A GLOOMY, miserable evening it was. A drizzling rain was falling, converting the snow of the last fortnight into a horrible slush that penetrated through the soles of pedestrians' boots and froze their feet as the crisp snow had never done. To add to the gloom a fog was hovering over the atmosphere, but not quite making up its mind to descend into the streets, where the lamps shone dimly through the murky gloom.

       It was not an evening on which one would go out for the mere pleasure of walking through the sloppy streets, and the more fashionable boulevards were comparatively deserted, the forbidding weather having its effect upon the volatile Parisians, making them seek the inside of cafés and restaurants where there was light and warmth, and where they could sip their absinthe or drink their burnt coffee undisturbed by the uninviting weather without. But to gain the warmth and shelter of the cafés, it was necessary to have some money in your pocket even if it were only enough to pay for a glass of sugared water, and of this "root of all evil," Oswald Palliser had not even so much as a centime left. He was literally beggared, ruined, and by his own folly.

       An only son, his father died when he was an infant, and his mother lavished upon him the whole wealth of her love. The consequence was that Oswald was allowed to do just as he pleased from infancy to boyhood.

       To do him justice, he returned his mother's love in full, and grieved bitterly when she died. During his long minority the money that his father left, accumulated; and when he came of age, he came into something like fifteen hundred a year. Not a colossal fortune by any means, but enough to have kept him in comfort for the remainder of his life. But to the young man it seemed as though the money would have no end, and he launched out into all sorts of extravagance. He bought a yacht, he set up race-horses, he got in with a fast set who used to sit up all night gambling, he lavished expensive presents on actresses and chorus-girls, and in other ways was so extravagant that it was no wonder his modest capital melted away like snow in four or five years and left him face to face with ruin.

       Luckily for her, his mother died before she knew anything of the havoc he was making with his property; and it was partly in trying to drown his grief for her loss that he plunged into a career of dissipation. He soon found that his fair-weather friends would have none of him when he could no longer pander to their pleasures. They politely or curtly, as the case might be, gave him the cold shoulder, and let him plainly understand that his room would be preferred to his company. Too proud to beg for assistance from those who had been willing enough to assist him to squander his inheritance, Oswald Palliser determined to retrieve his fortune by work. All very well to determine, but, as he soon experienced, mighty difficult to accomplish. He had been brought up to no profession; he knew nothing about trade, he was utterly unfitted to teach. In fact he was quite useless. In offices and banks they would not listen to his applications for a post, were it ever so humble; they preferred youths fresh from school or college, they did not want broken-down fine gentlemen to dawdle away their time over newspapers and neglect their work.

       In vain Oswald pleaded to be given a trial. They were deaf to all his entreaties. His appearance was against him. Fast living had given him a dissipated air that did not tell m his favour. He looked much older than his twenty-seven years, and persons thought he was lying about his age and taking ten years off it, which did not prepossess them in his favour. He was well-nigh reduced to despair. Now that it was too late he bitterly regretted his folly and its consequences. There seemed to be nothing before him but starvation or suicide. Somehow in spite of the straits to which he was reduced he shrank from the idea of suicide. It was such a cowardly way of getting out of his troubles. Better to face the inevitable, which he had no one to thank for but himself, rather than descend to that lower deep.

       One of his former friends taking pity upon him, sent him over to Paris with a letter of recommendation to the manager of a motor car company; but somehow nothing came of it, and thus it was that Oswald Palliser found himself stranded in Paris without the means of returning to his native land, or indeed of existing where he was.

       The Gay Capital did not appear very gay to him as he tramped through the sloppy streets that miserable January evening. He was wet through and chilled to the hone; he had had very little to eat for two or three days; so it was scarcely to be wondered at that his thoughts took a pessimistic turn.

       "Of what use am I in the world?" he mused, as he gazed at the dark flowing waters of the Seine. "No one wants me; there is no opening for a ne'er-do-weel such as I. I might as well end it all there. No one would miss me. No search would be made for the beggared outcast. Heaven! if I had only a little of what I so recklessly squandered how careful would I be of it now! But regrets are useless, they cannot restore to me what I have lost."

       Oswald had wandered without knowing it into some of the lowest parts of Paris — parts where it was dangerous for any well-dressed person to walk about in, more especially when dusk threw its covering over the nefarious deeds which occasionally took place there. Palliser knew nothing about this, and had he known, in his present straits he would not have cared; beggars might go with immunity where respectable persons would be in danger. Though half tempted Oswald could not make up his mind to the plunge in the icy waters which would put a period to his existence and his woes together. After all, at twenty-seven, life is sweet even under adverse circumstances, and "hope springs eternal in the human breast." He would put off suicide for a day or two, and trust that something would turn up in the meantime by which he would be enabled to hold body and soul together. If it did not — well, starvation would make an end of him soon enough without his making a hole in the river and giving the officials of the Morgue some extra and useless trouble. He was trying to persuade himself to move away from the vicinity of the river, which seemed to exercise a weird fascination over him and beckon him to find rest and oblivion in its dark depths, when suddenly he started and shivered with horror.

       A sound smote on his ears-a cry as of some human being in direst agony, so fraught with pain and despair, that he shuddered, as a second time the blood-curdling scream rang out on the night air. He looked around but could see nothing in the darkness, could hear nothing when that deadly sound had died away, but the swish and swirl of the water as it rushed under the dark arches of the bridge underneath which he was standing. He listened almost paralyzed by some great dread, to hear if that awful cry would he repeated; but silence had succeeded to the cries. He was beginning to fancy that his hearing must have played him false, or that hunger was inducing delirium which made him imagine sounds where there were none, when a heavy splash in the water not far from him roused him to the certainty that something horrible was being enacted before his eyes, if only the darkness had not hidden it. Almost mechanically he moved nearer to the water's edge and peered into its depths.

       What was that white thing that came floating past him on the surface of the water? A human face. Yes, there could be no doubt about it. A body was being carried along beneath the arch of the bridge.

       "Murder!" Palliser cried hoarsely, and stepping into the water he tried to intercept the floating corpse. He would have been unable to do so only that it struck for a moment the buttress of the bridge, which, stopping its career, enabled him to seize hold of its garments.

       He was weakened by hunger and privation, but excitement lent him fictitious strength, and enabled him to drag the body ashore. There was not much light, but he was enabled to make out that it was a young man, and that a dagger had been driven to the hilt in his breast.

       There was no doubt now in Oswald's mind that a foul murder had been committed, but by whom or for what purpose of course he was profoundly ignorant.

       He hardly knew what to do, the place seemed deserted. Was it any use crying for help? Help would come too late for the unfortunate young man before him. Nothing could restore the life of which he had been so cruelly bereft. Finally he determined that he would seek assistance. This crime ought not to be allowed to go unpunished. If possible the murderer should be found and brought to justice. He was trying to draw the knife, which appeared to have a rather peculiar handle — a tiger's head in some hard white stone mounted in gold — from the wound, when Oswald was startled by a hand being laid upon his shoulder and a stern voice saying, "What is the meaning of this, young man, what are you doing here?"

       Palliser had heard no sound of footsteps; he was so surprised that for a moment he made no reply. He looked up and could discern a tall, commanding figure, and felt that two piercing eyes were fastened upon him.

       "What is the meaning of this?" repeated the stern tones.

       "It looks to me very like murder," returned Palliser when he had recovered from his astonishment.

       "I thought so," remarked the stranger, striking a match as he spoke, "pray what are you doing with that knife?" holding the light so that it shone on the ensanguined blade which Oswald had succeeded in withdrawing from the breast of the corpse.

       "I have just drawn it from the wound," Palliser said.

       "After having thrust it in?"

       "What do you mean?" Oswald said suddenly, facing round on his interlocutor.

       "It seems to me young man, that you have every chance of running your neck into a hempen noose," the stranger returned grimly.

       "You think that I —–"

       "It is pretty plain; here you are drawing the knife out of the wound you have inflicted in your victim, and —–"

       "I never inflicted it," Oswald said when his indignation allowed him to speak. "I heard his death-shriek and the splash of his body falling into the river, and I dragged it out as it was floating past just here."

       "A likely tale," sneered the other, "you expect me to believe that?"

       "It is true," Oswald said doggedly.

       "Then where is the murderer, and how comes it that you made no effort to arrest him? By your own showing you must have been quite close."

       Palliser was silent, he saw now in what an awkward predicament he was placed; how could he prove that he had nothing to do with the murder. This was the culminating point of his misfortunes.

       "Well," said the stranger at length, "have you no answer to make?"

       "What is the use?" Oswald returned recklessly, "you will not believe anything I say."

       "Facts are worth any amount of fiction, and facts are too strong for you."

       "What are you going to do?"

       "Hand you over to justice without delay."

       With a sudden mad impulse to escape from the net that seemed closing in around him, Palliser sprang to his feet and flung himself upon his accuser. For a moment or two there was a fierce tussle between the two men in the darkness as they grappled each other by the throat, and swayed this way and that in the struggle for mastery; but the contest was unequal, it could not last long. Oswald, weakened by privation, was no match for his powerful antagonist; in a very short space of time he was flung half senseless on the stones unable to move or speak. Still his senses had not wholly deserted him. He was conscious of a low, cautious whistle, and the advent of three or four other men on the scene, who pulled him about and searched him all over. Even in the extremity to which he was reduced he felt a grim satisfaction in the thought that if robbery was their purpose, they would find nothing upon him to satisfy their cupidity, his clothes even having been worn threadbare. He heard a whispered conversation, in which such words as "Dead men tell no tales," "Better chuck him into the river, the Seine tells no secrets," "Make him take the place of Number Seven~" "Too risky by half," smote on his dull ears, till he could no longer distinguish the words that seemed to merge into a confused murmuring, and then he knew no more.

---

CHAPTER II.

IN Montmartre, that quarter of Paris where so many cabarets, dancing-halls and other places of amusement, more notorious than fashionable, are located, and where doubtful characters are wont to congregate, are some establishments into whose business it would not do to inquire too closely. It was in the basement of one of these establishments that Oswald Palliser found himself on his return to consciousness. He was lying on some straw, and at first felt no desire to move or examine his surroundings, but presently this lethargy passed, memory came hack, and with it the recollection of the events that had preceded his losing consciousness. How long was it? He could not tell.

       Where was he? That also he was at a loss to determine. Was this a prison cell? He looked around him. It was not an inviting place, yet it hardly seemed a prison cell. A cellar of some sort it certainly was; the brick floor was covered with dirt, a green mould flourished on the walls down which noisome creatures crawled or fell with a flop on to the ground. An evil smelling oil lamp cast feeble rays from one end that had not power to extend to the other end of the cellar. A desire came over him to examine his whereabouts; he staggered to his feet, and holding on to the dark walls as well as he could, he dragged himself round the cellar. There seemed to be no door or outlet that he could discover.

       But he discovered something else that sent a cold thrill of horror through him. On another bundle of straw at the dark end of the cellar he stumbled over a prostrate form. A sickening intuition told him what it was even before he reached the lamp from its place, and held it so that the rays should fall upon that silent figure. It was the body of the man he had drawn from the dark waters of the Seine, and whom he had been accused of murdering. It held a sort of ghastly fascination for him; he stood contemplating it for some time. The corpse was that of a young man, whose face had almost a girlish beauty about it, so fair was the complexion, so smooth the skin. The long eyelashes rested on the waxen cheeks, the golden hair curled in little rings on the white forehead. No trace of agony remained on the placid features. The young man might have been lying in peaceful sleep, if only that hideous stain on his breast had not revealed the violent death he had died.

