."

"I would not hurt his feelings for the world. Is he interested in the speculation?"

"He is after the Queen of Sheba; the one with the bird of Paradise feather."

"After the Queen of Sheba, is he? Then there is a sale occasionally?"

"There is, but we call it by a different name, though it comes to much the same thing in the end."

"The specimens are, perhaps, disposed of privately to avoid the publicity of the auction-room."

The girl burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, which drew attention to us.

"Glad you are enjoying yourself," called out Mr. Dove to me; "a glass of wine with you."

The middle-aged lady in red velvet on my left hand uttered some unpleasant observations about the forwardness of young ladies in general, and of Miss Bertram in particular, and the colonel on the other side of the table looked daggers at me; as if I could help it.

"Tell me the joke, and I will laugh, too," I whispered to my fair friend.

"Is this your first visit?" she asked, as if an idea had just occurred to her.

"The first."

"What are the symptoms? Are you an admirer of the classic, and is it blonde or brunette?"

This was beyond me, and I looked at the young girl in astonishment, which only redoubled her laughter. The horrible thought just then entered my head that I was in a private lunatic asylum; everything tended to confirm me in that opinion, and the marvel was that the truth had not dawned on my obtuse mind before. I had often been told that all mad doctors are, more or less, eccentric—that their attendance on insane people has, through course of time, an injurious effect on their own minds; and here was an example in the case of Mr. Dove!

The guests were no doubt his patients, and the stalwart men in waiting the keepers, ready to control any obstreperous individual, with their straight jackets, and bands of leather and iron in some convenient cupboard close at hand.

It is I know the belief of some doctors that it would be all the better for the afflicted ones if they were treated more like sane individuals, and were indulged in dinner parties and balls as if they still belonged to the outer world. I cautiously examined my fellow guests one by one, but I could discern nothing approaching the extravagant in their conduct, but everybody has heard of the wonderful cunning of lunatics; this evening they were evidently on their best behaviour.

As I glanced round the circle my eyes at length met the mirthful eyes of Miss Bertram, who was evidently watching me, and enjoying my perplexity. Was she mad, too? At first I was inclined to think she was rather an intelligent young woman—anything but stupid—but now the incoherent portion of her remarks rose up to condemn her. I was in the act of pitying her when she whispered behind her fan—

"Is it a very bad attack?"

It is necessary to humour mad people, so I replied—

"Not very; I feel quite myself at times."

She burst out laughing, and before she could recover herself the ladies rose from the table, and being next the door I did my duty. As Miss Bertram passed me with a sweeping bow, she said—

"Don't despair; have confidence in the doctor."

Before placing me in an assembly of lunatics, Mr. or Dr. Dove ought to have made me aware of the insanity of his guests. There was no telling what awkward things might have happened. When the ladies returned I sought an opportunity of speaking to him on the subject, but the gentlemen crowded up to his end of the table, and I had no chance. For a set of madmen, I must say their talk was rational enough; and, when the colonel, on whom the claret had a friendly effect, challenged me to a game of billiards, I could not but consent, and get well beaten on attempting to give points.

"Yes, go with the colonel," Mr. Dove said; "you have time for a game before the dancing commences."

I should have liked to mention the Queen of Sheba to the colonel, but he did not seem a man you could take a liberty with, and I thought better of it. Another lunatic was polite enough to mark the game, and called out the score with such accuracy that I at once set him down as an old billiard-marker.

When we had got through two games the sound of music reached us, and we returned to the drawing-room. The ball was in full progress, and it was a strange sight to see the huge and ungainly figure of our host moving amongst the dancers playing the fiddle. He was evidently an excellent performer, and it was to his music his patients danced. Occasionally he would waltz round the room playing his instrument all the time. His resemblance to the mythical satyr would at once strike an ordinary onlooker.

"A good dance makes people cheerful, and assists my cause," he remarked, as he waltzed past me.

"Many a happy wife has occasion to bless the Blue Danube," he whispered on another occasion.

"Come and see a recent success," he said in one of the short intervals; and I was led up and introduced to a shy-looking little man of fifty, and anything but a reserved young woman of twenty-five, his wife, who both looked happy enough, and seemed perfectly cured. Show patients, I presumed.

