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et--but 'The Flowers o' the Forest,' and from that wandered through 'Auld Robin Gray' and 'The Land o' the Leal,' and so got at last to that most soul-subduing of Scottish laments, 'Lochaber No More.' At the first strain, his brother, who had thrown himself on some blankets behind the fire, turned over on his face, feigning sleep. Sandy M'Naughton took his pipe out of his mouth, and sat up straight and stiff, staring into vacancy, and Graeme, beyond the fire, drew a short, sharp breath. We had often sat, Graeme and I, in our student-days, in the drawing-room at home, listening to his father wailing out 'Lochaber' upon the pipes, and I well knew that the awful minor strains were now eating their way into his soul.

Over and over again the Highlander played his lament. He had long since forgotten us, and was seeing visions of the hills and lochs and glens of his far-away native land, and making us, too, see strange things out of the dim past. I glanced at old man Nelson, and was startled at the eager, alm

any young girl can stomach the life at Clinch's."

"It's a wonder what a decent woman will stand," observed Stormont. "Ninety-nine per cent. of all wives ought to receive the D. S. O."

"Do you think we're so rotten?" inquired Lannis, smiling.

"Not so rotten. No. But any man knows what men are. And it's a wonder women stick to us when they learn."

They laughed. Lannis glanced at his watch again.

"Well," he said, "I don't believe anybody has tipped off our man. It's noon. Come on to dinner, Jack."

They cantered forward into the sunlit clearing. Star Pond lay ahead. On its edge stood Clinch's.

III

Clinch, in his shirt sleeves, came out on the veranda. He had little light grey eyes, close-clipped grey hair, and was clean shaven.

"How are you, Clinch," inquired Lannis affably.

"All right," replied Clinch; "you're the same, I hope."

"Trooper Stormont, Mr. Clinch," said Lannis in his genial way.

"Pleased to know you," said Clinch, le

ir Thomas was ill at the time, and his wife couldn't leave him. She had to send the child to England, and who should she send her to but me? Look at her now, and say if the English air hasn't agreed with her! We two mothers, Mr. Kendrew, seem literally to live again in our children. I have an only child. My friend has an only child. My daughter is little Anne--as I was. My friend's daughter is little Blanche--as she was. And, to crown it all, those two girls have taken the same fancy to each other which we took to each other in the by-gone days at school. One has often heard of hereditary hatred. Is there such a thing as hereditary love as well?"

Before the guest could answer, his attention was claimed by the master of the house.

"Kendrew," said Mr. Vanborough, "when you have had enough of domestic sentiment, suppose you take a glass of wine?"

The words were spoken with undisguised contempt of tone and manner. Mrs. Vanborough's color rose. She waited, and controlled the

perchance to hear again that mirthful, happy laugh.

Then game a gust of wind, the sun retreated, the soldiers gasped, and lo! before Mr. Inch or Mr. Corporal had realized that the picture was made of flesh and blood, horse and rider has disappeared, there, far out across the Heath, beyond the gorse and bramble and the budding heather, with not a handful of dusk to mark the way they went.

Only once from far, very far, almost from fairyland, there came, like the echo of a sliver bell, the sound of that mad, merry laugh.

"Beau Brocade, as I live!" murmured Mr. Inch, under his breath.

Chapter II

The Forge of John Stich

John Stich too had heard that laugh; for a moment he paused in his work, straightened his broad back and leant his heavy hammer upon the anvil, whilst a pleasant smile lit up his bronzed and rugged countenance.

"There goes the Captain," he said, "I wonder now what's tickling him. Ah!" he ad

himself; for the Coroner, if you know what that means."

"But what if she's alive! Those things will crush her. Let us take them off. I'll help. I'm not too weak to help."

"Do you know who this person is?" I asked, for her voice had more feeling in it than I thought natural to the occasion, dreadful as it was.

"I?" she repeated, her weak eyelids quivering for a moment as she tried to sustain my scrutiny. "How should I know? I came in with the policeman and haven't been any nearer than I now be. What makes you think I know anything about her? I'm only the scrub-woman, and don't even know the names of the family."

"I thought you seemed so very anxious," I explained, suspicious of her suspiciousness, which was of so sly and emphatic a character that it changed her whole bearing from one of fear to one of cunning in a moment.

"And who wouldn't feel the like of that for a poor creature lying crushed under a heap of broken crockery!"