       Oswald found himself wondering who he could he, and for what reason he had been murdered. There was nothing about him now to reveal his identity. His pockets had evidently been searched, and everything of value or that could have given a clue to his identity had been removed. Nothing remained but the curious knife which Oswald had drawn from his breast.

       Palliser wearied his brain trying to think what it all meant. He retreated to his own bundle of straw and sat down upon it, but though he could no longer see the corpse he knew it was there, and its ghastly presence seemed to pervade everything. Added to this the pangs of hunger — but more especially of thirst — assailed the unfortunate young man. Had he been shut into this charnel-house to starve to death? Was he, the living, imprisoned there with the dead? He had heard of such horrors and of living men being chained to the bodies of their victims till they went mad and died. Was such punishment meted out to him? But he was innocent, he had nothing to do with that poor young fellow's death. It was horrible, the hare idea of such a terrible fate; he would fight against it — he would not be buried alive.

       He tried again to find an outlet from the cellar hut it was useless. Then he shouted himself hoarse, hut no answer came except the reverberations of his own voice. He grew lightheaded, and fancied that demons were peopling the cellar, and that he was fighting them in a desperate endeavour to regain his freedom. Finally the strain was too great on his brain, and he sank exhausted on the ground, for the time being as unconscious of all around him as the other occupant of that underground abode. An hour or more passed, and then a grating sound was heard overheard, a trap-door was pushed open, and a ladder thrown down. Two or three men then descended.

       "Hullo," exclaimed one as he came upon Palliser's prostrate body, "blessed if I don't think this chap's dead too," and he turned him over, and held a lantern close to his face.

       "Let me see," said another, evidently higher in rank than the first speaker, in fact he was the man who had accused Palliser; "it would he an easy way out of the difficulty. We do not want to take this man's life."

       "Except for our own safety."

       "Exactly."

       "Now the other —" and the man jerked his fingers in the direction of the corpse.

       "The other transgressed the laws, and vengeance speedily followed," said the chief coldly, proceeding to examine Oswald Palliser. "This man is not dead," he continued, after a brief scrutiny — "the brandy, Number Four."

       The man addressed produced a flask and tried to force a little between Oswald's lips, who presently opened his eyes and stared round in bewildered fashion. His glance tell upon the man who had accused him.

       "Who are you?" he muttered, "what do you want with me?"

       "You will soon learn. Are you strong enough to listen to what I have to say?"

       Oswald raised himself to a sitting posture — "You are the man who came up when —" he began.

       "When you were making an end of your victim. Yes, I am the man!"

       "I never killed him," Palliser said indignantly.

       "Oh! yes, we know all about that," the other said with exasperating coolness, "now I have a proposition to make to you."

       "What is it?" Oswald said curtly.

       "Well, you know that your crime —" Palliser made an impatient movement, but the other took no notice and went on — "deserves punishment; there is one way, however, in which you may escape it."

       Oswald felt as if he were in a net from which there was no possibility of escape. "Name it," he said at last.

       "It is that you join our Society."

       "What is that?"

       "The Society of the Fatal Seven."

       "The Fatal Seven?"

       "Yes, we are always seven in number. Just lately we have lost one of our members through death. Are you willing to take his place?"

       "What do you expect me to do if I join?"

       "You will have to swear perfect obedience to the orders of the Society."

       "Even if those orders should lead to murder or violence?"

       "It is well for you to be so particular," with a disagreeable sneer, "if you do not wish to join us there is the alternative of the gallows, you can make your choice."

       "Tell me more about your Society."

       "We are all desperate men, ready to sell our lives dearly. It does not matter to you at present why we should be so. You will only know us by numbers."

       "And you expect me to join a society of which I know nothing, whose members may be murderers, Nihilists, dynamiters, or even worse!" Oswald exclaimed with scorn.

       The other laughed an unpleasant laugh. "We may be all you say," he returned, "but the only alternative you have to joining us, is to be handed over to justice, and to expiate your crime on the scaffold. Guillotining may be a quick death, but it is hardly a pleasant one."

       Palliser shuddered, the prospect was in truth not a pleasant one. "If you are what you say, how can you hand me over to justice without betraying yourselves?" he said desperately.

       Number One smiled. "You are indeed an innocent," he returned, "if you do not know that there are many occupying even high places in the world, who are members of secret societies, though none least of all their own wises and families, know of their connection with these societies for the regeneration of the world. But come, you have only been looking on the black side of things, let me show you the reverse side. Suppose you join us, you take the place of Number Seven, you swear fealty to us, and never to betray any of your comrades no matter where you may find them or what they may be doing. A sum of money will be placed to your credit at a hank sufficient to keep you in affluence for the rest of your life. You may go where you like, you may do what you like, only should you be called upon to obey a behest of the society, you must do so blindly, unhesitatingly."

       "And the consequence of refusal?"

       "Is — death!"

       "Ah!"

       "Death, wherever you may he. It is useless to seek escape. Vengeance will find you even at the other end of the world. But think, you may never be called upon to do anything; the drawing is by lot, and the lot may never fall on you. There are numbers now of our society who have never had other work to do than amuse themselves, to live like princes without a care for the future or trouble to make money. What do you say? a life of competence and ease, where you may ruffle it with the best, or an ignominious death."

       Palliser was silent for a moment or two. He· was thinking he had no choice. Did he refuse he would he denounced as a murderer, and, after all, there was always one way out of the difficulty. If he were required to do anything revolting to his sentiments he could take his own life.

       His reasoning powers were weakened by what he had gone through. There did not seem much harm in acceding to the proposal put before him. At all events, it would stave off death for a time, and death was before him whichever way he looked; either an ignominious one as a murderer, or the slower but probably quite as painful one of starvation, which awaited him should he succeed in escaping from the toils which now surrounded him.

       "Well," exclaimed the man, who had intimated that he was known as Number One, "what is your resolve?"

       "That I accept your terms," Palliser exclaimed recklessly.

       "You will become one of us, to be known as Number Seven?"

       "Yes."

       "Very well. You have decided wisely. The oath will be administered to you shortly."

       "I shall be permitted to leave this hole?"

       "Certainly."

       "And that?" with a shuddering gesture towards the corpse.

       "That is no longer a concern of yours, you have done with him."

       "But —– but —–"

       "You want to know what will become of him?"

       "Yes."

       "Rest content. He will have decent burial now his work is done."

       "His friends, his relatives, ought they not to be sought for?"

       "You should be the last person to propose that."

       "I have told you —–"

       "I know, and I take the liberty of disbelieving you."

       "Oh! if I had my old strength I would make you repent those words," Oswald cried angrily, starting up, hut almost immediately falling back upon the straw from weakness.

       "I have said, the corpse is no longer a concern of yours," replied the stranger sternly, "forget him, it will be all the better for you to do so."

       Turning to the men he said something to them, upon which they approached Palliser, assisted him to rise and helped him up the ladder to the floor above. Here his eyes were blindfolded much against his will, and he was half-led, half-carried through what seemed to him to be underground passages. He could hear the unbarring and unlocking of doors, and wondered if, after all, he were being taken to prison. Sometimes steps were descended, then again they were ascended, and Palliser was thankful when at last he was allowed to sit down and the bandage was removed from his eyes. Curiously he looked around. He found himself in a circular apartment that was all draped with black, and which was lighted by lamps hanging from the ceiling. No windows or doors were visible, the drapery descending all round in sable, unbroken folds. In the centre was a round table at which were seated six men, while one chair was vacant as if waiting for an occupant. The faces of the six men were covered by black masks, out of which their eyes gleamed with a weird and sinister effect. A skull and crossbones ornamented the middle of the table on which some papers were lying.

       "Oswald Palliser," said the deep tones of the man who was known as Number One, and Oswald started violently at being thus addressed. How did this man know his name or anything about him?

       Number One went on. "Oswald Palliser, you are about to be elected a member of the Fatal Seven. You will subscribe the forms of the oath and from henceforth you will be known as Number Seven. You will obey all the decrees of the Society wherever and whensoever they reach you, and the penalty for infringing any of the rules is, as you have already been told, death. You will live where you please and as you please, only when a decree reaches you with the sign upon it, you will obey that decree whatever it may be. Let me tell you also that when you have fulfilled the decree you will not be called upon again to do any similar work for a period of seven years, and should the lot not fall upon you, you may never be required to do anything at all except enjoy the wealth provided for you. Now swear the oath upon this skull."

       As a man in a dream, Oswald Palliser repeated the words that bound him as a member of the Fatal Seven.

       Then each man in turn took him by the hand and swore to be faithful to him and to further his interests so long as he remained faithful to his vow, but each and all declared that they would execute vengeance upon him should he fail in his allegiance.

       When this ceremony was over, with the rapidity of a transformation scene, the table was cleared of the books and papers and spread with a repast such as Oswald Palliser had not seen for many a long day. Delicacies in and out of season, and the finest wines were there in tempting profusion, especially to a man who had been half-starving for weeks.

       In spite of his hunger, however~ Oswald found he could not eat much; food seemed to nauseate him, but he drank whatever was put before him, the consequence being that ere long he was under the table in a blissful state of unconsciousness as to where he was or what he had been doing.

---

CHAPTER III.

       A YEAR and more rolled away and Oswald Palliser had heard and seen nothing of the members of the mysterious Society to which he belonged. At times the events of that night when he was enrolled appeared to him as though they must have been a dream or a hallucination of his mind.

       Had there really been a murder, and was he truly a member of the Fatal Seven? He could recollect nothing beyond the banquet on that night. When he came to himself it was to find that he was in bed at a fashionable hotel, with a doctor and a Sister of Mercy attending him. He was too ill to trouble much at first about anything, but as convalescence progressed he became curious to know how it was that he was there. All he could learn was that two of the English Monsieur's friends had, brought him there one very cold night, nearly dying, they had paid liberally in advance for everything he might require, and had ordered that he was to have every care and attention.

       "But did they leave no name?" asked Oswald.

       None, was the reply, they said Monsieur's luggage should be forwarded, and it had arrived next day. Monsieur would find everything quite correct, it had not been touched since its arrival and he, the landlord, hoped that Monsieur was comfortable, and would still patronise his establishment now that he was getting better; and ended by assuring him that he would be ravished to supply him with everything of the best that he could desire.

       This gave Oswald food for reflection.

       It was evident from the landlord's obsequious manner that he imagined him to be a rich English 'Milord,' instead of the pauper he really was, and he must already have been well paid to make him so anxious to retain Palliser as a guest in his hotel.

       Oswald looked through the luggage, his luggage as the landlord had assured him, with curious feelings. He found there everything that would be required by a gentleman of means, and what was more extraordinary still was that everything fitted him as though it had been made for him. He supposed that his measure must have been taken when he was unconscious, he could not otherwise account for the fact of everything fitting him perfectly.

       There was a cheque-book of a well-known English Bank, having a branch in Paris, and letters of credit in various places.

       But amongst the miscellaneous property he found in the various hags and portmanteaux which, he was told, belonged to him, there was one article which gave him a shock when his hand touched it. It was the tiger-head handled and gold-mounted dagger that he had drawn from the breast of the corpse.

       It was this, more than anything, which made him recognise that the events of that terrible night were no dream but a dread reality. Why had this ghastly reminder been put among his clothes? Was it a warning or a threat? He took it in his hand, not without a shudder, however, and examined it carefully.

       It was a beautiful piece of workmanship, with a Damascus waved blade. This blade was quite clean and bright, no rust marring its shining surface, but on the alabaster handle was a dark stain, disfiguring its whiteness — the stain of the victim's life-blood, as Oswald very well knew? He hastily put it away out of sight, but he could not as easily put away the memory of the awful deed it had performed.