"For the encouragement of others," he whispered in my ear. "Won't you dance? There is Miss Bertram disengaged. Most accomplished girl. Daughter of an old friend. A sad history; but I will tell you all about her in my study, for you must smoke a cigar with me before you go."

Until the circumstances were cleared up a bit I considered it advisable not to dance with Miss Bertram or any other lady.

It was a new experience, and I could not be too cautious.

When we were closeted in the study by our two selves, with a good cigar and a brandy and soda, I soon approached the subject which was troubling my mind. I thought Mr. Dove would have died of laughing at my extraordinary mistake in taking his house to be a private lunatic asylum. He stamped and danced about the room in his uproarious glee, and I could not get a word out of him for some time—until he was thoroughly exhausted.

I must admit that when I heard the name of the establishment I was greatly surprised, but it must be remembered that there is not a similar house to 1090, Finsbury Square, in her Majesty's dominions.

"If love is lunacy," my host said, waving his hand toward the ball-room, "you are right, but my patients reside in an abode of joy, not of sorrow, and they are free to depart at any time—in couples."

In other words, the place was a Matrimonial Agency.

CRUEL WORK OF AN INTIMATE FRIEND.

Public sympathy was entirely with the accused, yet the verdict pronounced—that of Guilty—was generally expected. The evidence put forward by the prosecutor was so conclusive. There was not much chance for the prisoner when two witnesses swore that he (Edward Fraser) had said in their hearing that he would do the deceased (Sydney Marshall) some deadly harm, and when three more individuals were placed in the box to prove that they beheld the struggle between the two men, and saw the person in custody push his opponent over the cliffs into the water. Much disappointment was, however, felt throughout the country when the grand jury scheduled the crime as murder instead of manslaughter. But this decision was quite of a piece with Fraser's other misfortunes. Marshall's body had not been recovered, notwithstanding a very diligent search, and the local fishermen thought that it had been carried out to sea by the under-current. Still no one doubted that the man had perished. Although he richly deserved his fate, that was no justification of the deed in the eye of the law. Provocation beyond human endurance does not, as poor Fraser found out, permit a man to be a law unto himself. The husband may have his home broken up, his future career destroyed, his wife dishonoured—as in the case of this man—but he is prohibited from laying violent hands on the seducer.

The judge in sentencing the prisoner to be hanged, said that the recommendation of the jury (to mercy) would be forwarded to the proper quarter, but that he could not hold out much hope of a reprieve. It so happened that a number of capital sentences had been commuted about this time, and the Government deemed it necessary, as murders were on the increase, to make an example. Whichever way it turned, fortune was decidedly adverse to Fraser. He was not only unlucky in having a treacherous friend and an unchaste wife, but he must needs seek his revenge at an inopportune moment.

The jury's message of mercy was duly sent to the Home Office, and there soon followed it a great many petitions to the same effect, signed by thousands of all grades of society, from the bishop to the bricklayer. The prisoner was no hardened criminal, and the fatal blow, or push, or whatever it was, was given in defence of his household goods. Before deciding on the question of life or death, the Home Secretary consulted the judge, and communicated, as usual, with Scotland Yard. He required full particulars of the antecedents of the two men, and wished to know if it was within the range of possibility for Sydney Marshall to have escaped with his life.

"The press has not left us much to discover," remarked the chief, as he handed me the letter from the Home Office. "This is Tuesday; the answer must go on Friday. See if you can throw any new light on the subject."