Crockery! those Japanese vases worth hun

e a real getaway. All I needed to lay hands on him was a good description."

"Description?" echoed Whipple. "Your agency's got descriptions on file--thumb prints--photographs--of every employee of this bank."

"Every one of 'em but Clayte," I said. "When I came to look up the files, there wasn't a thing on him. Don't think I ever laid eyes on the man myself."

A description of Edward Clayte? Every man at the table--even old Sillsbee--sat up and opened his mouth to give one; but Knapp beat them to it, with,

"Clayte's worked in this bank eight years. We all know him. You can get just as many good descriptions as there are people on our payroll or directors in this room--and plenty more at the St. Dunstan, I'll be bound."

"You think so?" I said wearily. "I have not been idle, gentlemen; I have interviewed his associates. Listen to this; it is a composite of the best I've been able to get." I read: "Edward Clayte; height about five feet seven or eight; weight between one hundred an

Carthage was coming swiftly to an endbefore them. Under their very eyes the two Roman galleys had shot in,one on either side of the vessel of Black Magro. They had grappled withhim, and he, desperate in his despair, had cast the crooked flukes ofhis anchors over their gunwales, and bound them to him in an iron grip,whilst with hammer and crowbar he burst great holes in his ownsheathing. The last Punic galley should never be rowed into Ostia, asight for the holiday-makers of Rome. She would lie in her own waters.And the fierce, dark soul of her rover captain glowed as he thought thatnot alone should she sink into the depths of the mother sea.

Too late did the Romans understand the man with whom they had to deal.Their boarders who had flooded the Punic decks felt the planking sinkand sway beneath them. They rushed to gain their own vessels; but they,too, were being drawn downwards, held in the dying grip of the great redgalley. Over they went and ever over. Now the deck of Magro's ship i

ourt judge, was found by the police at his home, Riversbrook in Tanton Gardens, Hampstead, to-day. Deceased had been shot through the heart. The police have no doubt that he was murdered."

But the morning papers of the following day did full justice to the sensation. It was the month of August when Parliament is "up," the Law Courts closed for the long vacation, and when everybody who is anybody is out of London for the summer holidays. News was scarce and the papers vied with one another in making the utmost of the murder of a High Court judge. Each of the morning papers sent out a man to Hampstead soon after the news of the crime reached their offices in the afternoon, and some of the more enterprising sent two or three men. Scotland Yard and Riversbrook were visited by a succession of pressmen representing the London dailies, the provincial press, and the news agencies.

The two points on which the newspaper accounts of the tragedy laid stress were the mysterious letter which had been sent to

ph passed outfit after outfit exhausted by the way. He had reachedCopper Creek Camp, which was boiling and frothing with the excitement ofgold-maddened men, and was congratulating himself that he would soon beat the camps west of the Peace, when the thing happened. A drunkenIrishman, filled with a grim and unfortunate sense of humor, spotted ShanTung's wonderful cue and coveted it. Wherefore there followed a bit ofexcitement in which Shan Tung passed into his empyrean home with a bulletthrough his heart, and the drunken Irishman was strung up for his misdeedfifteen minutes later. Tao, the Great Dane, was taken by the leader ofthe men who pulled on the rope. Tao's new master was a "drifter," and ashe drifted, his face was always set to the north, until at last a newhumor struck him and he turned eastward to the Mackenzie. As the seasonspassed, Tao found mates along the way and left a string of his progenybehind him, and he had new masters, one after another, until he was grownold and his muzzle w

ometimes byanother, according to occasion and circumstance. He was constructingwhat seemed to be some kind of a frail mechanical toy; and was apparentlyvery much interested in his work. He was a white-headed man, now, butotherwise he was as young, alert, buoyant, visionary and enterprising asever. His loving old wife sat near by, contentedly knitting andthinking, with a cat asleep in her lap. The room was large, light, andhad a comfortable look, in fact a home-like look, though the furniturewas of a humble sort and not over abundant, and the knickknacks andthings that go to adorn a living-room not plenty and not costly. Butthere were natural flowers, and there was an abstract and unclassifiablesomething about the place which betrayed the presence in the house ofsomebody with a happy taste and an effective touch.

Even the deadly chromos on the walls were somehow without offence;in fact they seemed to belong there and to add an attraction to the room--a fascination, anyway; for whoever got