       As the days went on and he neither heard nor saw anything of the mysterious Seven, a more secure feeling came over him. He went down to the bridge where the body had been swept past, but nothing rewarded his search; no trace remained of the tragedy that had been enacted there? Again and again he tried to find the cellar where he had been confined, or the place where he had taken the oath, but both alike were futile; he could find neither place. So, after a time, he gave up his attempts and settled down to the enjoyment of his life.

       He had learned the value of money, and eschewed extravagance, though he never drew a cheque that was not immediately honoured. He seemed to be perfectly free, yet he had a disagreeable inner consciousness that he was being invisibly spied upon and that all his movements were known. To test whether he would be recalled, he started for England with the intention of staying there some months. His departure was not prevented and though he expected that every day he might find some communication from the Seven, the weeks rolled into months, and, for all he knew, that oath might never have been taken.

       By degrees the haunting fear became less, and there were times when he almost forgot to what he had pledged himself. When some of his former friends met him, apparently as well off as ever, they made overtures to him and pretended to he very pleased to see him; but he knew the worth of their friendship now and was not to be induced to squander his money upon such time-serving acquaintances. Occasionally, qualms of conscience seized him as to whether he had any right to spend the money so mysteriously obtained; then, on the other hand, he thought he did not misuse it, having learned the folly of doing so, and it might be put to a far worse purpose by someone else, if he did not make use of it. Besides, he must live, and it would be horrible to go back to the state of destitution from which this money had rescued him. So he salved his conscience by living plainly himself and succouring those whom he found in need and distress.

       One night on the Embankment he stopped a man who was about to throw himself into the water. Questioning him, the man disclosed a tale of starvation and suffering that moved him strangely; it had many points of resemblance to his own experience. Giving the man sufficient for his present needs, he told him to call upon him the next day, and if after enquiries, he found that his story was true he would get him employment that would at least keep the wolf from the door. The man, a gaunt, half-starved looking creature, called down blessings on his head, and then shuffled off quickly. Palliser looked after him with a shrug of his shoulders. "He was in a great hurry to be off, a professional beggar, I suppose, got up in that way to excite commiseration, I expect that is the last I shall see of him. However, after my own experience, I do not grudge the few shillings I gave him,-the fellow looked hungry enough," and then he dismissed him from his thoughts.

       However, rather to his surprise, the next day brought the man, and on investigation, he found that the story he told was true. Jim Evershed, for that was the man's name, was deeply grateful for what Oswald had done for him, and begged so hard to be allowed to enter his service that Palliser good-naturedly consented, and a very smart and energetic servant he soon proved to be. He was not by any means an effusive individual, but his devotion to his master was intense; he would willingly have laid down his life to serve Oswald Palliser.

       It was during this visit to England that Oswald met his fate in the person of Viola Appleton.

       The Appletons were people of good family, and were comfortably off without being enormously rich. The family, when Palliser first became acquainted with them, consisted of the father, mother and two daughters. Viola was the younger of these, and a very pretty girl, with soft golden hair and deep blue eyes. She had a sweet temper and amiable disposition, but was by no means too perfect for "human nature's daily food."

       Their first meeting was not altogether romantic, as it was caused by a collision between their bicycles, owing to a mistake on the young lady's part, who, in trying to get out of the way of a cart, ran full tilt into Palliser, so that both were thrown from their machines into the muddy road. Oswald escaped with a shaking, but Miss Appleton was less fortunate, being somewhat badly cut about the face. As her bicycle was broken, Palliser called a cab and insisted upon seeing her safely home.

       Naturally, he called the next day to inquire as to her injuries and from this beginning an acquaintanceship sprang up, which ripened into friendship, and finally before either of them knew, into love.

       Mr. Appleton took a fancy to the young man, and Oswald, who lived rather a lonely life, was not slow to respond to his advances.

       He had no thought of falling in love at first, indeed, under his present peculiar circumstances, he would not have felt justified in asking any woman to share his precarious lot; but love came unasked, and before he was aware of it he was head-over-ears in love with Viola Appleton; hut it was some time before he discovered this.

       It was very pleasant to be welcomed as a friend by this refined family, to see the blush and smile, which would dimple Viola's cheeks when he approached her; and to spend quiet evenings with them, listening to Blanche's fine contralto, or exquisite playing. He had no thought of danger in this; had he thought so, to do him justice, he would have gone away and not seen them again; but the mischief was done before he was aware and he had fallen in love with Viola, and she with him, unconsciously.

       Sometimes it seemed to him that he must have met Viola before, her face had a familiar look that puzzled him, but when he spoke of it, she declared that it must be his fancy for they had never met until their bicycles collided.

       Life appeared very fair to Oswald Palliser at this period of his existence. That episode .in Paris was like a bad dream, even the remembrance of it was growing faint in his memory.

       In the atmosphere of peaceful home joys that surrounded the Appletons there seemed no place for mysteries or dark deeds. Yet even they had a skeleton in their cupboard, as Oswald discovered by chance. He was friendly with all the family, but it was by accident he discovered that there was one member of the family whom he had not seen. It was a chance word of Viola's that told him that she had a brother. When he expressed his surprise that he had not heard him mentioned before, Viola confided to him that it was the one blot in the happiness of their home life. Her brother, her dearly loved brother had turned out wild and fast. Twice her father had paid his debts, hut refused on a third occasion to do so, and had shipped the young man out to Australia in the hopes that in the new country he might do better than in the old. But accounts came over from time to time which were not very favourable about him.

       Oswald asked if they ever heard from him personally. Viola replied that he did write, but very irregularly, sometimes they would be months without hearing from him. However, the remittances Mr. Appleton sent out were always called for, so they knew he was alive. Viola concluded by asking Oswald not to mention to her father and mother what she had told him about Dick, as their son's defection was a cause of great sorrow to them both.

       It was with almost a shock that the knowledge came to Oswald Palliser that he was in love and with this fair young girl. It was seeing her at a ball, surrounded by an admiring crowd of men, young and old, all solicitous to secure her hand, that suddenly awaked him to the fact that he was jealous. He would have liked to send every one of her suitors to the right-about. He eagerly made his way to her side, and asked for a dance, and she, with a smile and a blush that revealed more than she had any idea of, told him she had kept three for him.

       That evening he was in a state bordering upon ecstasy.

       She loved him! This beautiful girl, who might have aspired to a grand match, she loved him, — her unconscious glances told him that. He was the one man in the world for her as she was the one woman in the world for him.

       A feeling of exultation took possession of him. He would win her and hold her in spite of everything. He would spend his life in making hers happy. No harm should touch her, no evil come near her that he could avert. She should be his queen, his wife, his idol. So he thought in the glamour of the ball-room, in the intoxication of her presence.

       Again and again it was on the tip of his tongue to declare his passion and win her for his own, but something made him pause. Not here in the glare of the electric lights could he tell all that was in his heart, it was too sacred a theme for anything but solitude and seclusion. He would put off his declaration till he could have her to himself without fear of interruption; to-morrow he would learn his fate at her hands.

       But the night brought reflection.

       Had he any right to ask Viola Appleton to share his future life?

       What would that life be? To what had he bound himself? True that he was apparently free, but at any moment a bolt might fall, and in reality he was a pauper.

       He must go away and leave her, it was the only honest course open to him. Yet her dear eyes had told him that she loved him. How could he go from her and break her heart? Why had he not foreseen this, why had he been so blind? Whichever way he acted there would be sorrow for her for whom he would gladly lay down his life. What ought he as a man of honour to do? And then he smiled bitterly to himself. Was he a man of honour? Had he any right to call himself such? But at any rate she must not be harmed, unless indeed harm had already come to her through him. She was young; when he was out of sight she would forget him. He could not think without a pang, of her doing this, or of her marrying another, hut it was for her sake he was acting thus. He was glad now that he had not spoken, yet he felt that she knew of his love for her. She might think his conduct dishonourable, but even that was better than that she should live to regret linking her fate with his.

       The upshot of it was that he wrote a hurried note to Mr. Appleton, saying he was called away upon business; he told Evershed to pack clothes enough for a stay of some months; and master and man were soon on their way to America, where he hoped by shooting grizzlies in the Rockies to forget some of the pain of his hopeless love. But he soon found this was not practicable. Viola's face with its sweet reproachful eyes followed him everywhere and seemed to implore him to return .

       At last he could stand it no longer so turned his face homewards. Come what might he must see her again.

(To be continued.)

CHAPTER IV.

IMMEDIATELY on arriving in England, Oswald went to call at Mr. Appleton's town house; here, however, a disappointment awaited him, the house was shut up, and on enquiries, he learned that the family had gone to Paris to join in the festivities that were being held in honour of the visit of the Tsar and Tsarina of Russia. Impelled by some impulse that he could not resist, Palliser resolved to follow them at once, and scarcely giving Evershed time to re-pack his portmanteaux, he, with his faithful attendant, started by the night mail for Paris.

       It was easy to find out the hotel where the Appletons had taken up their temporary abode, but it was not so easy for Palliser to find accommodation for himself and his man, Paris being terribly over-crowded. However, at last he managed to secure one small room, for which he was made to pay an exorbitant sum.

       The Appletons greeted him cordially, but he thought Viola looked pale and thin, and seemed to have lost some of her spirits. Mr. Appleton confided to him that he had only come over to Paris to try and cheer her up; the child had appeared so dull and out of sorts, he did not know what was the matter with her, and he thought a little gaiety would be good for her, though he did not care for it himself.

       Oswald Palliser could not mistake the light that flashed into Viola's eyes when she saw him. Her whole face was transfigured, and she held out her little hands to him, while the very artlessness of her delight at the unexpected meeting revealed how deep was her love.

       His whole frame quivered and thrilled at the touch of her hands; she was his — his to claim when he would. Never more would they part.

       "Why did you go away for so long?" she said, in accents of tender reproach.

       "Have you missed me?" he asked.

       "So much, life did not seem worth living."

       "And I missed you too. Your face was always with me; it was the lode-star that brought me home."

       "I did not care to come to Paris, even to see the Emperor and the fair young Empress before, but now it will be glorious, because you are here."

       Is it any wonder that, when Viola Appleton in her innocence, showed her preference so strongly, Oswald Palliser should have thrown all consideration of prudence to the winds, and confessed the love that was consuming him?

       "I love you, I love you," he repeated. "I could not live away from you though I tried."

       "Why should you try?" she asked, surprised. "You must have seen that I loved you."

       "Yes, I saw it; I — I feared it."

       "Feared it, Oswald?"

       "Yes, dearest, feared it, but only for your sake."

       "For my sake?"

       "Yes. Oh, my darling, I am no match for you, I am poor — almost penniless."

       "I should not fear poverty with you, Oswald."

       Viola, who from her earliest childhood had never known a single want, had little idea of what poverty meant — such poverty as Oswald had known before his meeting with the Fatal Seven.

       "Perhaps not, Viola," he said, "but I should fear it for you. I could not bear to see my wife starving, growing thinner and paler day by day while I was powerless to help her."

       Viola laughed merrily.

       "Why, how solemn you are, Oswald; one would almost think you knew something about starvation by the way you talk." Palliser shivered. Her words, unconscious though she was how applicable they were, brought back to him that terrible time when starvation and he were close companions, when he had debated whether life was worth living, or whether it would be better to end its misery beneath the dark waters of the Seine.

       The girl went on without noticing his abstraction. "There would be no fear of our starving, dearest, for father —–"

       "Ah, your father," Oswald interrupted, "how shall I face him? What will he think when I ask him for you?"

       "I do not think he will object," Viola said, softly.