It may be as well to state here that every care is taken that these revelations will not injure living individuals. When it is considered desirable, names of persons and places are more or less changed, but otherwise the eventful episodes are real, and the author only writes about matters in which he was personally concerned in his official capacity:

In search of information for the Home Secretary, I had an interview with the prisoner at Lewes Gaol (the murder was committed near Brighton), and saw all the relatives and acquaintances of the two men in London, and the following is what I learned:—

Edward Fraser and Sydney Marshall had been intimate friends. They first got to know each other through Miss Evans, who became the wife of Fraser, and afterwards ran away with Marshall. This frail but pretty young woman was the daughter of a draper at Kensington. "More beauty than wit," was how an old lady described her. She was, however, wise enough to give her hand to the more eligible of her two suitors. Marshall was a clerk in a city bank, and had only his salary to depend on, whereas Fraser was a junior partner with his father, a solicitor in Gray's Inn. Considering that there had been a serious quarrel, ending in blows, in the presence of the young lady, it was surprising that Marshall cared to remain intimate with the newly-married couple, but he may have had his revenge in view.

Except in their affection for the same young lady, no two individuals could have been more dissimilar in their tastes and habits than Fraser and Marshall. It was an instance of extremes meeting. Marshall read much, and was a thinker, persuasive and subtle. He effectually hid his wicked designs underneath a placid exterior. Not easily got out of temper, and when there was a purpose in view he was never impatient. In appearance he was rather handsome, of the medium height, slightly built, and very dark; eyes closely set together (a bad sign), small and bright.

On the other hand, Fraser was a tall, fair-haired, blue-eyed Saxon—an athlete not unknown at certain running-grounds, and at the Oval—a young man not over fond of book learning, but full of life, and a capital companion. His father had given him a year on the Continent before taking him into partnership, and in his travels he had managed to perfect his knowledge of the French and German languages. It was his ability to speak French which suggested the idea of his going to the Mauritius, and it was while on this voyage that his friend betrayed him.

His marriage with Miss Evans was not popular with his parents; they saw what a silly, frivolous girl she was, but they could not make him listen to reason. He was in love, I suppose, and consequently a little insane. At the wedding Marshall acted as best man, and a sister of his was one of the bridesmaids. The short honeymoon was spent in Paris, and on their return the happy pair found the villa they had taken ready for occupation. Enjoying excellent health, and with a good position, no two young people could have commenced their married life with finer prospects; but vessels sometimes founder in summer seas. Their happiness was fated to be but short-lived; their intimate friend was biding his opportunity to destroy it.

Marshall had not long to wait for the desired change. One of the oldest clients of Mr. Fraser, sen., was a Mr. Hampton, who had a sugar plantation in the island of Mauritius, managed by Frederick Lefevre, a Frenchman. The Governor, Sir George Bowen, had through a friend apprised Mr. Hampton that rumours to the discredit of Lefevre were current at Port Louis, and that the affairs of the estate wanted looking into. Mr. Hampton was old, and half an invalid, and, therefore, not inclined to undertake the long journey, and he asked his legal adviser whether he knew a suitable person. The remuneration was to be something handsome.

The lawyer thought that this would be a splendid opportunity for his son, but the young man would not hear of it unless he could take his wife with him, which was out of the question. He had only been married six months, and was, it was presumed, still surrounded by the glamour of love. Great pressure was brought to bear upon him to accept the mission. Even his wife's relatives agreed that it was too tempting a proposal to be rejected.

When Sydney Marshall was consulted he said there should be no hesitation whatever about it—that offers of that kind did not drop from the clouds every day. Such opportunities never came in his way. There was no occasion to trouble about Mrs. Fraser; he and his sister would look after her. They would do what they could to prevent the young wife being too miserable in her husband's absence. She was miserable enough at the idea of her husband leaving her, but somehow or other became reconciled to it. Finding everyone, not excepting his wife, in favour of his going, Fraser sailed for the Mauritius.

Mrs. Fraser, jun., did not appear to take the temporary loss of her husband very much to heart. She did not go to the theatre or visit her friends seldomer than before, and her constant companions were Marshall and his sister. Her mother-in-law hinted that she saw a little too much of the Marshall's, but the young wife replied that the close intimacy was the wish of her husband. At parting had not Edward put her hand in Marshall's and said, "Sydney, here is your other sister; remember, you are her guardian?"