       "But I am poor, as I told you. He may expect a great deal in the suitors for his daughters' hands."

       "Father is not mercenary," Viola told him with quiet confidence. "He has often said that he would rather see Blanche and me happily wedded to the men of our own choice, than marry merely for rank and riches."

       "My darling, I pray that he may not refuse his consent," Oswald cried, a little wildly. "I could not live without you now."

       Viola's confidence in her father was not misplaced. He did not refuse his consent to their marriage, though Oswald explained to him that he had no settled income. He said that his daughter would have enough for both. He only stipulated that her fortune should be settled on herself. Oswald Palliser was delighted at this unhoped-for success in his wooing; he had feared that Mr. Appleton would never give his consent when he heard what a reckless spendthrift he had been. But the father put his daughter's happiness before everything, and as all he had seen of Oswald justified him in thinking that the latter had sown his wild oats, and as he entertained a friendly feeling for the young man, he accepted him as his prospective son-in-law without any fear of the future. Perhaps, had he known of that compact, Mr. Appleton might have hesitated before giving his consent, but he was not aware of it, Palliser having been bound by his oath could not reveal it. Everything else he disclosed, not in the slightest trying to palliate his own folly and recklessness.

       Then followed a happy time for the lovers. Oswald was accepted as the future son and brother. He was welcomed at all hours. If Mr. Appleton could not go, he escorted the three ladies about sightseeing and to balls and parties. Of fêtes there was a succession in honour of the Russian Emperor and Empress and the tiny Grand Duchess. Blanche and Viola were charmed with the loveliness of the young Tsarina and her graciousness, but remarked that at times a melancholy look would overshadow her fair features.

       One night there was a grand ball given at one of the mansions in the Champs Elysées. The Appletons were there, with Oswald Palliser in attendance, and the two beautiful English girls attracted a good deal of attention. It was a gay scene; magnificent dresses, gorgeous uniforms, brilliant jewels, lovely faces, bright eyes, sweet-scented flowers, and the ripple of soft laughter formed a fitting accompaniment to the strains of dulcet music that floated through the rooms.

       Oswald Palliser was leaning near the doorway lost in a reverie of pleasant thoughts. No prescience of coming evil spoilt his enjoyment. He loved and was beloved, there was no obstacle to his union with the object of his affections. He was happy; what more could the world hold of good for him? He had everything that man could desire. Yet, even as he thought thus, a black shadow was hovering over him, a shadow of coming doom. A light touch on his arm aroused him from his abstraction and made him look around to see who wanted to attract his attention. An icy hand seemed to clutch at his heart as the deep tones he remembered so well fell upon his ears, and the sinister eyes of Number One looked mockingly into his.

       "Mademoiselle is very beautiful. I congratulate you, Number Seven," the stranger said.

       For a moment Oswald was speechless. Had a bolt fallen from Heaven it could not have astonished him more. Nothing was farther from his thoughts than the Fatal Seven just then.

       "Monsieur Palliser does not seem overwhelmed with joy at meeting an old friend," the mocking tones went on.

       "What do you here?" Oswald exclaimed at last.

       "I am here as l'ami de la maison, my dear fellow; the Comte d'Hautpierre is always a welcome guest."

       Palliser started; he knew the name well by reputation; the Comte was a brilliant member of the aristocracy. Was it possible that he and Number One were the same individual?

       The Comte smiled as if he divined his perplexity. "I bear many names," he said, coolly; "at present I am the Comte d'Hautpierre, and as such will you be good enough to address me."

       Oswald was stung by the haughty tone. "Well, Monsieur le Comte," he said as haughtily as the other had spoken, "what is your business with me? for I presume you would not have addressed me without some reason."

       "Your acumen does you credit. I have an object and it is two-fold."

       "What is it?"

       "First, to congratulate you on your approaching marriage. Your taste is commendable."

       Oswald made an impatient movement. How he hated to hear his darling discussed by this mocking, sinister individual.

       The Comte smiled, and went on imperturbably. "Secondly, I am the bearer of a message to you from the Fatal Seven."

       "Ah!"

       "There is an action to be performed. One of the Seven must do it. The drawing will be by lot. You are expected to be present and to draw in turn."

       "When?"

       "To-morrow."

       "So soon?" with a start.

       "Yes, time presses."

       "Where?"

       "In the Hall of the Fatal Seven."

       "How shall I find it?"

       "To-morrow, at eight in the morning a messenger will ask for you. Oh, your place of abode is well known. From the time you took the oath you have never been lost sight of. You will accompany this man and obey him in everything. More you will learn hereafter. Now, monsieur, I leave you to the company of your beautiful sweetheart. Au revoir!" and with a mocking smile and bow the Comte left Oswald in a frame of mind not easily described.

       Gone for him was all the enjoyment of the evening.

       A dire foreboding was on him. Was he to pay the penalty now for his bygone rashness? What action was to be done? No hint had been given as to that. Was there any means of escape? None. Had he not been closely watched all this time when he thought himself free? How had that been done? The thought flashed across him: Could Evershed be a spy? He did not like to think so, the man was apparently so devoted to him, and yet —–

       But after all, why should he look on the dark side of things? The lot might not fall to him, and even should it do so there might be nothing very dreadful to perform. So he tried to persuade himself, but his worried, anxious look was noticed at once by Viola, and he had some trouble in pacifying her and parrying her loving questions as to what troubled him.

       Punctually at eight the next morning a man called to see Oswald Palliser. The latter was up and dressed long before the appointed time. His thoughts would not allow him to sleep. The man civilly requested him to accompany him. Feeling how useless refusal would be, Oswald complied, and the two walked together down several streets. Then Palliser's companion called a cab and intimated to him that the rest of the journey would be travelled in that fashion.

       Oswald noticed that though the man had hailed what appeared to be a passing cab, yet he gave the driver no directions, and the blinds were drawn so that the occupants could not see where they were being driven. The man volunteered no information and Oswald asked for none.

       After driving for more than half an hour, the cab stopped, and the man taking a large silk handkerchief from his pocket, said, "Monsieur will permit me," and blindfolded him. Then he was helped to descend, and heard the vehicle drive off. His conductor then took Oswald through various passages and up and down stairs which Palliser surmised were those he had traversed on a former occasion. This impression was strengthened when he found himself in the circular, black-draped chamber where he had taken the oath.

       On the bandage being removed, a small black mask was put on Oswald's face, and he saw that six other individuals sat round the table similarly masked. In the centre of the table was a vase, and into this Number One put seven slips of paper, after folding them up. Then, still silently, after shaking them up, N umber One put his hand in and drew forth a slip. The man next him followed and then the others, the last being Oswald Palliser. Of course when his turn came there was only one slip left, therefore he had no choice but to take it. Each man held his slip in his hand unopened.

       "Brothers," said Number One, "we are met for the purpose of seeing which one of us is to be the chosen instrument for carrying out the noble action which has been decreed by the Council. It is an honour that each one of us covets; but let not those who fail now envy their successful brother. Remember, to each in turn will come their opportunity of benefiting mankind. My brothers, open the slips of paper and see which of us is the lucky man."

       The Seven obeyed. One after the other they opened the slips of paper to find them blank. Oswald Palliser's alone contained something. On him the lot had fallen.

       The thought glanced through Oswald's mind, "was there any bribery in this? This particular slip had been left to him, he being the last had no choice." But he had not much time for thinking, for the President was addressing him.

       "Number Seven," he said, "you are to be congratulated that the honour has fallen upon you."

       "What do you expect me to do?" Oswald asked, somewhat ungraciously.

       "Nothing very difficult," returned Number One.

       "What is it?"

       "Simply, that you will provide the bouquet, which Mademoiselle Viola Appleton is to present to the Tsarina at the fête given by the English residents, and which her Imperial Majesty has graciously promised to attend."

       Oswald stared. What was there that the Seven were not cognizant of, and why should they want him to provide the bouquet? Mr. Appleton was rich enough to supply a suitable one.

       As though guessing his thoughts, the other went on, "There is one ordered, you would say; we know it, but that is not worthy of the acceptance of the Tsarina. You will find an opportunity of doing what we wish. A bouquet will be delivered to you, it will be your work to see that it reaches the hands it is intended for. You understand?"

       "Yes; but why should you wish me to do this?"

       "Ask no questions, make no excuses. All you have to do is to obey. See that you do, if you value your life, and what is more to you than life. Fail not!" and then Number One added, with a sardonic smile, "You would not have the Seven more backward than the English in doing honour to the illustrious visitors, eh?"

---

CHAPTER V.

       OSWALD was perplexed. It was apparently a very small service that was required of him in return for all the money he had received. Yet he could not help suspecting some ulterior purpose underlying the proposed change of bouquets. He had heard of poisoned flowers, but that was in the time of the Borgias; in these days such things were not known, and who could have any grudge against the fair Empress?

       Life was very sweet to him just now, with the prospect of making Viola his wife. If he failed in the behest of the Seven he had been given to understand death would be his portion. But why for so simple a thing should the punishment be so severe? It would look as though something sinister lay behind the matter. If he refused, and that is what he felt disposed to do, it would be signing his own death warrant. After all it might be that the only object of the Seven was as stated, to do extra honour to the Imperial Guests. But Oswald Palliser was by no means comfortable in his mind. He was absolutely in ignorance as to who or what the other members of the Seven might be. He did not even know their names, with the exception of that by which Number One was known in Paris. If — if anything sinister were intended, why, his darling Viola would be involved in it. He would rather die than bring any disgrace or harm to her. There was so little time in which to make up his mind.

       On the morrow the bouquet was to be presented, and Viola was full of excitement and delight at the honour for which she had been selected. Palliser was so occupied with his own thoughts that he did not notice that his man Evershed had been hovering about him and regarding him curiously ever since his return from the meeting of the Seven. However, his attention was caught by the man's evident anxiety to speak to him.

       "Well, Jim," he said, kindly," is there anything you want; would you like a holiday to-morrow to see the festivities?"

       "You are very kind, sir, but it is not that."

       "There is something else, speak out, Jim."

       "Pardon me, sir, but may I speak freely? You won't be offended with me?"

       "Why, how solemn you are, Jim," Oswald said, affecting a gaiety he was far from feeling; "you look as though you were going to my funeral."

       "I feel like it, sir."

       "Evershed!"

       "Yes, sir: forgive me, but you've been very good to me, and I feel I must speak."

       "Go on, you have my permission."

       "I followed you to-day, sir, when you went out."

       "Followed me?" in surprise.

       "Yes, when the cab was called I got up behind."

       "Well?"

       "Now, sir, forgive me, I know you belong to the Seven."

       "Ah!"

       "I suspected it before, sir, when 1 found that dagger among your clothes. But it wasn't my place to question you. Only now you're in danger I must speak."

       "Look here, Evershed," Oswald said, quickly, "what do you know about the Seven?"

       "I was one on 'em, sir," was the startling answer.

       "You one of the Fatal Seven?"

       "Yes, sir, they got me in their meshes when I was starving. If they only knew I was alive they'd soon be after me, only they think I'm dead."

       "Dead?"

       "Aye, sir. See here, here's the scar left by the dagger they stuck into my back when I wouldn't fall in with their murderous views. They flung me into the river to make sure, but I escaped and hoped I'd done with them entirely. But I'll have vengeance if I can. They are a coward lot, they try to keep their own necks out of the noose. They get some unsuspecting man to join as Number Seven. The lot always falls to him to do the vile work, and when it is done they quietly get rid of him by murdering him."

       "How do you know this?"

       "By what I have discovered since. I should not have come to Paris on my own account, but since I have been here with you, sir, I've not been idle, and I'm so changed I've not much fear of their recognising me, especially as they think I'm dead. Now, sir, as you value your own life, and that of those that are dear to you, be careful. They sent for you to give some order?"

       "Quite true."

       "Will you trust me, sir, will you tell me what they want you to do?"

       For a moment Oswald hesitated. Was this man a spy sent to test his allegiance? Then he thought recklessly, his position could not be much worse than it was now, and some impulse made him tell Evershed everything as it had occurred.

       "Thank you, sir," the man said, when he had finished. "There is some devilry underlying this, but it will be hard if we do not find some way of circumventing them."

       A long conference ensued between Palliser and Evershed before they separated.

       The next day was a beautiful one, with the sun shining brilliantly — an ideal day for a fête. Not only the English, but all Paris was early astir, for the city had run mad after the Imperial visitors, and eagerly sought for another opportunity of seeing the beautiful young Empress Alexandra, whose loveliness and grace charmed all beholders. Besides, there would he very few more opportunities of seeing them, as the Imperial visit to the gayest city in the world was drawing to a close.

       Oswald Palliser had no difficulty in persuading Mr. Appleton to allow him to provide the bouquet which his betrothed was to present to the Tsarina. Viola herself was in a great deal of excitement over the function that she was to perform. Her sweet face looked prettier than ever, brimming over, as it was, with smiles and blushes, Her costume was perfection, and nothing seemed wanting for the success of the proceedings.

       The Appletons were all ready to start, but Oswald Palliser had not arrived with the bouquet. They were beginning to get anxious at the delay, and Mr. Appleton was regretting that he had countermanded the one he had ordered, so that in case of accidents there would have been one to fall back upon, when the young man arrived, bearing a large card box, which, on being opened, displayed a bouquet of the choicest flowers and exotics, which for beauty of design and arrangement was a dream of floral loveliness.

       "Oh! how beautiful," Viola exclaimed, delighted, as she bent over the sweet-scented blossoms and inhaled their fragrance.

       "How extravagant you have been," Blanche said, as in her turn she examined the flowers; "they must have cost a fortune."

       "You would not have it unworthy an Empress's acceptance?" said Oswald, with an attempt at a smile, but the attempt was a ghastly failure, and his face was very pale. Luckily for him, however, in the excitement of the start no one noticed his agitation.

       When they arrived, they found the place crowded with all that was most notable and brilliant in Paris. Besides the members of the English Embassy and those of the English aristocracy who were in the city, were many scions of noble French families, one and all alike eager to pay their homage to the Tsar and his fair young consort.

       An animated scene it was. Looking at the splendour of the dresses and uniforms, the profusion of jewels and flowers, the lavish expenditure that must have been spent on the fete, it was hard to imagine that, close by, famine and want upreared their unlovely heads, that sin and crime lurked near, that Nihilism cast its baleful shadow over those assembled there in lighthearted unconsciousness, and that Death with his bony fingers was stalking through the gay multitude, waiting but the opportunity to strike down the fairest there. But few of that gay throng, however, were oppressed with such thoughts as these, they were intent upon the amusement of the hour, and that was sufficient for them.

       Viola, carrying the magnificent bouquet with its streaming ribbons, was naturally an object of much attention. Young girls envied her, while the young men remarked on the beauty of her softly flushed face and shining eyes, and gave it as their opinion that, in her way she was as beautiful as the young Empress herself.

       Oswald Palliser had a feeling as though he was walking on the crater of a volcano which might at any moment burst forth and engulf him. It scarcely surprised him when he saw the Comte's saturnine face close to his own, or to hear his voice whispering in his ear.

       "Mademoiselle looks charming, as charming as her flowers. Such an honour comes once in a lifetime; never again will it come to her. To-day marks an epoch in her life."

       Oswald shuddered at the meaning in the other's tones. He was about to say something, when on looking round he found D'Hautpierre was no longer at his elbow. He was conscious, however, that he and his party was being narrowly watched by him the whole time that the ceremony of presentation and the acceptance of the bouquet was being gone through.

       When once this was over, Number One disappeared and was seen no more among the titled company. Oswald, whose feelings had been strained to their utmost tension, was decidedly thankful when the fête was over and they were driving back to the hotel. The girls were chattering gaily about the experience of the day, and did not notice his silent, constrained manner, but Viola was obviously disappointed when he refused Mr. Appleton's invitation to join them at dinner that evening.

       "Not to-night, darling," he said in answer to her entreaties. "I — I have some work to do."

       "Can it not wait, Oswald?" she pleaded. "I did so want to talk it all over with you."

       "To-morrow, dear, I will listen to everything you have to say. To-night is not my own, or it should be devoted to you. Good-bye, my darling, rest after the fatigues of the day and dream of your triumphs." He bent down and kissed her tenderly, almost solemnly, before he left her.

       "I think something is the matter with Oswald," she said to her sister. "Did you see how white he looked?"

       "He is probably tired, dear," Blanche answered. "It was very hot to-day, and he had a good deal to do seeing after us; he will be alright to-morrow, you will find."

       But Viola looked grave all that evening: there was something about her lover's manner that disturbed her and gave her an uneasy feeling of some evil impending. All her pleasure in the day's proceedings had vanished.

       Evershed was awaiting his master's return.

       "Well, sir," he said, with suppressed eagerness, as Oswald threw himself into a chair, "was he there?"

       "Yes."

       "And saw the bouquet presented?"

       "Yes."

       "Then you are safe, sir."

       "I wish I could think so, Jim."

       "But you've done their behest. They can't say anything against you. It ain't your fault if things didn't go quite as they planned them, eh, sir?" with a grin, as though he was enjoying some joke.

       "Thanks to you, Jim. Oh! the horror of it all will never leave me. When I saw her innocent face bent over those accursed flowers, I felt mad, mad with fear and apprehension. I could have torn them from her hands when I thought of the destruction they would hurl round."

       "They were harmless enough, sir, when Miss Viola had 'em."

       "Yes, I know, still I feared. One can never fathom the devilish ingenuity of these fiends; there might have been something else concealed beneath the blossoms."

       "Now, sir, don't you go thinking any more about this, it's over and done with; all's well that ends well."

       "You think it is ended, Evershed" — with a melancholy smile — "as far as I'm concerned?"

       "Why not, sir? You did as you were ordered; what more can they expect?"

       "Look here, Jim," and Oswald held out to him a folded paper. "Read it," as the man hesitated about taking it.

       Evershed, upon this, open and read the paper, which appeared to be written in blood. It was a summons to Oswald Palliser to appear that evening at a Council of the Seven.

       "It was put into my hand as I was getting into the carriage on our return," said Oswald, quietly.

       Evershed looked rather blankly at the document he held in his hand.

       "What do you make of it, sir?" he said, at last.

       "Humph! it looks to me very like a death warrant," his master returned.

       "Don't go, sir."

       "Useless, Evershed. They would find means for wreaking their revenge wherever I might be. I could not hope to escape them."

       "That's true," the man said, musingly: "they're devils, that's what they are."

       "Besides," Oswald went on, "I should like to let them know what I think of them now that I know their murderous designs. It will be some slight satisfaction before they make an end of me."

       "Sir, can't we denounce them?"

       "You forget, Jim, that in denouncing them, we should denounce ourselves. I am afraid there is nothing for us but the satisfaction of knowing that this time we have foiled their hellish designs."

       "They may try it on again, sir."

       "They may, but not here, the opportunity for which they worked has gone never to return, let us hope."

       "Yes; but, sir, your life —–"

       "My life, Evershed, is but one, and that neither a great nor a worthy one. The enormous gain in return for the sacrifice of it will well repay its loss."

       "Will Miss Viola think so, sir?" significantly.

       A spasm crossed Oswald's face.

       "Hush, Evershed," he said, hoarsely, "I cannot bear to think of her. For her sake I wish I had never met with these accursed men. When I think of what they would have made her do, my brain seems on fire, and I would that I could deal them the punishment they deserve. But enough of this; if I do not return, you will find all directions for what you are to do here," giving him a paper, "and should I never see you again, you will know that I thank you from the bottom of my heart for what you have enabled me to do," and he held out his hand to his servant.

       The latter hesitated a second, then clasped the hand held out to him in a convulsive grip, while his voice was unsteady, as he said, "You've been good to me before, and now you've honoured me by giving me your hand. Let me go in your place; I'll tell them it was all my doing. You go to Miss Viola, and leave me to settle this."

       "You are a good fellow, Evershed," Oswald returned, touched by the man's devotion, "but that would only be sacrificing two lives when one would suffice. You will attend to the directions you will find there, in case I do not return."

       "You may depend upon me, sir."

       When Oswald had gone, Evershed sat thinking for some time. At last he rose. "I must try it," he muttered, "but how to do it without injuring him, that's the rub. There's no time to lose with them murderous devils at work. It's a forlorn hope at best, still it's worth trying," and Jim, too, left the hotel.

(To be Continued.)

CHAPTER VI.

"NUMBER SEVEN, you have broken the solemn oath you took to obey in everything the behests of the Society. You have caused us to lose a glorious opportunity of ridding the world of a tyrant. You have been false to those who succoured you when you were in direst distress. In a word, you are a traitor, and as such you have been summoned to answer tor your crimes and to have judgment passed upon you."

       The speaker was Number One, the place, the hall of the Council of Seven.

       Round the table were seated six members, all dressed in black and masked. Oswald Palliser alone was standing bareheaded and unmasked before his judges. His face was rather pale, but his bearing was erect and his glance bold and intrepid. He did not quail before these men, though he knew his life was in their hands. Indeed, a feeling of anger was surging up in his heart against these merciless wretches and their vile aims.

       "Number Seven," continued the deep tones of the Comte d'Hautpierre, "you were chosen by lot as the instrument of a great and glorious act, whereby humanity would have profited. You have deliberately thwarted the plans that would have helped to regenerate mankind. You tampered with the bouquet that was confided to your care, so that the magnificent opportunity was lost. Have you anything to say to these charges?"

       "Much," responded Oswald, fiercely. "It is quite true that I suspected your infernal plot."

       "He owns to it, gentlemen."

       "Yes, I removed the cylinder."

       "Fool! you might have met your death in doing so."

       "I know; I understood the risk, but had I ten lives I would have risked them all. You cannot be men, you must be fiends to devise such hideous cruelty. For your own base ends you would not care how many men, women and children were indiscriminately murdered, aye, murdered in cold blood, innocent though they might be."

       "Stop his mad tongue," cried one of the men, angrily.

       "Nay," said Number One, grimly, "let him speak, give him rope enough to hang himself."

       "Yes," went on Oswald, in fiery tone, "I thwarted your plans, miscreants,black-hearted villains that you are. You may frown, but I care not for your wrath. You may wreak your vengeance upon me, but you cannot alter the fact that I prevented a dastardly crime, a crime that would have sent dozens to their deaths besides those for whom it was intended."

       "Yes, you lost us a most glorious opportunity by your pusillanimous conduct. Had we but chosen another for the work —–"

       "I am glad you did not, glad that through me your plans failed. Brutes, miscreants that you are, you would have made an innocent girl the instrument of your evil work, you would have involved her in the destruction you were dealing around. Oh! I could laugh with joy that you chose me to carry out your plans."

       Oswald Palliser was reckless, he knew his life was forfeit, and he cared not how he lashed them with his tongue.

       "Your oath, remember that."

       "I remember. I would that my tongue had been bitten out ere I said those words. Though I knew not then to what depths of infamy I might be pledging myself; I caught to have known that nothing good or honourable could dwell and plot in secret. I am vile in my own sight for having, even in my direst need, accepted your viler help. I am rightly punished for my weakness. Do your worst upon me. Your vengeance may be tome little atonement for my crime in joining such as you."