Husbands who object to disagreeable surprises should always inform their wives of the hour of their return, so that their fair partners may be in waiting to receive them with open arms. At least that is the opinion of your humble servant, an unmarried man. Edward Fraser was foolish enough to neglect this precaution, and the result was quite the reverse of what he anticipated. In his mind's eye he no doubt often pictured the disconsolate wife gazing on his photograph and kissing it, and seeking consolation from his love-letters. And as the ship neared Southampton on the return journey he frequently heard, in imagination, her joyful cry of welcome as he stepped across the threshold of his home.

Leaving his luggage to be forwarded, he hurried up from Southampton, and reached the vicinity of his villa one night about eleven o'clock. He sent no telegram announcing his arrival in England, and the "Ajax," having had a good passage, reached port twenty-four hours before she was due. Everything favoured the pleasant surprise in store for his wife. He, like a lover who had a clandestine appointment, stopped the cab a few doors from the house, and jumped out with only a small bag in his hand, containing presents for the treasure of his heart (that is the correct phrase, I think). Stealthily opening the garden gate, the fond husband, dying to embrace his wife, hastened through the shrubbery and trees which bordered the approach to the front door and make the place pitch dark. All his precautions had been useless. Before he had gone many steps a lady rushed into his arms and kissed him.

"My darling," she whispered, "you have come at last!"

It was his wife; she had been on the watch for him. So overjoyed was he at this mark of affection, all he could say was—

"Beloved one!"

"There is no letter or telegram, dearest Sydney," she whispered in his ear, putting her arms round his neck; "a few more hours of bliss."

"Woman!" he exclaimed, horrified, "what do I hear? I am your husband."

She uttered a startled cry, jumped apart from him, and fled.

At this moment the gate clicked, and a footstep approached.

"He has returned! run for your life!" called out the wife from the shrubbery.

Sydney Marshall, for it was that trustworthy gentleman, did not require a second warning. He was out of the gate and round the corner in a second.

The dazed and maddened husband quickly followed, but Marshall was not to be seen, and he did not return to his apartments that night.

Fraser would not trust himself to go near his wife again, and he went to his father's. When father and son reached the villa next morning the servants told them that Mrs. Fraser had packed up a couple of boxes and left at six o'clock, as she said, to meet her husband.

The guilty pair had, no doubt, left London. It was ascertained that, on the plea of urgent private affairs, Marshall had received a fortnight's leave of absence from business.

"Let me know where they are, and your task is finished," he said to the detectives employed to trace them; and at the end of two days—an eternity to him—he got the address, a farmhouse, in the neighbourhood of Brighton. "That is enough," remarked Fraser; "I will now make sure that the scoundrel will not corrupt another man's wife." It was this remark that told so much against him at his trial.

In the darkening light of an October afternoon the quondam friends met face to face on the cliffs, and the deadly struggle began. It did not last long. Fraser, being the stronger of the two, soon had the advantage, and he hurled the destroyer of his happiness into the sea. The deed accomplished, the betrayed husband did not attempt to fly. He gave himself up to the first policeman he met; and all that he said to the inspector was, that, as the law did not meet his case, he had been obliged to be his own judge and executioner.

Not the slightest trace of Sydney Marshall, dead or alive, had been discovered.

The official report to the Home Secretary was based on these details, which I have curtailed as much as possible.

Whether they came at a wrong time or not, the petitions in favour of a commutation of the sentence were unsuccessful.

The execution took place within the precincts of Lewes Gaol, and, as the case interested me, and I had business at Brighton, I was present. It was quite true, Fraser owned that he had sought the man's life, and as he had broken the law he must pay the penalty. He proposed to meet his ignominious end with quiet firmness. An incident occurred at the last moment to destroy his fortitude, and which rivetted my attention. It was immediately before Marwood pulled the cap over the condemned man's face. Fraser was taking his last look on earth when his eyes met those of one of the reporters. Suddenly, as a flash of lightning, his face underwent the most extraordinary change; before it wore a resigned expression—now it had all the malignity of a fiend.

The governor and everyone could see that the man was terribly agitated; his body swayed violently, and he attempted to speak, but, as fortune would have it, the clock was sounding the last beat of eight, and the hangman made haste to finish his horrible work.

When all was over the reporter who had so greatly disturbed Fraser's dying moments sneaked quickly out of the prison, but I did not mean to lose sight of him. An explanation was necessary. Detectives see so many phases of crime that they are not usually astonished at anything, but I must own to being dumbfounded when I discovered, under all his disguise, that reporter to be Sydney Marshall.

A good swimmer, and terrified for his life, he had, when pitched into the water, struck out to sea in the hope that he might fall in with a passing vessel, and he was evidently picked up by a French fishing-boat and landed at Portail.

"Why were you there?" I demanded, pointing to the gaol.

"As I was never safe until he was dead, I wished to see the last of him."

"But how did you obtain an entrance?" I asked.

"Easily enough. I induced a Brighton reporter to let me take his place."

"Do you think Fraser recognised you?"

"I am sure he did."

"Hanging would be too good for you!" I said.

The villain was tired of my examination. What could have been done with him if I had detained him?

Several years have passed since then, but, directly or indirectly, I have heard nothing more of Sydney Marshall.

It was some consolation for Fraser's heartbroken parents to know that the prisoner was guiltless of murder.

The notoriety was too much for the Evans' family, and with their frail daughter they emigrated to Buenos Ayres.

THE MISSING "RAJAH" DIAMOND.

About ten days or a fortnight after Fraser met his sad fate, I was summoned to the private room of the chief.

"Have you anything particular in hand?" he asked.

"Nothing, chief," I replied.

"Then you are really disengaged? The matter I am going to entrust you with must be inquired into with the utmost circumspection."

"I will be extra careful."

"Lady B—— has been here this morning in a great state of agitation. A diamond, known as the 'Rajah,' and worth something like twenty-five thousand pounds, has disappeared from her jewel-box, which is really a safe built in the wall, with two keys—one held by Lady B——, and the other by her husband."

"Yes, chief, it would be difficult to dispose of a stone of that value."

"Impossible; and no one at Amsterdam would risk cutting it without the highest references. The stone is well known, and is said to have been the eye of an idol in India. Occasionally it has been set to wear at Court, but when it disappeared it was quite loose."

"And when was it missed? Yesterday?"

"No; a week ago."

"As long as that?"

"Yes. You see Lady B—— was of opinion that the stone would be replaced in the safe."

"How could that possibly happen?"

"As you may have heard, Lord B—— is rather eccentric. He is a great connoisseur of precious stones, and he may have taken out the 'Rajah' diamond to admire it, and forgotten to return it."

"But why not ask him?"

"That is what we want to avoid. Her ladyship's object in coming here is to get us to trace the stone without his knowing anything about it. He is in such delicate health, the disappearance of his much-prized diamond might be very hurtful."

"Her ladyship could give you no clue?"

"None whatever; but you will see her yourself. She is at the town mansion to-day, but leaves for their place in Norfolk to-morrow. The jewel-box is at the Norfolk house. You must arrange with Lady B—— to be quartered in the house as sanitary inspector, or something of that kind. As a sanitary inspector you can roam all over the house without suspicion."

"I will do my best, chief."

There was a slight difference in the ages of Lady B—— and her husband; she was twenty-three, and he would never see sixty-five again. Lord B—— was not always the wealthy man he is now; an elder brother conveniently died without family, and an unusually rich seam of coal was discovered on his property. All at once his income rose from a few hundreds to twenty thousand per annum—that was on the death of his brother—and it is now said to exceed thirty thousand. A man who had such a splendid income was bound to have a pretty wife, and in Miss M— he met the belle of two seasons, admired by everyone, from the prince to the peasant. Envious tongues did not hesitate to say that this union of May and December would not be lasting, and that because a near female relative had gone wrong, Lady B—— would soon give occasion for scandal. These wiseacres were disappointed for once. Lady B—— proved herself an exemplary wife, and there were two children, a boy and a girl, born of the marriage.

Arrayed in frock coat and a tall hat, I presented myself at the town house at four o'clock.

"Her ladyship in?" I asked.

"I will see," replied the man servant. "What name?"

I produced my card—

"Mr. Robert Charrington,
Sanitary Inspector,"

and on it in writing, "By appointment."

"Her ladyship does not recollect your name, but will you walk upstairs?"