       The scornful words were uttered rapidly. Oswald did indeed feel now the degradation of having lived on the ill-gotten wealth of these conspirators. He forgot the dire straits to which he had been reduced, and only remembered the shame of what he had done. In spite of his own peril, he was careful not to intimate in the slightest Evershed's share in the matter, he would not bring that faithful fellow into danger. He would let them think that he alone discovered the small though deadly cylinder concealed among the fragrant flowers.

       "Think you so?" said Number One in answer to his last observation. "Supposing mademoiselle should —–"

       "Leave her name out of the question," Palliser interrupted, fiercely. "When I think of what you would have made her do, what she would have suffered had your vile scheme succeeded, I could kill you where you stand. But I saved her, yes, I saved my darling from a fate worse than death."

       "And gained it for yourself."

       "I have told you I care not. Do your worst."

       "All in good time. Gentlemen," said Number One, turning to the others, "you have heard the prisoner does not deny his guilt, rather he glories in it. You are all unanimous in your verdict?"

       "Quite."

       "And that verdict is —–?"

       "Guilty!"

       "Number Seven, you have heard. Have you anything further to say?"

       "Why prolong the farce?" cried Oswald, impatiently. "I am ready. I shall not be the first by a good many that you have got rid of by a stab in the back."

       "What do you mean?"

       "You do not want me to explain. Finish your work."

       There was some hurried whispering among the men. Oswald's words had evidently surprised them.

       Presently Number One addressed him: "You have been found guilty and adjudged worthy of death. Vengeance will be executed upon you, as it is upon all who break their vows, You expect death; well, death will come to you, but not here."

       "How?" exclaimed Oswald, startled. "Are you not going to kill me now?"

       "No, you will go from here-free."

       "Free?"

       "Yes, free. But think not that you will escape the vengeance of the Seven."

       "Ah! I understand now. Here, my body might be difficult to dispose of, you prefer to wait till you can hurl it into the Seine."

       "Your penetration is really wonderful," said Number One, in mocking tones, "however, in this instance you are wrong. The Council intend to invoke the aid of Justice to further their ends."

       "Justice?"

       "Yes, they intend to denounce you as the murderer of Richard Appleton."

       "Of whom?" Oswald cried, but his face blanched with a deadly fear. "Of whom did you say?"

       "Of Richard Appleton, son of John Appleton of Appleton Hall, Staffordshire, and Grosvenor Street, London, brother to Miss Blanche Appleton and Miss Viola Appleton, fiancée of a certain Mr. Oswald Palliser, who was found drawing the knife out of his victim's body."

       For a moment horror held Oswald speechless; then an agonizing cry broke from him: "Her brother! Great God her brother!"

       "Yes, how do you like the vengeance of the Seven? What will she think when she knows that you murdered her brother? Will she throw her arms round your neck and kiss you welcome when she knows?" the mocking voice went on.

       "Monster!" exclaimed Oswald. "Is this to be your revenge? Kill me at once, rather."

       "Oh, no; we prefer that you should live to suffer, to see aversion instead of love in her blue eyes, to feel her shrink with loathing from your caress as she would from some accursed thing, to wish she were dead ere she had seen and loved the murderer of her brother."

       "Fiends! wreak your vengeance upon me, but spare that innocent girl, do not make her suffer," he cried.

       "The decree has been spoken. Nothing that you can say will alter it one iota," Number One said, coldly.

       "I see it all now," Oswald exclaimed, "not content with murdering the brother, you would make the sister a victim too. He was her brother, no doubt, that was the likeness that puzzled me. You inveigled him to join your society, as you inveigled me, and because he would not carry out your infernal commands, you brutally killed him and flung his body into the river."

       "What and if it may be so; you will pay the penalty of the crime," Number One said, politely.

       "Not if there is any justice in earth or Heaven," Oswald cried wildly. "I will denounce you as the murderers you are. I care not if I am involved in the destruction too, such wretches you must not be permitted to live."

       "You will denounce us, eh?"

       "Yes, the moment I go from here."

       Had Oswald not been wild with grief and horror he would have seen the folly of his words. Once outside he might have made some effort to escape from the toils that were closing so tightly around him: but here he was entirely in their power, and it was not likely that desperate ruffians such as these would give him the slightest opportunity of carrying out his threats.

       "You should have done that before; now it is too late."

       "I tell you that I will."

       "Will you indeed? That alters our plans. I am very sorry to incommode you, but you have brought it on yourself."

       At a sign from Number One, two of the masked men flung themselves upon Palliser and, despite his struggles, in a very short time had him securely bound hand and foot so that he was perfectly helpless.

       "Lock him in the cellar, and two of you keep guard over him," continued Number One. "Instead of letting him go free as we had intended, we will keep him now, and hand him over to Justice tomorrow. Meanwhile, we others will deliberate as to the best course to pursue. Away with him."

       Oswald thought his last hour was come. He knew he could expect neither justice nor mercy from these men.

       He was roughly seized and carried some distance, and at last deposited with little ceremony in a dark and evil-smelling cellar. Here he was left to his own thoughts, and they were not pleasant ones. He could not see in the dark, but he knew he was being guarded. The cords had been so tightly drawn that they cut into the flesh of his wrists and ankles, but he scarcely felt the bodily pain in the greater mental anguish that consumed him.

       Her brother! The thought was terrible. Her brother, of whom she often spoke fondly in spite of his faults, was the young man of whose death, he had heard, and whose body he had pulled from the river He had no doubt on the subject now. Number One had not denied the accusation. How bitterly he regretted his hastiness, but for that he might at least be free for a day or two and and have seen his darling again. But how could he look her in the face knowing what he knew?

       Then to be accused of being her brother's murderer; what a frightful thing if it ever came to her ears? Yet he could not bring himself to believe that the Seven were in earnest about denouncing him. How could they, seeing what they were? No, he came to the conclusion that that was but a feint; they would never have allowed him to reach home in safety, he would have been waylaid and put out of the world noiselessly. Now he supposed he should never leave the cellar alive. Strangely enough this prospect did not disturb him much. Life had become such a tangled skein, that he would not be altogether sorry to escape from its worries. The horror of the knowledge that had so lately come to him overwhelmed him and numbed his faculties. Richard Appleton done to death in that cruel and mysterious manner! How had he fallen into the clutches of the Seven? Had he come to Paris, or had they discovered him at the Antipodes?

       Even if he, Oswald, were to escape, and there seemed little likelihood of that now, how should he tell the Appletons of the dreadful fate that had befallen their son and brother? He could not do it without betraying his own connection with the murderous band, and what would he thought of his confession? Viola, his innocent darling, might believe him because she loved him, but would the others? Would they not look upon him as a criminal, and shun him as one? He felt that it was such an improbable story, they would he justified in branding him as a liar and impostor. Altogether, Oswald thought wearily, death would be one way out of the impasse. He wished that it might come soon, thought was maddening in that dark place. Horrors, intangible horrors. seemed to be crowding around him as he lay fettered. bound hand and foot, unable to rise or release himself from the cords which were beginning to cause him agony as the flesh swelled under the tight-drawn strands.

       What fate was in store for him? What form would the vengeance of the Seven take?

       He thought of Viola. What would her feelings he when he returned to her no more? Would she regret him, or would she be angry at what she might deem his base desertion of her?

       She would never know that in word and thought, whatever his sins might be, he had never wronged her; had ever felt for her the tenderest, truest love — the one strong love of his manhood. To save her pain and sorrow, he would willingly have laid down his life, but now to have to tell her the brother, to whose return she was looking forward so fondly, would never come back, that he had passed the bourne whence no traveller ever returns, to cause her this anguish — and then he pulled himself up suddenly. What nonsense was this he was thinking? There was little chance of his telling her the fate of her brother; in all probability she would never know his own fate.

       It might have been but yesterday that he was lying in that same place with the corpse of her brother as a companion. How horrible it all was! What had they done with that poor boy's body? What would they do with his? There was no sound now to tell Oswald whether his guards were still on duty or whether they had been called away. The silence became unbearable; he felt as if he should go mad. He strove to cry out, but his voice was weak and hoarse, and nothing answered him save a ghastly stillness that seemed to freeze the blood in his veins.

---

CHAPTER VII.

OSWALD PALLISER must have fallen into a kind of half-sleep, half-lethargy, for he lost count of time, and for awhile forgot the peril of his situation.

       Even in that numbed state wild fancies were passing through his brain. He thought he was being married to Viola, and even as he was putting the ring on her finger the little hand he held became bony and fleshless, the lovely face changed to a death's head that grinned and jibbered at him from under the folds of the filmy lace veil that covered the bare skull, and the tongueless jaws screeched at him, "Traitor! deceiver! murderer! give me back my brother whom you foully slew."

       Then the scene would change, and he would be wading into the dark waters endeavouring to seize Richard Appleton's body which continually eluded his grasp, or he would be listening to Evershed's voice imploring him not to put himself into the power of the Seven. This last impression was very vivid, it did not move and change as the other phantasmagoria did; it was so persistent, that at last Oswald's senses awoke to the fact that Evershed's voice was actually sounding in his ears.

       "For Heaven's sake, sir, rouse yourself," the man was saying.

       "You here, Evershed?" Oswald managed to gasp, when he at last grasped the fact that Jim was indeed bending over him and chafing his hands from which the cords had been cut.

       "Yes, sir. Pull yourself together, your life and mine hang upon a thread."

       "How did you get here?"

       "Too long to tell you now, sir; our business is to get out of here before they discover us."

       "The men?"

       "Have been called away by stratagem, but at any moment they may come back. Try if you can stand, sir."

       Oswald, assisted by Evershed, made an effort to rise, but his pain-racked limbs were stiff with cramp and refused to support him. With a groan he fell back upon the floor.

       "No use," he exclaimed. "Save yourself, Evershed."

       "And leave you here? not me. If we've got to die, we'll die together, but Jim Evershed ain't going to shuffle off this mortal coil without having a shot for his life and yours. Do you think you could hold a revolver, sir? here's one ready loaded."

       Oswald's swollen, numbed hands almost refused their office, but a sudden, fierce desire for life came over him and he clutched the revolver Jim held out to him eagerly.

       "That's right," Evershed said, approvingly. "We'll make a fight for it. Now, sir, just try again with my help; I'm sure you could get up the ladder, and every moment's precious. We must be out of this infernal place before the police —–"

       "The police, Evershed?" Oswald interrupted.

       "Yes, sir; I put them on the track, they'll be here soon. I've had a mind to do it many a time before, only you see somehow I funked it, but to-night I made up my mind; however, I don't want 'em to find you here, nor, for the matter o' that, myself either. I don't want to be mixed up in it in any way if I can help it."

       "But how did you —–?"

       "How did I do it? Well, sir, I knows one o' the secret police, and I gave him a hint which was sufficient to make him scent a good thing. There now, I'm sure you can do it," as he raised and almost carried his master to the ladder.

       It was only after repeated attempts that at last the man managed to haul Oswald up to the passage above. Though his anxiety was very keen he tried to conceal it from Palliser, whom he urged along as fast as his trembling limbs would allow. Once Oswald stopped exhausted, declaring he could go on no further, and imploring Evershed to seek his own safety.

       "If you stay here, I stay here," Jim declared, doggedly. "I've only one life to lose, and I'll sell that dearly, but leave you I won't, not if the whole band come upon us at once."

       Recognising that Evershed would be as good as his word, Oswald made another effort, and slowly they crept along the passage in the dark, as silently as they could. lest they should be heard, and keeping their revolvers ready for instant use.