On being ushered into Lady B—— 's presence and when the footman had retired, she came forward and said—

"I expected someone—from Scotland Yard."

"Quite right, my lady; here is a note from my chief."

"Of course you understand that this is quite a private matter at present. I think the stone has been mislaid—not stolen."

"Does your ladyship suspect no one?"

"Only my husband. He has the jewellery out frequently to dust, and he is a little forgetful."

"Does no one assist his lordship on these occasions?"

"He is either alone or I am with him."

"There are two keys, I believe; can the safe be opened without the production of both?"

"One is sufficient, but you must have the 'word.'"

"The 'word,' madam?"

"Yes, it is a French idea, I think, and Milner had to pay money to use it. There are three small discs, each surrounded with the letters of the alphabet, on the door of the safe, and the diminutive hands on the discs have to be set to a certain word before the keys are of any use. When the diamond disappeared the word was 'war;' one hand had to be pointing to 'w,' the second to 'a,' and the third to 'r.' When the safe is locked the hands on the discs are, of course, turned to any of the letters of the alphabet but the right ones. Although you held the key, it would be perfectly useless to you without knowing the exact word, and you might go through the whole dictionary without discovering it."

"Have you any system in changing the 'word?'"

"I generally alter it every month; this is effected through the clock-work on the back of the lid—but although I always acquaint my husband with the secret it soon escapes his memory, and he has invariably to come to me for the information."

"Can the diamond have fallen into wrong hands?"

"That will be for you to discover; there is one thing certain, it is not in the safe nor in Lord B—— 's possession. My maid and I have made a thorough search."

"Then the loss of this stone is well known in your ladyship's household?"

"On the contrary, it is quite a secret."

"Your maid knows?"

"Ann Gregory does not count; she can be trusted. She has been in the family all her life, first with my father, and on my marriage she came with me."

"I understand that the knowledge of the loss has been withheld from his lordship; have you any reason to suppose that he is aware of the fact?"

"Any sudden shock might seriously affect Lord B——, and until all my efforts to find the 'Rajah' had failed, I did not propose to mention the matter to him; still I am not quite sure that he does not know the diamond has disappeared. Since I first missed the stone, a week ago yesterday, Lord B—— has been to the safe twice, and, although he said nothing, after these visits he appeared much depressed."

"When did your ladyship last see the diamond?"

"Exactly ten days ago. I wore it at Court, and on my return to Norfolk I put it in the safe myself. Lord B—— happened to be present, and with a pair of pincers he took the stone out of its setting, after which I placed it in the case marked 'Rajah.'"

"Such a valuable diamond must be found. If your ladyship will kindly give me a line to your butler I will go down to Norfolk as a sanitary inspector, and when I have any good news to communicate, I will ask to see you."

"Certainly. I return to-morrow, and will remain in Norfolk three weeks. I need not say to you that the recovery of a stone worth £25,000 will meet with a suitable acknowledgment."

"Thanks from you, my lady, would be a sufficient reward."

I am no Communist, and am quite satisfied with my position in life; but only imagine a stone which I could easily slip into my waistcoat pocket being worth such a large sum of money. Will one of your chartered accountants please compute how many individuals could be made independent if not happy for life with the amount mentioned? One hundred cottages could, I suppose, be built for something like £25,000.

On reaching the Norfolk house my letter to the butler received every attention, and I was soon installed in a good room of the bachelors' quarter, and I arranged to have my meals served in an adjoining sitting-room. I had some ground plans with me, borrowed for the occasion, which I took care to leave open on the table for the inspection of inquisitive servants.

There was a large staff of servants, male and female, and I took steps to satisfy myself that the "Rajah" had not been accidentally hidden amongst their belongings. This was a work of care and time. How did I manage it? That is my secret. No dresses were left rumpled nor coats unfolded, and not one of the servants was a whit the wiser.

From the time the diamond was replaced in the safe to the day of its disappearance there had been no visitors in the house, and Lord B—— had not been from home.

As the opportunity occurred, I made a minute search in the room occupied by his lordship, but without any success.