       Suddenly Evershed uttered an exclamation of dismay.

       "What is it, Jim?" whispered Oswald, as he leaned rather heavily on his arm.

       "Confound this passage. I've forgotten the way out, here we've come to a blank wall and can go no farther. I must have taken a wrong turning," and he groaned at the thought of what this might mean to them.

       "What are we to do now?"

       "There is nothing for it but to retrace our steps and trust to luck to find out the right way. I'm sorry for you, sir."

       "It cannot be helped, Jim. Let us try and make our way out; we are like rats in a trap here."

       Jim uttered anathemas both loud and deep on himself for his stupidity in mistaking the way. Every moment's delay increased their danger, not only from the members of the society they had joined but also from the police If they were found there by the gendarmes they would be arrested with the others as dynamitards and conspirators, and consigned to prison and perhaps a shameful death, for it would be hard to prove that though they had joined the Society they had done so unwittingly and were innocent of any wish to regenerate the world by the means of dynamite.

       Cautiously, Evershed guided his master back through the winding underground passages. He would not own it, even to himself, but he was afraid that he would not he able to find his way out of this labyrinth, there seemed to be no exit to it that he could discover in the darkness.

       Presently he stopped and listened.

       "Do you hear anything?" he whispered to Palliser.

       There was a faint murmuring sound as of voices at a distance. Oswald signified that he heard them.

       "The council chamber must be somewhere about here," he said.

       "Yes, sir, if we can find the entrance to that, we might make a dash for liberty."

       "What do think of doing?"

       "Well, sir, there'd be only four of them, unless the two sent on a wild goose chase have returned. You'd be able to tackle one, and I'd take the others. What say you?"

       "Too risky, Jim. I am not good for much, and you must not throw away your life for nothing. If we can get out without, I would rather not attack them."

       "All right, sir," answered Jim, who knew it was not cowardice which prompted Oswald's speech, but rather solicitude for his servant's safety; "I'm agreeable, I only wish we could get out of this confounded place. Ah!"

       This exclamation was caused by a stream of light that flashed across the darkness from a suddenly opened door.

       "Back, sir," Evershed whispered, "or we shall be discovered," and he crouched against the wall, drawing Oswald back at the same time out of the line of light. He was only just in time.

       Two masked men came out of the door which closed behind them plunging everything into darkness again.

       Oswald and Jim held their breath for fear their breathing should betray their proximity to the two men who, instead of passing them as they feared they might, went straight in the other direction of the passage.

       "Depend upon it, they've been sent to fetch you, sir," Jim said in an excited whisper; "however, that light showed me where we are; there's a flight of steps a little to the right on the opposite side: if we can get up those we may yet escape. Quick, sir!" and he almost dragged Oswald towards them.

       They had mounted only a few steps when they heard the sound of footsteps rushing along the passage, the door was flung open again, and they heard a man say, "The cellar is empty, the prisoner has escaped."

       "Impossible!" exclaimed the deep tones that Oswald recognized as belonging to Number One or the Comte d'Hautpierre as he sometimes chose to call himself.

       "It's true," asserted the second mask; "we searched the cellar from end to end, but he is not there."

       "This means treachery," cried the Comte, in angry tones. "He could not possibly have released himself, and no one, save a member of the band could know of the hiding place."

       "We're no traitors," said one man, sulkily, not relishing this aspersion on their good faith. "The devil himself must have helped him to escape."

       "The devil will be in it, and that speedily, if we do not re-capture him at once," cried the leader. "Search the passage, he cannot have gone far."

       "Have your revolver ready, sir," cried Jim, in low, hoarse tones, "they'll be on us in a minute," and so they were, with a wild whoop of exultation as they caught sight of the retreating figures.

       Jim could have saved himself had he been alone, but Oswald's weakened condition prevented him moving quickly and hampered their actions. They had reached the top of the steps ere they turned and stood at bay.

       Two of the masks came rushing up the steps, when the report of the revolver rang out, and with a cry one man threw up his arms and fell backwards, knocking down another who was ascending, in his fall.

       It was Evershed's revolver which did such good service. Oswald's, either from his cramped hands, or from the dark, missed its mark and the second mask flung himself upon him and wrenched the weapon from his grasp before he could fire again.

       But in addition to the desire for liberty the blood-thirst awoke in Palliser's breast and gave him a strength that a few minutes before he would have deemed it impossible he could have possessed. He would not give in to these devils while a breath of life remained in him, it would only be his corpse that they should have to wreak their vengeance on.

       He grappled his enemy by the throat, this way and that, they swayed, each trying to get the mastery of the other. Their hot breath fanned each other's faces as they wrestled for dear life, the mask trying to free his hand so that he might use the revolver he still held, and Oswald just as determined that he should not do so.

       Oswald was getting the upper hand, and had just succeeded in throwing his assailant backwards down the steps, when he felt a blow between the shoulder blades, and turning, found himself confronted by a fresh foe.

       "Traitor! you shall not escape,, exclaimed tones that he recognized, and he felt that his last hour was come. Weakened as he was, he could not hope to hold his own against the colossal strength of Number One. Yet he resolved to have a last fight for life, and closed with this new antagonist, though his senses were whirling and a mist was coming before his eyes.

       He was conscious that his strength was failing fast, and that in another moment he would be overcome, when there was a rush of men into the place where the combat was going on, he felt his antagonist dragged from him and borne off in the rush, and then an arm was thrown around him, and Evershed's voice whispered hoarsely, "For God's sake come this way, sir, the police are here, but they've gone down the steps. I'll get you out before they come back."

       "Are you hurt, Jim?" Oswald asked, feebly, as he allowed his companion to hurry him along.

       "Nothing to speak of, sir, only a scratch or two which I don't mind in the least, because I gave two of those devils a good deal more than they gave me. But do, for Heaven's sake, hurry up, there's no safety here for either you or me. I wouldn't for a thousand pounds the police should catch us. In the dark they never noticed we didn't go along with the rush."

       Oswald was breathing quickly in short gasps, and stumbling along in a blind sort of fashion only held up by Evershed's strong arm, but the latter took no notice of these signs of exhaustion in his master, he was in such a desperate hurry to get clear of the place ere the police should find them and identify them with the band.

       It was only when Palliser swayed forward and then sank on his knees that he saw that there must be something serious the matter.

       "Leave me, Jim," Oswald said, faintly, "you will have time to. get out yourself, I only hamper your movements."

       "Never, sir; if you get out, I get out. If you stay here, I stay here. Make one more effort."

       "I cannot, Jim; they've done for me."

       "You're not wounded, sir?" the man said, in a fresh access of anxiety.

       "I am dying, Jim; Number One stabbed me in the back."

       Evershed uttered an imprecation on the leader's head.

       "I feared it," he said; "I thought there was something the matter besides the cramp from the tying."

       "Go, Jim, for my sake; they will only find a corpse here, they can do me no further harm, but you go — go," almost feverishly Oswald implored.

       Evershed looked round him with a hunted expression on his face. His master dying, his own life not worth a moment's purchase, what was he to do? Leave the injured man he would not, but he would defend him to the last drop of his own blood if any of the wretches came that way.

       Desperate, scarcely knowing what he did, he laid his fainting master on the ground, and then moved rapidly along in the dark. He knew there should be an outlet into the street near here, and if only he could find it he might be able to carry or drag Oswald through it. Presently his search was rewarded, there was a ray of light coming through a crack, it was a door, and he had no difficulty in opening it as it was unlocked.

       Hastily returning to his master, he bent over him and called him softly by name. There was no answer, and with a sickening fear at his heart, Evershed raised the inert figure which swayed about in terrible suggestive helplessness. Desperation gave him the strength of two men, and taking Palliser in his arms, he staggered with his burden towards the doorway. Quickly he passed through it, shutting it behind him; even in the strait he was in, he remembered that leaving the door open might leave a clue as to the way they had escaped, but his hope was that the police and gendarmes would have enough to do securing their other prisoners and would not give a thought to them.

       As rapidly as he could, burdened as he was, Evershed went through the courts and alleys; he wanted to get as far away as possible from the vicinity of the Seven. Several times he had to stop and take breath, then again shouldering his burden, he made his way to the quay. There was no one about at this late, or rather early, hour, and he laid Oswald down and anxiously examined him to see whether life was extinct. He took the precaution of getting into the shade of a friendly buttress where to deposit his burden. To his satisfaction, he found that Palliser's heart still beat, but he felt a feeling of fury rise in him when he found a dagger, the counterpart of the one in Oswald's possession, sticking between his shoulder blades.

       "The fiends," he muttered, and put his hand to the gold and alabaster handle to pull it out; but he drew back his hand almost immediately. "No," he said to himself, "he might bleed to death; better let it remain till I can get help."

       Wetting his handkerchief, he bathed Oswald's temples, and the cool night air blowing on his face, somewhat revived him, and he opened his eyes.

       "It's all right, sir," whispered the man; "we've got away from their clutches, and you're not quite dead yet."

       "Jim!"

       "Yes, sir; don't you bother yourself. I'll see if I can get some brandy and a cab or something to take you home."

       "Jim, you risked your life for me."

       "You just be quiet, sir, and don't move while I'm gone, I won't be long."

       "Stay; where are we?"

       "Down by the river."

       "How did we get here?"

       Evershed did not answer. He turned away with a shamefaced air.

       But Oswald understood. "You are a noble fellow, Jim," he said. "If I recover, I shall never forget what you have done. If I die —–"

       "Now don't you go talking about dying, sir," Jim interrupted; "remember Miss Viola."

       "Yes, for her sake I would live if possible."

       "So you shall sir; you're not going to die for a stab or two. Ah!" as Oswald moved and then groaned. "Are you in much pain?"

       "Not much," but the faltering accents told otherwise.

       "Well, sir, you just keep quiet, because I'm afraid of the bleeding if the dagger is removed now, and I'll be back in a moment."

       But the moment appeared a very long one to Oswald Palliser ere Jim's welcome re-appearance with a couple of men told him that at last help was near.

       As he lay there alone with the cold night wind blowing over him, powerless to defend himself should the murderers track him, his thoughts were not pleasant ones.

       True, that for the moment, thanks to Jim's devotion, he had escaped from the toils of the Seven, but what guarantee was there there that they would not enmesh him again in the future?

       Even if he escaped that, there was still the dreadful fact of Richard Appleton's murder to be disclosed to the unhappy parents and sisters. Then, too, he would have to confess that he was a member of the murderous band, and would not that set Mr. Appleton against him and make him refuse his consent to his union with Viola? Death would cut the Gordian Knot of his perplexities and set him free.

       Almost he wished that his devoted servant had left him to die instead of risking his own life in the manner he had. What would life be worth without Viola?

       Better far that he had died in that underground place, and earthly existence had known him no more.

       He had worked himself into a fever by the time of Jim's return, and the latter looked at him anxiously as he assisted him to rise and helped him, with the aid of the men, to the cab which was waiting at a little distance.

       Jim had explained to the two men that a brawl had taken place over cards in one of the cabarets in the vicinity, and that knives had been drawn and an ugly stab received by his friend, but that they did not want the police to hear of it, and the men who were not unaccustomed to such incidents in the neighbourhood were quite content to pocket the douceur they received and ask no awkward questions.

---

CHAPTER VIII.

       FOR weeks Oswald Palliser lay hovering between life and death, and during those weeks Jim Evershed nursed him devotedly. Number One's aim had been a good one; half an inch lower and Oswald's troubles in this world would have been ended. As it was, owing to his naturally strong constitution, and the good nursing bestowed upon him, he began to mend gradually.

       Mr. Appleton was sorely puzzled to account for the injury his intended son-in-low had received. All his inquiries only got evasive answers from Evershed, the latter did not know how much his master intended to disclose and therefore thought it wiser to keep a still tongue in his head about the occurrence of that night, until Palliser should be in a condition to answer for himself. Consequently, Mr. Appleton had to wait with what patience he could bring to his aid for a solution of the puzzle.

       Viola's grief and consternation were great when she first learned that her lover had been stricken down in this mysterious manner; she pleaded so hard to be allowed to see him, that her father, in spite of some misgivings that he felt as to Oswald's conduct which had led to such a disastrous result, could not withstand her tears and entreaties, and himself accompanied her to Oswald's bedside.

       But the interview was a painful one to her and almost frightened her. He did not know her, made no response to her loving words and endearments, looked so gaunt and changed and spoke so wildly and fiercely in a string of, to her ears, meaningless babble of daggers and Number Ones and floating corpses and broken oaths, that she was fain to turn shuddering away, and bursting into a flood of tears, to ask her father to take her home, it was more than she could bear. But the day came when Oswald Palliser's senses returned to him, and he knew those about him, though he was so weak that he could scarcely raise his hand.

       Jim Evershed could scarcely contain his delight on seeing the light of recognition once more in his master's eyes after those long, weary days and nights of watching. He tended him as though he were an infant, was always at hand to give him medicine or nourishment the moment it was needed, was autocratic in not allowing him to talk until he grew stronger, and seemed to do without rest himself, so anxious was he that Oswald might not want for anything and he not be by to supply it instantly.

       One day Oswald was watching him, when he came near him and said, "You're stronger now, sir, eh?"

       "Yes, much, thanks to you, Jim. I shall never be able to repay you."

       "Don't talk o' repaying, sir. You did as much or more for me."

       "Nonsense!"

       "No, sir, it ain't nonsense; but I've good news for you."

       "About —–?"

       "Yes, sir, it's about them," lowering his voice, although there was no one else in the room to hear. "They've all been taken, and are safe lodged in jail, where I hope they'll remain for the rest of their lives; I'm sure they deserve it."

       "How did you find this out?"

       "I've made inquiries on the quiet. I didn't want to compromise you, sir; but no one seems to have any idea that you joined the band."

       "And you, Jim? "

       "Oh! I, sir, I'm dead, you know. They wouldn't think of looking after me, seeing none o' them know as I'm alive. But I feared out o' revenge. Number One might denounce you. However, I suppose he thinks that the stab he gave you was sufficient to make an end of you. Anyway there's no one come after you, and I just think now, the sooner you get well, and we start for England the better. This ain't a healthy spot, it strikes me."

       "I think you are right, Jim."

       "Yes, you make haste, sir. There's Miss Viola been crying her pretty eyes out all along o' you. Won 't she be glad to see you well again."

       Oswald only sighed at this mention of his lady-love, which Evershed seeing, immediately began to talk of something else.

       "They'll never he able to lock anyone up in those underground cellars again, the police have routed them all out and found a fine collection of bombs and dynamite and pamphlets. I knew they were a bad lot, but I didn't think they were such a set of nihilists and rascals as they've proved to be; and that Number One is the worst of the lot. He deserves hanging if ever a wretch did."

       Oswald, though silent, was not paying attention to his man's talk. He was wrapped in his own gloomy thoughts.

       There would no longer be an excuse for putting off an interview with Viola's father, and he dreaded what the upshot of it would be. To lose his darling now would be terrible. Yet in honour, he ought not to see her again until he had made a clean breast of the whole matter to Mr. Appleton.

       He sent a message, saying he wished to see him, and yet when he came, he found the greatest difficulty in opening the subject that lay so near his heart. Indifferent topics of conversation were all he could bring himself to talk about, and it was not until Mr. Appleton got up to take his leave, saying that he should bring Viola on the morrow to see him, that he summoned up sufficient courage to say to him, "One moment, Mr. Appleton, there is a confession I have to make to you before — before you bring Viola to see me. Perhaps after that you may not wish her to have anything further to say to me."

       "A confession, eh?" Mr. Appleton said, eyeing him a little curiously. Was he still off his head, or was he going to hear something about a woman? that might account for the attack upon him.

       "Yes," Oswald returned; and then desperately he plunged into his story, laying bare the whole details, and not extenuating his own conduct in the least.

       At first Mr. Appleton sat as though frozen to stone, he could not comprehend that he was listening to the recital of his own son's brutal murder, but when the truth came home to him his grief and anger were frightful to see.

       He had loved his boy, his only son, dearly in spite of his conduct, and was always looking forward to the time when he would return a reformed character and take his place as his heir; and now he turned away, and sobs shook the strong man's frame.

       Oswald attempted some words of consolation, but Mr. Appleton, crazed by grief, turned upon him fiercely and accused him of being a party to his son's death, he being one of the accursed band.

       Oswald's white face grew ghastlier, as he heard, and he put his hand to his heart as if to still its tumultuous beating, but he uttered no word in self-defence, made no effort to stem the angry torrent of the elder man's tirade against himself.

       It was natural, he deserved it; he had been weak, cowardly, but a murderer, no, no, not that; he never murdered Viola's brother. Who said he did? It was a lie, a lie, a lie: a lie that would divorce him from Viola; and unconsciously he cried the words aloud as he broke into a laugh that was horrible to hear, the laugh of a breaking heart. The angry sentences paused on Mr. Appleton's lips as he looked round to see what could induce Palliser to indulge in such unseemly laughter. Then, with an exclamation, he moved towards him, but ere he reached him Oswald had thrown up his arms and fallen heavily to the floor.

       A feeling of remorse took possession of Mr. Appleton at the sight of that motionless figure and death-like face. What had he been saying? He had forgotten that this man had only just been snatched from the jaws of death. In his own terrible grief he had been selfish and unfeeling, and this was the man whom Viola loved. Only that day she had said that she could not live without him, that had he died she would have died too; and now what had he done? Had the shock of his cruel words killed him?

       He knelt over him, but there seemed to be no trace of life about that still form, the very rigidity of it looked like death. Frantically he tore at the bell to summon Evershed to his master's assistance. When Jim came in and saw Oswald prone on the floor, he flew to him and raised his head.

       "Good Heavens, he's dead!" he exclaimed.

       "Dead! no, not that," cried Mr. Appleton.

       "What have you done to him?" exclaimed Jim, forgetting his respect in his grief and anxiety. "He was so much better before you came."

       "Don't stand talking there, man, go for a doctor at once," returned Mr. Appleton.

       There was so much common sense in this advice that Evershed took it, after having, with Mr. Appleton's assistance, raised Oswald from the floor and laid him on the bed.

       The doctor looked very grave when he saw his patient.

       "He has had some shock," he said, "and in his state it is very likely to kill him."

       "But is there no hope?" asked Mr. Appleton, who was thinking of Viola. If this man died, and through him, he might he the cause of his daughter's death. Richard dead, he could not hear to lose Viola as well. Therefore he redoubled his entreaties to the doctor to restore sense to Oswald.

       "I will do my best," the doctor said; "but do not build any hopes upon it. He has gone through so much, it only wanted a little to finish him outright."

       Mr. Appleton went home in a very unhappy state of mind. He had to disclose the dreadful truth about his son to his wife and daughters, and moreover, he would have to tell Viola of the dangerous condition her lover was in.

       Already he was repenting his blind anger and making excuses for Oswald Palliser.

       After all his son had done the same thing in joining the band, and Oswald could not have been a dynamitard, or he would not have risked his life and more than his life in removing the deadly cylinder from the bouquet ere it reached the hands for which it was intended. No, Palliser might have been unfortunate and rash, but he was not guilty of murder and assassination, and his poor boy was stabbed before Oswald had had anything to do with them. He would ask his pardon at the first opportunity and request him to take the place of his murdered son.

       All he knew of the young man, save and except that one fatal mistake, was good, and it may well be understood that Jim Evershed lost no opportunity of lauding his master up to the skies. Viola would die of grief if she were not allowed to marry him, so he would make amends for his cruel words as soon as might be.

       But that time proved to he a long time off.

       Oswald lay in a comatose state for days, and then when brought round from that only raved wildly and constantly, so that the physician feared for his reason even should his bodily health recover.

       His one cry was a piteous entreaty that Viola should not be taken from him, or that if she was he might be allowed to die.

       At last youth, a strong constitution and the physicians triumphed, and Oswald was drawn once more from the confines of the grave. But his recovery seemed to give him no pleasure. He would sit for hours staring into vacancy and not uttering a word or taking the least interest in life.

       To all Evershed's remonstrances, he would return a wan smile, and answer, "You have been very good to me, Jim; but you would have been still kinder had you let me die. Earth holds no happiness for me now."

       "We'll see about that," muttered Jim to himself, only he was careful not to let his master hear. "He wants rousing, and Miss Viola is the only one who can do it. Happiness won't hurt him, he's strong enough to bear that; anyway we'll try it."

       The consequence of his cogitations was that the next day, he said cheerfully to his master, "There's a visitor come to see you, sir."

       "A visitor, Jim? I cannot see any visitors — yet."

       The fact was he thought the visitor must be Mr. Appleton, and be dreaded another encounter with him to fall under the lash of his terribly stinging words, they yet rang in his ears, shutting him out from all glimpse of Heaven; for of course, now, Viola's father would never give her to him.

       "I cannot see any visitor," he repeated, wearily.

       "The visitor is here, sir," and Jim discreetly retired from the room, shutting the door after him when he had ushered in the visitor.

       "Evershed, I told you —–" Oswald was beginning, when two arms were thrown round his neck, a kiss was pressed upon his brow, and a voice whispered:

       "My darling, my darling, how glad I am to see you again."

       "Viola!" Oswald half rose from his chair, and then fell hack from sheer amazement. "Viola, you here?"

       "Yes, dearest; are you not glad to see me?"

       "Glad to see you? Oh, Heaven! if you only knew how I have been hungering for a sight of your face, you would not ask me that question."

       "Why did you not send for me before?"

       "I send for you?"

       "Yes; Evershed came for me. Ah! dearest, believe me, I would have come long before, only they said another shock would kill you, but when he came to-day, and told me —–"

       "Ah! it is only another debt I owe him. But, dearest. your father?"

       "My father sent me to you."

       "Viola, you mean it? Ah! for pity's sake, darling, do not deceive me. I — I cannot bear it," and his voice quivered from deep feeling.

       "He sent me, Oswald. I am the hearer of a message from him. He asks your pardon for what he said. He did not mean it; his grief made him mad."

       "Ah! then you know," touching her black dress.

       "Everything!" and a tear dimmed for a moment the brightness of her eye. "My father wishes you to take poor Richard's place — that is if you can forgive him."

       "You mean that he will give you to me, even after what has passed?"

       "Yes, dearest; you see I could not live without you."

       "My darling! mine indeed. I can hardly credit such happiness. I am not worthy of you or of your dear love. Yet such as it is, my life will be spent in your service. You can make of me what you will; for your sake I will strive to be a better man."

       "Do you know, Oswald, I think I like you as you are. I would not have you other if I could, save, indeed, in looks," and she took his face in her small hands and turned it towards the light. "Dearest, how ill you have been, what you must have suffered to leave such lines here," and she smoothed, with fingers that trembled a little, the furrows that marked his forehead.

       "I would go through it all again to know such bliss as this," he returned, and drawing her face down to his, he imprinted a lingering kiss upon her lips. "Mine, my wife," he said, softly, "nothing save death shall part us now."

THE END.