"Rather dull here," I said to Lord B—— 's confidential servant one day. "You could do with a little amusement."

"That we could, sir," he said. "Times are changed since his lordship became an invalid."

"You were not accustomed in former times to let the grass grow under your feet?"

"That we did not. We went the pace and no mistake."

"You have been a long time with Lord B——?"

"Going on now for twenty years; and although his lordship has been a good master to me, I don't think if his life were published it would be suitable for family reading."

"Gay, eh?"

"Downright fact, sir. The pranks we played in London and Paris would shock a quiet gentleman like yourself. The farmers down here used to send their daughters out of the way when they heard of our coming."

"Lord B—— must now find time hang heavily on his hands. How does he amuse himself?"

"When he is able, he walks a great deal. If the day is at all fine, he generally goes as far as Oakshot Farm."

"An old flame?"

"People said so," he replied, with a laugh.

Next morning found me at Oakshot Farm, and I was made welcome by a bold-faced, handsome woman, about thirty. I was tired after my long walk, at least I said so, and asked the favour of a glass of milk. The woman hastened to get the milk, and we were soon in the full swing of a big conversation.

"What makes you think Lord B—— is failing rapidly?" I asked.

"Why he says and does such uncommon things; for instance, being our landlord, my husband and I thought we could not do wrong in calling our last baby after him. We asked his permission, which he generously gave us, and said he would give the youngster a handsome present."

"Well?"

"A year elapsed, and we saw nothing of the promised gift. One day recently—he comes often here—he asked me which of the children was named Gerald, and when I pointed out baby to him on the floor, he pulled out a piece of glass—fancy a bit of glass—and put it into his fingers, saying something about its being a talisman against all the ills of life. What could he mean?"

"A little wrong," and I touched my forehead.

"Just what I thought."

"Is that the bit of glass?" I asked, taking up the glittering morsel, which was being thrown from one child to the other.

"It is; a shilling would have been of more use."

"The children shall not be disappointed. I will give them a shilling each for it."

"You are robbing yourself, sir," she said, "and I am sure you are welcome to the milk."

In this extraordinary manner did I manage to recover the great "Rajah" diamond, which now rests more securely at Lord B—— 's banker's than it did at the house in Norfolk.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DANGEROUS DILEMMAS: STARTLING BUT TRUE ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that:

- • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

- • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

- • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.

- • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

Table of Contents

- DANGEROUS DILEMMAS:

- CONTENTS

- DANGEROUS DILEMMAS.

- CHAPTER I. THE ORIGIN OF "DANGEROUS DILEMMAS."

- CHAPTER II. THE CHRISTMAS WINE-HAMPER FRAUD.

- CHAPTER III. MT FIRST AND ONLY APPEARANCE AS AN AUCTIONEER.

- CHAPTER IV. THE TWO MYSTERIOUS DOMINOS.

- CHAPTER V. THE FIFTEEN POSTAGE-STAMP PUZZLE.

- CHAPTER VI. A HEAD DEFEAT; AN ATTEMPT TO WIN THE CAMBRIDGESHIRE.

- CHAPTER VII. THE STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE AND STRANGER RECOVERY OF THE COUNTESS'S DIAMONDS.

- CHAPTER VIII. CREMORNE: A ROMANCE OF THE DERBY.

- CHAPTER IX. HOW TO SATISFY ONE'S CREDITORS WITH WASTE PAPER.

- CHAPTER X. LORD SEAMORD'S FALSE FUNERAL.

- CHAPTER XI. TAKING A MEAN ADVANTAGE OF A FIRE.

- CHAPTER XII. THE ATTEMPTED MURDER IN THE AIR.

- CHAPTER XIII. MY TWO MATCHES, OR WATERLOO AVENGED.

- CHAPTER XIV. UNFORTUNATE POSTAGE-STAMP.

- The Silver Gauntlet. A STORY OF THE TURF.

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER XV. MY REVENGE AT BILLIARDS.

- SECRETS OF A MATRIMONIAL AGENCY.

- CRUEL WORK OF AN INTIMATE FRIEND.

- THE MISSING "RAJAH" DIAMOND.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE